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The wind had teeth that morning. It bit at the stone of Castle Black, gnawed through the gaps in black wool and boiled leather, and clawed at the scars of old men who had survived more winters than they cared to count. The Wall loomed as it always had, vast and uncaring, its frozen face catching the weak glimmer of the sun like a mirror of dull steel.
Jon Snow stood atop the steps that climbed to the Lord Commander's tower, Ghost at his side. The direwolf's fur had gone pale as the Wall itself in the ten years since Jon first wore the black, but his eyes—those deep, blood-red eyes—were as sharp and restless as ever.
"Another day," Jon muttered, his breath white smoke. He looked down into the yard where a half-dozen boys hacked at straw men with dull swords, their cheeks pink from cold and effort. Training recruits. Always training recruits. They came thinner now, fewer each year. Some were poachers, others thieves. Once in a long while, a boy arrived out of honor, not fear. But honor was scarce in the realm these days.
The Watch was dwindling, like the last embers in a hearth no one cared to feed.
A horn sounded from the gate. Ghost lifted his head, ears pricking. The wolf growled low in his throat, a rumble that stirred something in Jon's chest. He descended the tower steps, black cloak flapping behind him like the wings of some weary crow.
By the time Jon reached the yard, the gate was opening. Frost fell from its chains like shards of glass. Two men rode in from the Kingsroad, both bundled in furs stiff with rime. Behind them trudged a boy no older than sixteen, his wrists bound in front of him with rough hemp rope.
"Another gift," muttered Ser Ottar, one of Jon's stewards. His beard was white as bone, his eyes rheumy with age. "The realm sends us its refuse."
Jon ignored the jape and studied the boy. He was thin, hollow-cheeked, yet his eyes burned with a wary defiance. His hair was mud-brown, his hands rougher than a lord's son's should be. Still, something about him tugged at Jon's memory.
"Name him," Jon ordered.
The older of the riders spat into the snow. "Gyles Reed, from the Neck. Stole a lord's horse, so he did. His kin swore him guilty. His lord thought him better suited for your black company than dangling from a rope."
"Reed?" Jon said. His voice was quiet, but a murmur passed through the yard. That name was not unknown. The Reeds were sworn to House Stark, wardens of the marshes, keepers of strange old lore.
The boy's jaw tightened. "I'm no traitor to my kin."
"Then you'll prove it in black," Jon said. His gaze held the boy's until the lad lowered his eyes. "Unbind him. The rope's done its work."
As the hemp fell, Ghost padded forward, circling the boy, sniffing. The new recruit went still as stone. Only when Ghost padded back to Jon's side did breath return to the yard.
"Feed him," Jon told Ser Ottar. "Then send him to the practice yard. We'll see what use the Watch has for him."
The men dispersed, muttering. Jon watched them go, his face unreadable. Ghost nuzzled at his hand, warm breath steaming against the cold.
Later, in his solar, Jon sat by the fire, quill scratching against parchment. Reports, always reports. Grain stores dwindling. A broken wheel on one of the supply wagons. A raven from Eastwatch warning of strange lights upon the sea. He read the last thrice. Strange lights. Green and purple, flickering like torches across the waves. Sailors muttered of omens, of spirits in the deep.
Jon set the letter aside. His head ached. Ghost lay sprawled by the hearth, but his ears twitched at shadows only he seemed to hear.
A knock sounded. "Enter," Jon said.
The door opened, and Maester Cley stepped inside, thin as a reed, his chain rattling softly. "My lord commander."
"Jon," Jon corrected.
The maester inclined his head but did not change his tongue. "There is something you should know. The boy, Reed—he spoke of visions in the Neck. Dreams of fire and smoke. He said shadows moved across the marshes, though no man was near. I would dismiss it, but… the Reeds have old blood, old ways. Their dreams sometimes carry weight."
Jon's jaw clenched. "Dreams are not food for the Watch. They do not mend our cloaks or man our towers."
"Perhaps not," said Cley softly. "But they may yet warn us of storms."
When the maester left, Jon leaned back in his chair. His hand fell to the hilt of Longclaw, the Valyrian steel cool beneath his fingers. Storms. He thought of the boy's eyes, and of the letter from Eastwatch. Strange lights. Strange dreams. Always shadows.
That night, Jon dreamed.
He stood upon the Wall, but the Wall was burning. Fire poured from its face, melting ice to rivers. A dragon's cry split the air, but it was no dragon Jon had ever seen. Its wings were torn, its scales blackened, its three heads weeping blood. Beneath it, the world cracked open, and from the fissure came a tide of shadows, crawling, writhing.
Jon reached for his sword, but his hand turned to ash. He looked down—and saw his skin had become scales. His reflection in the ice showed not a man, but something between dragon and wolf.
"Blood of the dragon," a voice whispered. It was not Daenerys's voice. It was older, harsher, a hiss like steel in water. "Blood calls to blood. Fire calls to fire."
Ghost's howl woke him. Jon sat upright in the cold of his chamber, sweat freezing upon his brow. The direwolf's eyes glowed red in the dark, fixed upon the window where the snow swirled.
Outside, the wind howled like the cry of some unseen beast.
And Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, knew sleep would not come again.
The throne room smelled of iron and incense, a strange marriage of power and piety. The Iron Throne loomed at its end, jagged and cruel, its barbs catching torchlight like the fangs of some ancient beast. The hall was less crowded than in the days of kings who burned bright and short. Now, banners hung limp, courtiers whispered with less fervor, and the very air felt heavy with years.
Tyrion Lannister sat at the foot of the throne, not upon it. His legs dangled from a chair that had been fashioned to his size, though no craftsman's polish could disguise its resemblance to a child's stool. He swirled his goblet of Arbor red and pretended not to notice the snickers of the few lords who lingered near the pillars.
He had grown heavier with the years, his hair thinning and graying, but his mismatched eyes had lost none of their sharpness. Ten years of ruling from shadows and small councils had carved him into something harder than the Imp of old. The wine helped. Sometimes.
Today, the hall received a visitor from the Riverlands. A Frey.
The man knelt, his furs spilling across the stone like a dead wolf's pelt. He was tall, gaunt, with eyes too close together and a smile that stretched too far.
"Edric Rivers," Tyrion said dryly. "Or do you prefer the name you've given yourself this week? Frey-blood runs thick, but not so thick as to wash the mud from a bastard's birth."
The hall tittered.
The Frey bastard bowed lower. "I am what I am, my lord Hand. But I carry tidings, and perhaps more than tidings."
"Oh, tidings. My favorite meal." Tyrion took a long drink. "Serve them up, then. But mind, if they're as stale as your name, I'll send you back to the Crossing with your tongue pickled in a jar."
The bastard's smile faltered only a moment. "The Riverlands stirs. My uncles squabble like dogs over a bone. Some cry for independence, some for a crown, and others whisper of dragons. I… I alone would offer you loyalty, my lord. And in return, recognition. A seat. A place at court."
Tyrion leaned forward, the firelight catching the scar that carved across his face. "You would betray your kin for a seat? How very Frey of you."
The man licked his lips. "The Freys have too many heirs, too many claimants. They choke on themselves. I would rather serve the realm than drown in their quarrels."
Tyrion considered him. Bastards were dangerous, but often useful. Tools, sharp and disposable. "What whispers of dragons?"
The bastard's smile crept wider. "From the east. Sailors swear they've seen wings upon the dawn. Black wings. They say the doom of Valyria is not so dead as men think."
The court stirred, uneasy. A dragon was a word heavy with memory.
Tyrion swirled his cup. "Sailors swear of many things. Sea serpents, mermaids, casks of wine that refill themselves. Why should I believe this?"
"Because," Edric Rivers said, "the sailors were mine. And because they brought me proof." He snapped his fingers, and a servant stepped forward, bearing a small coffer bound in bronze. The bastard opened it, revealing a scale. It glimmered black as obsidian, edged with faint iridescence.
The hall gasped. Tyrion felt his wine turn sour in his mouth. He had seen scales like this before, once, when Daenerys Targaryen had still walked the earth.
He leaned back, forcing a sneer. "A trinket. Could be from some monstrous fish. Or carved from stone."
"Perhaps," said the Frey. "But the sailors who carried it died of fire. Their ship was ash when we found it."
A silence rippled through the chamber.
Tyrion drained his cup, though the wine no longer soothed. "Proof or no, the realm is weary of dragons. We have had our fill of fire. If you seek favor, Edric Rivers, bring me something of more use than a dead sailor's scale."
The bastard bowed again. "As you command, my lord Hand. But remember this: fire forgotten is fire that burns the brighter when it returns."
When the man was gone, Tyrion let the hall disperse. Only when he was alone with Ser Podrick Payne, his ever-loyal shadow, did he exhale.
Pod looked uneasy, his face older now but still soft with worry. "Was it real, my lord?"
Tyrion fingered the rim of his empty goblet. "I do not know. But I know this—whether it was or not, men will believe it. And belief is more dangerous than any dragon."
He rose from his chair, his legs aching. The Iron Throne loomed above, jagged and waiting.
"Send word to Oldtown," Tyrion said. "The maesters keep their noses buried in books about Valyria. If there's truth to these whispers, they'll find a scrap of it. And have an eye kept on that Frey bastard. A man who betrays his kin so easily will sooner or later betray his king."
Pod nodded. "Yes, my lord."
Tyrion climbed the steps of the throne, stopping before its cruel seat. Once, he had dreamed of power. Now, all he saw was ruin dressed in iron.
He touched the cold steel, and for a moment he imagined it burning under dragonfire, melting into nothing.
And in the echo of the empty hall, Tyrion Lannister laughed—a short, bitter laugh, the kind that carried no joy at all.
The roots of the weirwood were deep and endless, coiling beneath the stones of Winterfell like veins of pale blood. Bran Stark sat still among them, his body a husk of boy and lord, but his mind stretched far. He did not need to eat often, nor sleep in the manner of men, though he still did both when the warmth of the hearth or the taste of bread stirred faint memories of boyhood. Yet when he closed his eyes, when he let the red sap of the trees drink his sight, he was no longer Bran at all.
He was the Three-Eyed Raven.
Tonight, the roots carried him east. Far east, beyond the smoking ruins of Valyria, beyond the choking mist that even dragons had feared. The rivers ran red there, the mountains belched smoke, and the sea boiled where it kissed the black shore. Men said no living thing walked there, save shadows.
But Bran saw differently.
He drifted above the smoking ruins. The towers were melted stone, their shapes twisted like the bones of giants caught in agony. Bridges stretched like spiderwebs across rivers of fire, half-collapsed. For centuries, silence had ruled here. Silence and the ghosts of dragons.
But not tonight.
Something stirred.
In a cavern beneath the shattered earth, where once the Dragonlords had built their forges, Bran saw fire burning—not the wild fire of nature, but fire tended, bound, worshipped. Men moved there. Not many, no more than a dozen, their skin pale as ash and their eyes glowing faintly red in the firelight. Their tongues spoke words older than the Andals, older than the First Men, words Bran barely understood even through the trees.
"Valyria rises," they whispered.
And in the heart of their circle, upon a dais of obsidian, lay an egg. Large, black, veined with streaks of crimson light. It pulsed faintly, as if it had a heartbeat.
Bran shivered in the weirwood's roots, though his body was leagues away.
The men chanted. They cut their palms and bled upon the egg. Fire roared higher, feeding on their blood, and the egg glowed, brighter, brighter—until Bran could almost hear the cracking of shell, the stirring of wings within.
He reached for the sight, to know more, to pierce the mystery. But when he did, something looked back.
Not man, not beast. A shadow with wings. Its eyes were pits of molten gold, and in them Bran felt fire older than the Wall, older than the Children, older even than the Doom itself.
It saw him.
The vision trembled. Bran tried to pull away, but the thing followed, a claw scraping across his mind. He heard it whisper, not in words, but in hunger. It wanted north. It wanted blood.
He fell back into himself, gasping, the cold roots clutching him like fingers. The weirwood's carved face wept red tears that soaked his tunic. His own breath smoked in the air though the chamber was warm.
A raven fluttered in, black wings beating. It landed on his shoulder and croaked once.
"Darkness," Bran whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. "The fire… the fire is not gone."
The raven pecked at his ear, as if urging him to speak louder, to tell the world.
But who would listen?
Jon, perhaps. His brother of old, though not of blood. Bran could see him still, in snatches of dream and root. The Lord Commander stood upon the Wall, his face older, harder, but his eyes the same. Those eyes had looked upon death before and not flinched. He would look again.
And yet, Bran felt the pull of destiny was not Jon's alone. The dragon egg burned in his memory. The whispers of Valyria were not dead—they were waking.
He closed his eyes again, pushing deeper into the weirwood, seeking counsel from the past. He saw flashes: Aegon the Conqueror dreaming of a shadow stretching from Valyria to Westeros. Daenerys walking through fire with her hatchlings. The Night King falling in shards of ice.
And now, another shadow. Darker, vaster, crawling westward on wings of flame.
Bran opened his eyes.
The raven croaked once more, sharp and urgent.
"We are not finished," Bran said softly, though his voice echoed in the hollow chamber as if the roots themselves listened. "The Long Night was but a prelude. Fire comes. Fire, and the doom we thought buried."
Above him, Winterfell's weirwood stirred, its leaves rustling though no wind blew. For a moment, its face seemed less carved and more alive, the mouth open in a silent scream.
Bran Stark, King of the North, Lord of Winterfell, and the last greenseer, shivered. Not from cold, but from the heat of something vast and terrible waking across the sea.
He knew then that whispers of dragons would soon become roars. And that the Wall of ice was never meant to guard against what came from the south.
It was Valyria's turn to rise.
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