The raven shuddered once upon Mael Othrin's shoulder, then fell still, its beak opening in a final, rasping croak. The Warg-Master's pale eyes gleamed in the half-light as he spoke, his voice low and steady, as though he were echoing words that did not belong to him alone.
"I saw it clear as the fire that burned him," he said. "Rickard Stark was lowered into the flames while Aerys shrieked from his throne. His son strangled himself with a noose as he tried to save him. There was no trial, no mercy. Only madness. The North will not forget, and they will not forgive."
The Grey Council sat in silence. The blue lamps along the walls hummed faintly, their glow catching on the black veins in the stone table between them. Upon its surface, the map of Westeros glittered with glass markers, each one a point of sight where a beast or bird watched the realm beyond the sea.
Lord Hroth Varrek shifted in his chair, the weight of his armor creaking as he leaned forward. "Then it has begun. Wolves do not suffer such wounds quietly. The banners will come down from Winterfell before long, and every house sworn to them will answer. That much I know of Starks."
Scholar Deyros adjusted the folds of his ink-stained robes, his voice softer but carrying. "Madness makes kingdoms brittle. If the dragon king sets his own realm to flame, the cracks will spread from King's Landing to every corner of Westeros. And while they fight over ash, their words, their letters, their secrets will spill into the wind. Knowledge wasted to them need not be wasted to us."
Seren Thane, rings glittering as he steepled his fingers, nodded slowly. "And chaos makes for trade. Lords who bleed their men dry must pay dear for grain and steel, and we will be ready to sell through other hands. But if we are to profit as the kingdoms crumble, we must have word sooner than their own lords. Every hour counts. Every raven that flies into the South should already be ours."
Mael's sight returned, though his eyes were rimmed with red. He stroked the raven's wing absently. "The rebellion will not stop with the wolves alone. The falcons will answer when called, and the stags will not sit idle while their friends burn. And when lions scent blood, they sharpen their claws. The realm is already splintering."
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The faint sound of wood against stone broke the stillness.
Little Myra Quark, seated on her high chair beside the shadowcat, tapped her carved wooden axe three times on the floor. Her storm-grey eyes were wide and unblinking as she studied the glittering map.
"More eyes," she said.
The council turned toward her as one. No one smiled, and no one dismissed her words as the rambling of a child. They listened.
Her voice was soft but clear, carrying through the hall. "The South burns, and the wolves and stags will fight the dragon. The lions are waiting, and the falcons too. We see them now, but not enough. We must see them all. Wolves, lions, stags, dragons. Every one of them."
Mael bowed his head deeply. "Then we will send more. The Silent Eyes will spread wherever rebellion stirs. Every beast, every bird, every orphan born of war will be brought into our keeping."
Varrek's hand pressed to his breastplate. "The Grey Axes will guard them. Their eyes will not close while I still draw breath."
Deyros lowered his gaze with solemn weight. "And every truth they find will be preserved. Let the Citadel hoard scraps; our library will hold the marrow of the world."
Seren's jeweled hands spread open. "The Sable Manticore will weave their work into the world's markets. Ships, ledgers, coin — all will serve to shelter the Eyes as they grow. Rebellion breeds ruin, and ruin leaves children behind. We will find them, and make them ours."
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So it was resolved. That very night, the Silent Eyes multiplied. Ravens poured from Quarethon's towers, wings beating against the storm. Wolves slipped through the forests of the North, unseen. Cats skulked in alleys from White Harbor to Oldtown. In hidden chambers, pale-eyed children whispered what they saw: men sharpening swords in Storm's End, banners unfurling in the Vale, whispers of fire and fear in King's Landing.
All of it flowed back across the sea, to the city no one believed existed.
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On the balcony above the council chamber, Myra stood with her nurse, the wind tugging her hair across her face. Snow swirled in the air, and the sea thundered far below. She pressed her cheek against the great shadowcat's flank, small fingers gripping the wooden axe.
Her voice was barely more than a murmur, but the nurse heard.
"When the world burns," the child said, "shadows grow. And when shadows grow, we will see more."
The nurse shivered. The storm rolled on. And in Quarethon, more eyes opened.