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Eastwatch by the Sea
The sea was restless that night.
Jon Snow stood upon the eastern parapets, black cloak snapping in the salt-heavy wind, the smell of charred flesh lingering in the air below. The tide was high, crashing against Eastwatch's walls with the rhythm of some old god's drum, yet it was not the sea that unsettled the men of the Night's Watch. It was what had crawled from it.
The corpses burned still, pyres smoldering down in the yard. Shadows stretched long and cruel, twisting with each gust, and the men muttered prayers as they passed. Brothers of the Watch, men hardened by years in the dark, crossed themselves like frightened children, muttering of curses and drowned devils. The flames spat and cracked, and the smoke clawed skyward like black fingers scratching at the stars.
Jon kept his gaze on the sea. His hair had grown long these last years, streaked faintly with silver at the edges, and the wind tangled it across his brow. He felt the chill not only in his bones but in his spirit. The fire burned the dead, yet their screams seemed to linger, echoes of the night's horror. The thing that had come from the shipwreck was no wight, no corpse brought back by the Others. Its flesh had steamed, scales black as obsidian, eyes burning with a red not born of any man. When it tore through the gate, men swore it whispered in tongues not heard since Old Valyria's fall.
"Lord Commander," came a voice behind him. Bowen Marsh was long in his grave, but a younger man bore his post now, one Ser Donnel Harte, gaunt and stiff, his loyalty stiff as well. "The fires burn hot, yet the men do not rest. They whisper still of sorcery. They will not sleep this night."
"They'll sleep when their bodies give out," Jon answered. "They always do."
Yet even as he said it, he doubted. He had known fear upon the Wall before—fear of giants, of wights, of the White Walkers themselves. But this was different. This was no cold creeping from the woods, no blue-eyed corpse crawling from beneath the snows. This was heat, fire, a shadow with scales.
Behind him, footsteps softer than Donnel's. Elenya.
She did not dress as the Watch did; black never sat upon her well. She wore instead a cloak of gray trimmed in sea-green, a color too fine for these walls, and her hair—dark as a raven's wing with a streak of pale silver—was loose about her shoulders. Her eyes were what marked her most, though: pale, luminous, touched faintly with violet. Men spoke of it in whispers when they thought Jon could not hear.
"You watched the sea as though it might answer you," she said softly.
Jon turned. "Perhaps it will. The thing came from it."
"And burned in fire," she said, gaze shifting to the yard below. "As if fire and sea are at war, and we stand between them."
The way she said it made his skin prickle. She was young, no more than five-and-twenty, yet carried herself as if she bore centuries in her veins. When she had first come to Eastwatch, drifting half-drowned from a broken fishing sloop years ago, many called her a witch. Jon had never named her such, but he could not deny the strangeness about her.
"You know what it was," Jon said quietly.
Her lips pressed together, a moment's hesitation. "Not what. Whence." She stepped closer, the torchlight brushing pale over her cheekbones. "There are tales, Lord Commander, that in the smoking ruins of Old Valyria, not all that lived was destroyed. Some say the fires birthed things of their own. Not dragons. Shadows given flesh. They were said to hunger not for meat but for men's spirits."
Jon's jaw tightened. "Children's tales."
"Were the Others children's tales too, once?" Her voice was sharp enough to cut. "You have seen the dead walk, Jon Snow. Why should you think Valyria's curses less real?"
Jon said nothing. He looked again to the pyres, where men shoved long poles into the burning heaps, turning what remained. The stench of roasted flesh carried even up here. Ghost padded at the gate below, red eyes glowing in the dark. The direwolf had torn through one of the scaled horrors himself, white fur smeared with ichor that smoked like tar when it touched flame.
"The men are afraid," Jon said at last. "And fear is worse than hunger. It eats faster."
"They are right to fear."
Her certainty nettled him. He turned on her, harsher than he intended. "Then tell me why you are here, Elenya. Tell me what you are."
The wind snatched at her hair, and for a heartbeat, her eyes caught the torchlight in a way that made them seem to glow from within. She looked away to the sea. "I am what remains," she whispered. "Blood of the blood. A shard of glass from a shattered blade. My father told me our line once served dragonlords before the Doom. That we fled, and we hid. That we lived only by forgetting who we were. But blood remembers, Lord Commander. Blood always remembers."
Her words chilled him more than the sea-wind. Valyrian blood. A dangerous claim, if true. A dangerous truth, if real.
Before Jon could press her further, a raven croaked harshly, wings flapping down to perch on the stone beside him. Its leg bore a strip of leather, a sealed roll of parchment tied fast. Jon untied it, breaking the wax.
The words within made his stomach clench.
Lord Commander Snow, it began, in the cramped hand of Maester Ronnel of White Harbor. There are whispers in the North. The Freys sow poison still, though their brood should be ash and memory. One who calls himself Maeric Frey courts discontent among smaller houses. He names you oathbreaker, bastard lordling, no true Stark, no true brother, and says your watch is false. Beware. The storm gathers.
Jon crumpled the parchment in his fist. His knuckles whitened.
"Bad tidings?" Elenya asked softly.
"Poison," Jon said. "The kind that spreads faster than fire."
She stepped closer, her hand brushing his arm. "Then burn it before it grows."
But Jon knew words could not be burned. Words lived longer than men, longer than walls, longer than kingdoms.
Below, the fires hissed as a fresh wave crashed against the shore.
The dawn that followed was gray and hard. Men dragged what timbers they could from the wrecked ship to shore, hauling ropes through the surf while crows wheeled above. Jon walked among them, boots sinking in wet sand, cloak sodden with mist. The sea stretched endless, but he could not look at it without imagining what might still linger beneath.
"Seven save us," muttered one man, black hair matted to his skull. "If one beast came crawling from the deep, what's to stop a hundred more?"
"The Seven don't walk here," another spat. "Not at the world's edge. Only shadows do."
Jon said nothing. Their fear was thick as the fog. He could not cut it with a sword.
Later, in the hall, when the day's labor was done, he gathered the surviving brothers. The benches creaked beneath their weight. Scarred faces turned toward him, expectant, fearful. The fire in the hearth sputtered, throwing uneasy light across black wool and tired eyes.
"You fought bravely," Jon began. His voice was steady, though his heart was not. "Men died, but the Wall still stands. Eastwatch still stands. The Watch still stands."
The men shifted, restless.
"One battle," he continued, "is not the war. You swore your lives to the realm, and that realm needs us still. We are the shield. We are the watchers. Do not forget who you are, even if shadows rise from sea or snow."
It was no speech to set hearts aflame. Jon knew that. He was no King Robert with words to rouse men to madness. Yet some of the men nodded, and that was enough for now.
When the meeting ended, Jon lingered by the fire. Elenya sat nearby, quiet, watching the flames as if reading them. Ghost lay sprawled at her feet, but his ears twitched, uneasy.
"You doubt them," she said softly.
"I doubt everything."
"Even me?"
He looked at her, truly looked. The violet glimmer in her eyes, the way the firelight kissed her skin, the secrets in her voice. He thought of the parchment still hidden in his belt, Maeric Frey's poison already spreading through the North. He thought of her words, blood remembering.
"Yes," Jon said at last. "Even you."
Elenya smiled faintly, though it was no warmth in it. "Good. Doubt is safer than trust. But remember this, Jon Snow: when the storm comes, it will not wait for your doubts to pass. It will break upon you, and only those who have chosen will endure."
Jon said nothing, but the fire popped loud, as if mocking him.
And outside, the sea beat ceaseless against the walls of Eastwatch, as though testing the stone, seeking weakness, waiting for the moment it might finally break through.
The Red Keep had grown quieter in the years since Daenerys's fall, though silence in King's Landing was never a promise of peace. Silence, Tyrion had long since learned, was the sound of daggers being sharpened behind doors, of whispers traded for coin in alehouses, of letters written in a trembling hand by candlelight. Silence was simply war with its boots off.
The Hand of the King sat in the council chamber, alone for once, his wine untouched at his elbow. He was bent over a sheaf of parchment, though his mind wandered from the dull affairs of tariffs and shipbuilding. Numbers blurred into shadows. The same shadow that had grown longer with each passing moon, the one Bran the Broken spoke of in hushed tones: Valyria.
Tyrion Lannister had never seen the smoking ruins, nor had he any wish to, but Bran's voice lingered in his ears like the tolling of a cracked bell. "It rises again. Not in stone, but in flesh and shadow. And it seeks a throne."
He had laughed at the boy-king once. It was hard to laugh now.
The Small Council
The chamber door creaked open. Ser Davos Seaworth entered, grayer now, his beard streaked with more salt than pepper. He nodded to Tyrion before lowering himself stiffly into a chair. Soon after came Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End, his broad shoulders ill at ease in the stiff doublet of a lord, and the Archmaester from Oldtown, stooped and muttering about "signs in the stars."
"Where's Bran?" Gendry asked, his voice carrying uneasily across the table.
Tyrion sipped his wine. "Our king doesn't always need a chair to be present." He tapped his temple. "Sometimes he listens in ways we cannot see."
That shut them up quickly enough. Men still grew uneasy around Bran Stark. King, cripple, seer. To some, savior. To others, an empty-eyed boy staring at things men ought not see.
Before matters of coin and corn could begin, Bran's sworn guard wheeled him into the chamber. The king's pale eyes fixed on Tyrion at once.
"We do not have long," Bran said softly, as though answering a question not yet asked. "The enemy grows bolder. Already its claws reach toward Westeros."
The Archmaester clutched at his chain. "You speak of phantoms, Your Grace. Ruins cannot rise. What was Valyria is dust and ash."
Bran's gaze lingered on him until the man shivered. "Ash is what fire leaves behind. But fire does not die."
The room darkened, though no torch was doused. Tyrion felt the hair on his arms rise. The boy spoke little, yet when he did, the weight of prophecy pressed on every word.
The Frey Bastard
Far from the Red Keep, in a low stone house nestled against the city's outer wall, another council was convening. The Frey bastard, Maeric Rivers, though he called himself Frey still, sat with a half dozen men. Not lords, not knights. Sellswords, cutthroats, and bitter exiles who had tasted defeat in the wars of queens and wolves.
A candle sputtered as Maeric unfolded a scrap of parchment. The ink was smudged, but the words were clear enough.
"…the king sees too much. He speaks of Valyria, of fire and shadow. Tyrion listens. They plan to act…"
Maeric smiled thinly. A smile that owed nothing to mirth. "The cripple dreams. And the Imp plots. While they whisper of ghosts, we sharpen steel. The North grows proud under Starks, and pride is ripe for toppling."
One of the sellswords grunted. "And what's in it for us? Starks are strong. Their king may see shadows, but his armies still march."
"You'll have gold enough to sink a ship," Maeric said smoothly. "And blood enough to wash these stones clean. For too long, wolves have ruled. Freys were mocked, scorned, slaughtered at the Twins. That ends with me."
His fingers tightened around the parchment. Bran Stark's warning had already traveled, carried by a tongue eager for coin. It would be the Starks' undoing.
Tyrion & Bran
That evening, Tyrion climbed the tower stairs to Bran's chambers. The Hand walked slowly, his leg aching with each step. He had drunk less these past years, though not enough to banish the ghost of Shae, nor the voice of his father echoing in stone.
The king was alone, staring from his window at the city sprawled below. The sun had bled into the sea, leaving the rooftops crimson.
"You were listening," Tyrion said, pouring himself a small cup of wine.
Bran turned his head slightly. "Always."
"And what do you see, Your Grace? Truly?"
For a long moment, Bran did not answer. Then: "Ships. Broken, but not dead. A shadow that moves like smoke but hungers like a beast. It comes from the east, and with it, whispers of dragons."
Tyrion set his cup down. "Jon."
"Yes," Bran said. "He is part of it. He does not yet know."
Tyrion rubbed at his temples. "Seven save us. You've grown fond of riddles. A little clarity would make my work less like chasing my own tail."
Bran's eyes met his. "Clarity is a luxury the living may not have. Prepare, Tyrion. Choose who to trust. Even among those you break bread with, daggers wait."
The Imp of House Lannister had never been one for prayer, but that night he drank deep and wished the Stranger would take him swiftly before shadows with claws arrived at his door.
Closing Note of the Part
In the depths of the night, a raven winged out of King's Landing, carrying Maeric Frey's seal. Its destination: the Riverlands. The bastard's hand had scrawled only five words.
"The wolf's time is over."
And as the bird vanished into the stormy dark, Bran Stark's pale eyes opened in his sleep. He had seen it all. Yet even he could not yet tell which shadow would strike first.
The First Dream
Bran Stark dreamed of fire.
It licked across the horizon like a wave, devouring towers, ships, and men. Cities burned, their streets rivers of molten stone. He smelled it, sharp and choking, the tang of blood mingled with ash. Above, the sky screamed—no, not the sky, but beasts in it, vast and scaled, wings blotting out the stars. Their cries were older than kingdoms, older than the Wall itself.
He floated high above them, weightless as a raven, yet the fire reached for him all the same. The flame had eyes—golden, unblinking, cruel—and when it fixed on him, he fell.
The Shadow of Valyria
Bran awoke, heart hammering, sweat chilling his brow despite the summer heat. He was not in Winterfell's crypts, nor in the godswood. He was back in the Red Keep, the weight of crown and throne pressing on him more heavily than his crippled legs.
Yet the dream clung to him like smoke. He closed his eyes, warged deeper, slipping into the greenseer's sight. Roots twined around him, dragging him through time and stone. He saw the Doom again—Valyria breaking, mountains exploding, dragons screaming as fire swallowed fire. But what was dead did not lie quiet.
Amid the ruins, something stirred. Not men, not dragons, not gods. Shadows with form, molten but not flesh. A people remade, forged in fire's last breath. And they were not bound to Valyria alone. They were moving. Always westward.
And in the dream's heart, Bran saw Jon Snow.
Jon's Thread
Far north at Eastwatch, Jon Snow stood upon the Wall's edge. The sea crashed endlessly below, black waves gnawing at ice as old as memory. His cloak snapped in the wind. Ghost was at his side, red eyes fixed on some point in the distance Jon could not see.
Sleep had not come easily. When it did, it brought only fire.
He saw Bran—his brother, his king—trapped in roots that bled. He saw a throne of black stone rising from the sea, and upon it, shadows that whispered in a tongue Jon knew but had never spoken. The words curled in his head like snakes.
Blood of the dragon, blood of the wolf. Fire will claim what ice cannot keep.
He woke gasping, hand on Longclaw's hilt, though no foe stood before him. Men looked at him strangely these days, and even Ghost was restless. Some nights, Jon swore the direwolf's breath smoked though no frost lay on the air.
Bran's Counsel
When Tyrion came to Bran with another stack of ledgers, he found the boy-king pale and silent. His eyes had rolled white, his body stiff in the chair.
Tyrion froze. Not for the first time, he wondered whether their king's spirit would return at all.
At last Bran blinked, the fog clearing. His lips parted. "He dreams it too."
"Who?" Tyrion asked.
"My brother. Jon. The fire reaches him as it reaches me. The past does not lie quiet. Valyria calls. It wants blood."
"Valyria is smoke and ruins, Your Grace. Let it call. No man alive need answer."
Bran shook his head. "You do not understand. It calls not as ruins, but as seed. Something was planted in the Doom. Now it grows. And it knows the name Stark."
Tyrion drained his cup. "Gods help us all."
The Vision Deepens
That night, Bran surrendered fully to the weirwood's embrace. His spirit flew faster than raven or storm, over forests, over sea, into the Smoking Sea itself.
He saw what should not be seen.
Islands shifting, as though alive. Waters that boiled though no sun touched them. And from the black heart of Valyria, a glow—red, pulsing, alive. Shapes moved within it, human yet not, scaled and seared, with eyes that burned brighter than dragonfire.
They knelt before something vast. Not a dragon, though it bore wings. Not a man, though it bore a crown. A shape made of shadow and fire, crowned with molten iron, its mouth a furnace.
And when it turned, Bran saw his own face reflected in its flames.
The Warning
Bran woke screaming, startling even his silent guards. His cry echoed through the Red Keep, though no raven took wing. He knew the truth: words would not be enough. He must act.
But his power was chains as much as wings. The king in the broken body could not ride, could not march, could not fight. He could only see, and hope his sight gave others strength.
He whispered Jon's name into the night. Whether carried by dream, raven, or blood, it would reach him. It must.
Jon's Restlessness
At Eastwatch, Jon stood watch long after his men had gone to their beds. The dream would not leave him. Bran's voice echoed across the waves though no raven had come.
It rises again. Not stone. Flesh. Shadow. Valyria.
Jon tightened his cloak against the cold, though his skin burned. He thought of Daenerys, of her dragons, of the fire she had carried. Of the blood he carried, though he wished it gone.
Half Stark. Half Targaryen. Never whole.
Ghost whined low in his throat.
Jon set his hand on the direwolf's fur. "I know," he whispered. "Something's coming."
Closing Foreshadowing
In the dreams of two brothers—one a king bound by roots, one an exile bound by vows—the same fire burned. Valyria was not dead. It was dreaming, and dreams have teeth.
Somewhere beyond the sea, a horn sounded once. Low, mournful, endless. A sound not heard in thousands of years.
And the world shivered in its sleep.
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