Celestial Smith Chapter 67

Celestial Smith Chapter 67: And Thus it begins.....

Owen stood at the entrance to the ancient weirwood cave, the pale light of dawn filtering through the branches overhead. Val and Anastasia waited beside him as he faced Leaf and the remaining Children of the Forest. The encounter with the old gods had left him thoughtful, his mind still processing the implications of what he had learned.

"I cannot guarantee your safety here," Owen said, his voice echoing slightly in the cavern entrance. "If the Night King plans go forward and he breaches the Wall, he will have to come for you first to weaken the barriers. Your magic and that of the old gods in Bloodraven's body has held him at bay for millennia, but his power grows with each passing day. The additional magic spell i have placed on the walls array are built upon yours. If you fall they weaken and he can send his army to the wall."

Leaf nodded, her amber eyes reflecting the morning light. "We have guarded this place since before the First Men came to these shores. We will continue to do so until the end."

Owen reached into his enchanted satchel and withdrew several small amulets, each carved from weirwood and inscribed with glowing runes. "Take these. If the worst happens, if the Night King breaches your defenses, break them. They will create a portal directly to Ice Crest, where you'll find sanctuary."

The Children exchanged glances, their ancient eyes communicating silently. Finally, Leaf stepped forward and accepted the amulets with reverence.

"Your magic is... different," she observed, studying the intricate runes. "Not of this world, yet it speaks to the old powers."

"It's compatible," Owen replied with a small smile. "That's what matters."

Leaf looked up at him, her expression solemn. "The song is changing, Owen Longshore. The melody that has played for thousands of years follows a new pattern now. We will listen carefully to hear how it ends."

Owen bowed his head in respect. "As will I."

With final farewells exchanged, Owen, Val, and Anastasia departed from the sacred grove, leaving the Children to their ancient vigil. The journey ahead would be arduous—first to Hardhome to meet with Mance, then south to rally the forces of the living against the coming storm.

Val walked beside Owen, her pale blonde hair catching the morning light. "Your meeting with the old gods," she began, her voice curious. "What did they show you?"

Owen considered his response carefully. Some things were perhaps best kept to himself for now. "They confirmed what we already suspected. The Night King is more powerful than we imagined, and he's moving faster than expected."

Val studied his face, clearly sensing there was more he wasn't sharing. "And?"

"And we need to get to Hardhome," Owen replied, quickening his pace. "Mance needs to know what we're facing."

Anastasia padded silently ahead, her massive form cutting a path through the snow. The direwolf seemed to sense Owen's urgency, occasionally looking back as if to hurry them along.

Val matched his stride, her blue eyes narrowed slightly. "You're hiding something."

"Many things," Owen admitted with a small smile. "But nothing that would change our immediate plans."

She seemed to accept this, though her expression remained skeptical. "The Free Folk have survived beyond the Wall for thousands of years by trusting our instincts. Mine tell me you're a good man, Owen Longshore, despite your southern ways." She paused, a mischievous glint entering her eyes. "And despite your reluctance to be stolen."

Owen felt heat rise to his cheeks despite the frigid air. "I told you, I'm married."

"Yes, yes," Val waved dismissively. "To your southern lady with her silk dresses and stone castle. I'm sure she's very proper."

"Sansa is..." Owen began defensively, then caught himself. "You're trying to provoke me."

Val laughed, the sound bright in the stillness of the frozen landscape. "And succeeding, it seems."

Owen shook his head, unable to suppress a smile. Despite her teasing—or perhaps because of it—he was growing fond of the wildling woman. Her strength, her directness, her unfailing courage in the face of overwhelming odds—these were qualities he admired.

As they journeyed toward Hardhome, the landscape grew increasingly desolate. The signs of the White Walkers' influence were everywhere—frozen streams that should have still been flowing, animals that had fled or died, an unnatural silence that hung over the land like a shroud.

They traveled for days, making camp each night within protective circles of Owen's magic. They could have gone faster but he didn't want to try enhancing vals body with magic in an uncontrolled environment. Val watched with fascination as he worked his spells of protection, occasionally asking questions about their nature and purpose. Unlike many in this world, she showed no fear of his abilities, only curiosity and respect.

On the seventh day, they crested a ridge and beheld Hardhome spread out before them—a sprawling settlement nestled between steep cliffs and the gray, forbidding sea. Hundreds of tents and makeshift shelters dotted the landscape, smoke rising from countless fires. Ships were anchored in the natural harbor, some clearly of wildling make, others captured or traded from southern ports.

"Mance has been busy," Val observed. "He's gathered more of our people than I expected."

"Not enough," Owen replied grimly. "There are still thousands scattered across the true North."

They descended toward the settlement, and word of their approach spread quickly. By the time they reached the outskirts, a crowd had gathered to witness their arrival. Owen recognized the mixture of awe and suspicion in their eyes—the same look he had received when first entering Mance's camp in the Frostfangs.

Tormund pushed through the crowd, his red beard seeming to glow in the weak sunlight. "The magic man returns!" he boomed, clapping Owen on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a normal man. "And he's brought our Val back to us!"

Val embraced Tormund briefly. "Where is Mance?"

"In the great hall, plotting and planning as usual," Tormund replied, then lowered his voice. "The dead are getting closer. searching out numbers and defenses for their masters. Our scouts report wights less than two days' march from here though they disappeared afterward. No telling if they are near or far away now."

Owen's expression darkened. "Then we have no time to waste."

Tormund led them through the settlement, the crowd parting before them. Anastasia drew particular attention, children pointing and whispering at the massive direwolf. Some of the Free Folk made signs to ward off evil, while others bowed their heads in respect.

The great hall was a large structure of timber and whalebone, clearly the work of many hands over many years. Inside, Mance Rayder stood over a crude map spread across a table, surrounded by the leaders of various Free Folk tribes. He looked up as they entered, his shrewd eyes taking in Owen's grim expression.

"Lord Longshore," he greeted, straightening. "Your return suggests you found what you were seeking."

"And more," Owen replied, approaching the table. "We need to talk, Mance. Privately."

The King-Beyond-the-Wall studied Owen for a moment, then nodded. "Leave us," he commanded the assembled leaders. "Except you, Tormund. And Val, of course."

As the others filed out, Mance turned his attention back to Owen. "What did you find in the north?"

Owen placed his hands on the table, his voice low and urgent. "More of what we could guess. The Night King is stronger than we thought. He's not just raising the dead—he's transforming them, extending his consciousness into each one And if their attack on us, with those giant spiders is anything to go by he wont just be using wights but creatures we may have never even heard of. And they're all connected to him, part of a vast network."

"Like a warg with many bodies," Tormund suggested, probably not understanding what a network was.

"Something like that," Owen agreed. "But on a scale we can barely comprehend."

Mance's expression remained impassive, though his eyes betrayed his concern. "How long do we have?"

"Not long," Owen replied. "Weeks at most. He's accelerating his plans, gathering his forces for a massive assault."

"On the Wall?"

Owen nodded. "Eventually. But first, he'll come here. Hardhome represents the largest concentration of living humans north of the Wall. He won't be able to resist adding your people to his army."

Mance exchanged glances with Tormund and Val. "Then we need to evacuate. Now."

"Not yet," Owen said. "I need three days to prepare defenses, to give your people a fighting chance if the dead arrive before the evacuation is complete."

"Three days," Mance repeated, his tone making it clear he wasn't sure they had that long.

"I'll send ships from the North as soon as I return," Owen promised. "Enough to transport all your people south of the Wall. But in the meantime, I can strengthen your defenses, enhance your weapons."

Mance considered this, then nodded. "Three days. No more."

The next three days passed in a blur of feverish activity. Owen worked until his fingers grew numb and his vision blurred, erecting magical wards around the perimeter of Hardhome. Each intricate pattern burned into the earth with a whispered incantation, designed to slow or weaken the undead should they attack. The smell of scorched soil and the crackling energy of raw magic filled his nostrils as he worked, the hair on his arms standing on end with each completed ward.

He inscribed runes of protection on the gates, his fingertips tingling with each stroke as he channeled power into the ancient symbols. The rough-hewn wood seemed to drink in the magic, warming beneath his touch. He continued his work on the walls, even climbing aboard the weathered ships in the harbor to mark their hulls with protective sigils that shimmered like oil on water before sinking beneath the surface.

But his most important work was with the weapons. The Free Folk gathered everything they had—spears with shafts worn smooth from years of use, rusted axes that had tasted the blood of both game and enemies, crude knives fashioned from whatever metal could be scavenged, even swords traded or stolen from southern lands, their hilts wrapped in leather darkened by sweat and time. The weapons carried the history of their owners in every nick and scratch, and now Owen would make them legend.

As he worked, he felt the curious eyes of the wildlings upon him. Their skepticism was palpable, hanging in the air like the scent of pine and sea salt. But that skepticism turned to wonder as he enhanced each weapon, his fingers dancing over metal and wood, inscribing tiny runes that glowed with an ethereal blue-white light before fading into the material. The enchantments hummed with power beneath his palms, a song only he could hear as they settled into the weapons, making them effective against wights, capable of severing the unnatural connection between the Night King and his puppets.

By the dawn of the fourth day, Owen stood on the windswept cliffs overlooking Hardhome, his cloak whipping around him as he surveyed his work. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle, but satisfaction warmed his chest. The settlement was now surrounded by a network of magical defenses, invisible to the naked eye but glowing faintly to his enhanced vision—concentric rings of power that pulsed with a rhythm like a heartbeat. The cold morning air filled his lungs, carrying the tang of salt and the promise of coming snow.

It won't stop the Night King's army indefinitely, he thought grimly, but it will buy precious time if he assaults them like canon—time for these people to escape, time for me to prepare the living for what's coming.

Mance joined him, his breath clouding in the frigid air. "Your ships will come?"

"They will," Owen assured him. "I'll send them as soon as I reach the Wall. White Harbor has a substantial fleet, and I've been building ships of my own at Ice Crest."

"And the Night's Watch? The North? Will they honor your promise of safe passage?"

Owen turned to face the King-Beyond-the-Wall. "They will. I'll make sure of it."

Mance studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "I believe you will." He extended his arm in the warrior's grip. "Safe journey, Owen Longshore."

As Owen clasped Mance's arm, he felt a surge of respect for this man who had united the disparate tribes of the Free Folk, not through conquest or fear, but through leadership and a common purpose. In another life, they might have been allies from the start.

"Gather as many of your people whoa re still alive as you can," Owen said. "I'll return with ships within a fortnight."

He turned to leave, only to find Val standing behind him, a pack slung over her shoulder and determination written across her beautiful face.

"I'm coming with you," she announced, her tone making it clear this wasn't a request.

Owen blinked in surprise. "Val, your people need you here."

"My sister will look after our people," Val replied, nodding toward Dalla who stood nearby. "And I can better serve them by ensuring you keep your word."

"I gave my word," Owen said, slightly offended. "I intend to keep it."

Val stepped closer, a dangerous smile playing on her lips. "Perhaps I have other reasons for wanting to accompany you south."

Behind her, Tormund guffawed loudly. "She means to steal you, magic man! Better watch your back—and your front!"

Owen felt heat rising to his cheeks. "I told you, I'm married."

"And I told you," Val replied, moving even closer until her body pressed against his, "that doesn't matter to the Free Folk."

The warmth of her body was evident even through the layers of fur they both wore. Owen could feel the press of her generous breasts against his chest, her face mere inches from his own. His blush deepened as Tormund and several nearby wildlings roared with laughter.

"Give up, Lord Longshore," Mance advised, amusement evident in his voice. "When Val sets her mind to something, there's no changing it."

Owen sighed, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. "Fine. But we leave now, and you follow my lead when we reach the Wall."

Val stepped back, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. "Of course, my lord," she replied with mock deference, eliciting more laughter from the onlookers.

As they prepared to depart, Owen couldn't help but think that Sansa was going to kill him when he returned with a wildling woman in tow. The thought filled him with a curious mixture of dread and—though he was reluctant to admit it—anticipation.

The journey to the Wall passed uneventfully, though Owen maintained constant vigilance. Val proved to be an excellent traveling companion—resourceful, observant, and surprisingly knowledgeable about the lands they traversed. She spoke little of her past, but from occasional comments, Owen gathered she had traveled extensively beyond the Wall, venturing into regions few wildlings dared to explore.

Anastasia seemed to have accepted Val completely, often hunting alongside her when they made camp. The massive direwolf's approval meant something to Owen, who had come to trust the enhanced animal's instincts.

As they approached Castle Black, Owen sensed the tension building in Val. Despite his assurances, she clearly had reservations about entering a stronghold of the "crows" she had been raised to fear and hate.

"They won't harm you," Owen promised as the massive ice structure came into view. "You're under my protection."

Val's laugh was sharp. "I don't need protection, southerner. I've killed crows before."

"Let's hope that doesn't become necessary," Owen replied dryly.

The gates of Castle Black opened at their approach, and they were met in the courtyard by Lord Commander Jeor Mormont himself, flanked by several senior officers. Their eyes widened at the sight of Val, though none dared comment openly on her presence.

"Lord Longshore," Jeor greeted, his voice gruff. "I see your mission was... eventful."

"This is Val," Owen introduced, ignoring the implied question. "She's here as a representative of the Free Folk and an envoy from Mance Rayder."

Jeor's bushy eyebrows rose, but he inclined his head respectfully. "Welcome to Castle Black, my lady."

"I'm no lady," Val replied coolly, though she returned the gesture. "Just Val."

"We need to talk," Owen said to Jeor. "All of your senior officers. Now."

Recognizing the urgency in Owen's tone, Jeor nodded and led them to the common hall. The black brothers gathered quickly, their curious glances at Val gradually giving way to concern as Owen detailed what he had discovered beyond the Wall.

"The Night King is moving faster than we anticipated," Owen concluded. "His forces will reach Hardhome within days, if not hours. After that, he'll turn his attention to the Wall."

"And you propose we allow thousands of wildlings through the Wall?" Alliser Thorne asked incredulously. "The same wildlings who have raided our lands and killed our brothers for centuries?"

"I propose we allow thousands of living humans to escape death and undeath," Owen countered, his voice hard. "Every wildling who dies north of the Wall becomes another soldier in the Night King's army."

"He speaks truly," Val added, her clear voice cutting through the murmurs of dissent. "My people have fought yours for generations, yes. But we have no quarrel with the dead. This is a fight for the living."

"Pretty words," Thorne sneered. "But words won't erase the blood spilled on both sides."

Owen's patience snapped. The runes on his skin flared to life, glowing through his clothing as he slammed his fist on the table hard enough to crack the ancient wood.

"Enough!" he thundered, his voice carrying an otherworldly resonance that silenced the room instantly. "This isn't about ancient grudges or personal grievances. This is about survival. The Night King doesn't care if you're a crow or a wildling. To him, you're all just meat for his army."

The hall was utterly silent, every eye fixed on Owen as the glow from his runes slowly faded.

"I have given my word that the Free Folk will have safe passage through the Wall," he continued, his voice calmer but no less authoritative. "Lord Stark supports this decision. The Night's Watch will comply."

Jeor Mormont cleared his throat. "What would you have us do, Lord Longshore?"

"Stop all ranging beyond the Wall immediately," Owen replied. "Consolidate your forces here and at the other manned castles. Begin drilling day and night—not just for combat, but for evacuating civilians through the tunnel. I'll be sending ships to Hardhome to transport as many Free Folk as possible, but some will inevitably come by land."

He turned to address the entire hall. "I know what I'm asking isn't easy. Centuries of hatred don't disappear overnight. But I promise you this: the threat we face is real, and it's coming for all of us. United, we have a chance. Divided, we fall."

Slowly, reluctantly, heads began to nod around the room. Even Alliser Thorne, though his expression remained sour, offered no further objection.

"I must return to Ice Crest," Owen continued. "I'll send word to all the Northern lords, all the southern ones as well, calling for a council. In the meantime, prepare for war. The dead are coming, and winter comes with them."

With the meeting concluded, Owen led Val and Anastasia to the courtyard. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the snow-covered ground. Night's Watch brothers moved about their duties, many casting curious glances at the strange trio.

The air crackled with anticipation as Owen turned to face the gathered crowd, their breath forming clouds in the frigid evening air. The weight of what was to come settled over them like a heavy cloak.

"It's time," he announced, his voice carrying an undercurrent of power that seemed to vibrate through the very stones of Castle Black.

Stepping forward into the open courtyard, Owen spread his arms wide, palms facing outward. Beneath his clothing, the runes etched into his skin flared to life, their azure glow seeping through the fabric like moonlight through clouds. A sensation of electric energy prickled across the skin of everyone present as he began to chant—the words ancient and unknowable, flowing from his lips in a rhythm that seemed to reach into the bones of the earth itself.

His voice swelled, resonating with unnatural depth and clarity, bouncing off the ancient walls until it seemed as though an entire choir spoke through him. The brothers of the Night's Watch felt the vibrations in their chests, some instinctively backing away as the very air before Owen began to warp and shimmer.

With a sound like tearing silk, reality split open, revealing a swirling vortex of blue-white energy. Before anyone could recover from their shock, another portal tore into existence beside it, then another and another, until ten glowing gateways stood in a perfect row, each pulsing with otherworldly power. Through their swirling depths, glimpses of Ice Crest's massive workshops and roaring forges could be seen, impossibly distant yet somehow right there before them.

Owen lowered his arms, the glow of the runes fading slightly, and whistled—a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the stunned silence like a blade.

The response was immediate and awe-inspiring.

First came the Dwarven Colossi, the towering mechanical behemoths of burnished bronze and blackened iron, their footfalls sending tremors through the packed earth. Each stood taller than three men, their gleaming metal bodies covered in intricate runes that pulsed with barely contained power. Blue light shone from their eyes as they scanned the surroundings, assessing, calculating.

Val's breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening as she took in the mechanical army emerging from the portals. Even Anastasia shifted her weight, ears perked forward in alert curiosity.

"Gods below," someone whispered as Steam Constructors followed, their joints hissing and pistons pumping rhythmically. Steam billowed from vents in their metal bodies, wreathing them in ghostly white clouds that swirled in the cold air. The mechanical symphony of their movement—clicking, whirring, clanking—filled the courtyard with an alien music.

Alongside them scuttled Dwemer Spiders of various sizes, from small ones no bigger than a hound to massive constructs the size of ponies. Their multiple legs moved with uncanny precision, metal feet finding purchase on the icy ground without slipping.

"What in the seven hells..." muttered Alliser Thorne, his perpetual scowl momentarily replaced by naked astonishment.

Many of the constructs pulled massive cannons behind them, their barrels gleaming with strange blue light. The runes etched along their length seemed to shift and change as one watched, making the eyes water if observed too long. Others carried crates piled high with weapons—rifles and pistols with intricate mechanisms, blades that caught the light with an unnatural sheen, each piece a perfect marriage of magic and craftsmanship.

The brothers of the Night's Watch stood rooted to the spot, their expressions a mixture of fear, awe, and disbelief. Some made warding gestures, while others simply stared, jaws slack. Even Val, who had witnessed Owen's magical prowess firsthand in the lands beyond the Wall, seemed taken aback by the sheer scale of this display, her clear blue eyes reflecting the glow of the portals.

As the last construct emerged—a Colossus larger than the others, bearing the Longshore sigil emblazoned on its chest—Owen turned to face the assembled men of the Night's Watch. His face was set in lines of grim determination, his eyes reflecting both the gravity of their situation and an unshakeable resolve.

"Gentlemen," he declared, his voice ringing with authority across the now-crowded courtyard, "we are at war." He swept his hand toward the assembled mechanical army, the movement deliberate and commanding. "And I plan to win."

In the silence that followed, the only sounds were the mechanical whirring of the constructs and the distant howl of the wind beyond the Wall—a wind that carried whispers of the coming storm. And within owen the sound rang once more. The golden striking of a forge upon his soul.

The throne room in the Red Keep was unnaturally silent. Robert Baratheon sat upon the Iron Throne, his massive frame seeming to have regained the power and vigor of his youth. Gone was the fat, drunken king who had ruled for nearly two decades. In his place sat a warrior reborn, his eyes occasionally flashing with a golden light that made even his most loyal supporters uneasy.

Stannis Baratheon and Ser Barristan Selmy stood before him, both men visibly tense despite their efforts to appear calm. It wasn't Robert's anger that concerned them—they had faced his rage many times before. It was his unnatural calmness, the cold calculation that had replaced his usual bluster, that truly frightened them.

"Your Grace," Stannis began, his voice carefully measured, "many will flock to your banner after your victory over the Lannisters. But consider who these men will be—zealots and fanatics, not disciplined soldiers. Such an army is ill-suited for a campaign against the North."

Robert's fingers tapped slowly on the armrest of the throne, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. "You speak of practicalities, brother. I speak of divine mandate."

"Even so, Your Grace," Barristan interjected, "Lord Stark has been your friend for many years. He helped you win this very throne. And with Owen Longshore's power at the North's disposal..."

Robert had seemed to be listening when Ned's name was mentioned, a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or memory—crossing his face. But at the mention of Owen Longshore, his expression hardened, and the golden light flared briefly in his eyes.

"The crusade will proceed as planned," Robert declared, his voice resonating with unnatural authority. "I have ordered the Faith to reform the Faith Militant to bolster our numbers. The High Septon has agreed—he sees the threat of northern sorcery as clearly as I do."

Stannis stepped forward, his frustration momentarily overcoming his caution. "Robert, listen to yourself! You speak of crusades and divine mandates. This isn't you—it's whatever has taken hold of you since that night in the Westerlands."

Robert rose from the throne, his movement fluid and powerful in a way that belied his years. "You are dismissed, both of you. Prepare for the campaign or remove yourselves from my sight. The choice is yours."

With that, he strode from the throne room, leaving Stannis and Barristan alone in the echoing silence.

Once Robert was gone, Stannis turned to Barristan, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have a ship waiting in the harbor. I intend to sail for Dragonstone tonight, and from there to the North. This madness has gone far enough."

Barristan's weathered face reflected his inner conflict. His duty was to the king, but the man sitting on the Iron Throne was no longer the Robert Baratheon he had sworn to serve.

"The Kingsguard vows are for life," he murmured, almost to himself.

"And what of your vow to protect the realm?" Stannis countered. "Whatever has taken hold of my brother threatens not just the North, but all of Westeros."

After a long moment, Barristan nodded. "I will accompany you to Dragonstone, and then to Ice Crest. May the gods forgive me."

"If there are gods," Stannis replied grimly, "they have much to answer for already."

Meanwhile, Robert Baratheon knelt in the royal sept, his massive frame dwarfed by the towering statues of the Seven. The chamber was empty save for him, the heavy doors barred against interruption. Candles flickered in their sconces, casting dancing shadows across the marble floor.

"I have done as you asked," Robert said, his voice echoing in the sacred space. "The Faith Militant rises again. The crusade is being prepared. Yet still you demand more."

The statues of the Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, and Maiden began to glow with an inner light, their features seeming to shift and move in the candlelight. The Crone and the Stranger remained dark and silent, as they had since Robert's transformation.

"You have done well," the Father's voice resonated in Robert's mind, deep and authoritative. "But the sorcerer of Ice Crest grows stronger with each passing day. His magic awakens the old gods, diminishing our influence."

"He must be destroyed," the Maiden added, her voice pure and terrible in its intensity. "His abominations must be cleansed from the realm."

Robert rose to his feet, anger flashing across his face. "I agreed to your terms. I accepted your power. But this crusade against the North—against Ned..." He faltered, memories of his old friend rising unbidden. "There must be another way."

"There is none," the Warrior declared, his voice like clashing steel. "The North has chosen its path. They harbor the sorcerer, embrace his magic, turn from the true faith to the old gods of wood and stone."

Robert paced before the statues, his hands clenched into fists. "You promised me justice against the Lannisters, and I have had it. But this—this is not justice. This is vengeance against those who have done me no wrong."

"They have wronged us," the Mother corrected, her voice gentle yet implacable. "And through us, they have wronged you. The sorcerer's magic corrupts the natural order. It must be expunged."

Robert stopped before the statue of the Warrior, looking up into its glowing eyes. "And if I refuse? If I turn from this path?"

"Then our bargain is void," the Smith replied, his voice like hammer on anvil. "The strength we have given you, the youth restored, the power to crush your enemies—all will be taken back. You will return to what you were: a broken, drunken shell of a man, despised by his subjects, cuckolded by his queen, forgotten by history."

Robert's face contorted with rage. "You blackmail me with your gifts?"

"We remind you of our covenant," the Father corrected. "But know this: if you fulfill your oath, if you destroy the sorcerer and cleanse the North of his influence, we will grant you what you desire most."

Robert's anger faltered, replaced by a flicker of desperate hope. "What do you mean?"

The statues seemed to lean forward slightly, their glowing eyes fixed upon him. "Kill Owen Longshore," the Maiden whispered, "and we will return your beloved to you."

"Lyanna?" Robert breathed, his voice barely audible.

The five glowing figures nodded in unison. "The wolf maiden you fought a war to win," the Mother confirmed. "She will be yours at last, restored to life and youth, her love for you kindled anew."

Robert staggered backward, overwhelmed by the promise. "You can do this? You can bring her back?"

"We are the Seven," the Father intoned. "Life and death are within our dominion. Fulfill your oath, Robert Baratheon, and claim your reward."

As Robert left the sept, his mind was filled with visions of Lyanna—her wild beauty, her fierce spirit, the love he had never known but had always craved. For her, he had started a rebellion. For her, he had claimed a throne. And now, for her, he would wage one final war.

The doubt that had plagued him earlier was gone, replaced by a burning certainty. The North would burn, the sorcerer would fall, and Lyanna would be his at last.

Deep beneath the waves of the Essosi sea, a black ship like no other drifted in the currents. Its hull was formed from the bones of ancient sea creatures, its sails woven from the hair of drowned men. Upon its deck lay Euron Greyjoy, his body motionless save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

The salt water had preserved him, kept him alive when any other man would have perished. The wounds he had sustained fleeing from his pursuers had healed, leaving new scars to join the many that already marked his lean body.

Euron's single eye snapped open, gleaming with an unnatural blue light. He sat up slowly, water streaming from his hair and clothing as he surveyed his surroundings. The bone ship creaked and groaned around him, as if welcoming its master back to consciousness.

"How long?" he rasped, his voice rough from disuse.

The water around the ship churned and bubbled, forming shapes that whispered and hissed in a language older than human memory. Euron listened, his head tilted slightly, a smile spreading across his face as the voices spoke to him.

"North," he whispered, rising to his feet. "I will go north."