THE CONCLAVE OF THE LEARNED

For centuries the Citadel had been the center of learning for the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Lord and king alike called on the maesters to handle their accounts, to teach their children and maintain the ravens that allowed the realms to communicate in days rather than weeks. The lords of Westeros relied on the Faith and the Citadel to keep their fiefs functional, which gave them standing that wrapped around all maesters like a great cloak. So long as the Citadel's understanding of the world remained unchallenged, it would endure.

Then came a morning heralded by a many-colored false dawn that lasted for hours, and when the sun rose that morning the great comet that had been trailing it failed to appear. Tongues began to wag in the Citadel, in Oldtown and quite possibly everywhere else in the world; the certainty of the world had changed, and the conclave of archmaesters would meet to determine the meaning of it all.

None of these fools know a damned thing, Archmaester Marwyn groused behind his dragonsteel mask as the most learned men in all of Westeros squabbled like fishwives at the Oldtown docks.

"You're the skywatcher, Vaellyn!" thundered the seneschal, looking all the while like a man trying to maintain control of his wits. "How could you not have known this would happen?"

Archmaester Vaellyn's sour face soured even further, a feat Marwyn was surprised was even possible. "For the last bloody time, Theobald," he growled, "none of the observations I or my acolytes made hinted this was possible. Comets do not simply vanish out of the blue like this."

"Is there no record of such an event in the chronicles?" Archmaester Perestan's thin voice cut through the argument like a paring knife. "Surely in the fullness of time such an event is not unprecedented?"

"My acolytes are looking through the old records as we speak," Vaellyn replied. His voice was tired and dry now, the sourness leeching away into stiff formality. "I myself went through the last century of records before coming to conclave. There is no record of a comet vanishing from the sun's left or right since the days of Aegon the Unworthy at the very least."

"But there are records of comets vanishing?" Perestan pressed.

"Some. Small comets that are difficult to spot go behind the sun and do not return. Archmaester Wilfric wrote of such a thing happening, theorizing that the comet had fallen into the sun like stars sometimes fall into the earth. But!" Vaellyn raised a finger before Perestan could say another word. "It would only vanish after it went behind the sun, and the red comet was at least a fortnight from that point by my estimations. And no comet ever created the display we had this morn."

"A fair point, Vaellyn," Marwyn noted. "Comets do not vanish like this, at least by our reckoning. But at the same time falling stars also do not tend to be ships that sail the skies, manned by women who claim to be from far Ulthos."

Theobald's gaze turned to the Mage. "You think the Ulthosi woman has something to do with this?"

"Perhaps. I merely speculate, nothing more. But consider this, my brothers: the seasons are turning faster than we expected, the glass candles show more life than they have since the Doom of Valyria and then there's the odd reports coming from Maester Aemon at the Wall. And now this comet disappears in a false dawn. The only thing truly new in the realm at this moment is the Ulthosi. Did she cause this? I cannot say. However, she may very well have been the spark to tinder."

"Not a comforting analogy, Marwyn," Theobald said.

"No, but it is the only apt one I know." Marwyn tapped his mask in thought. "Pycelle and our spy in her ranks are both quite adamant that the lady Hasegawa had contacted her realm and they were sending a ship—or ships—of similar make to collect her. Perhaps what we thought to be a comet was the passage of that ship?"

Vaellyn shook his head. "A pleasant thought but I doubt it," he said. "The comet acted too much like a comet, not like a ship under tiller. It's path was straight and true right up to this morning. I can show you the observation records if you wish..."

"I trust your eyes, archmaester."

"Be that as it may," the seneschal said heavily. "Regardless of the truth of the matter we need an explanation. I've already had a stack of scrolls from Pycelle asking for a reasonable explanation of the comet's presence; apparently that so-called wizard of a Greyjoy put the notion in the king's head that the comet was a good omen for his rule. I imagine an entire flock of ravens are winging their way here from the Red Keep as we speak."

"His Grace won't be the only one demanding answers," Archmaester Ryam said cautiously. "Some of my boys were at the Starry Sept this morning. The false dawn and the missing comet were prominent in the sermons inside the sept and out."

The conclave all paused to glance at Ryam and reach other nervously. The septons had been keeping their noses pointed towards the dryer matters of the Faith for years, presumably thanks to generous donations from the crown and Casterly Rock. If they were poking their noses back into the here-and-now now of all times… "And what were they preaching, Ryam?" Theobald all but demanded.

"If my boys speak true and are not addled by their hangovers, everything and anything. Inside the septon was proclaiming the comet's disappearance was a sign that the Warrior had sheathed his sword and King Joffrey's reign was no longer in danger of war." The conclave shared an uneasy chuckle at that. No news had reached Oldtown from the armies now roaming the countryside, but one did not need a chain or a mask to feel the waiting violence in the air. "Outside a congregation of begging brothers were claiming the comet had been a sign of favor from the Seven, but it had been withdrawn due to acts of incest and witchcraft within the Red Keep."

"Fuck." The sensechal said with deep feeling. "If the begging brothers feel safe enough to say that on the steps of Starry Sept, they'll be saying that everywhere in a moon's turn. If they aren't already. We needs put a lid on this kettle before it boils over. Marwyn, you're the expert: can we blame this on the Ulthosi? Should we?"

Marwyn would've rolled his eyes at the mummery. The conclave would rather see him vanish from the earth like the arts he studied, but the moment something uncanny happened the sheep treated him with the respect he'd earned as an archmaester. He let the moment drag out as long as he could before replying. "Could we? There is nothing in the world stopping us from doing so. Should we? It needs saying that if we do place the blame upon the lady Hasegawa, then eventually we will face her wrath. Or if not hers, then the wrath of her kinsmen." He looked Theobald directly in the eyes and spoke clearly. "If we are willing to take that risk, then we may place blame. If not..." he trailed off, letting the sheep draw their own conclusions.

Old Vaellyn cleared his throat. "I do not think that will be necessary," he said. "The comet's path led it close enough to the sun that it was consumed in that everlasting flame. The false dawn was merely the… smoke let off by it's demise. A random act created by the laws of nature, no great mischance of fate or prophecy, and nothing that needs the assignment of blame."

The sensechal nodded thoughtfully. "A reasonable conclusion based on our observations," he said. "Nothing for the king or the septons to get agitated by. Everything is as it should be."

The Mage gave the skywatcher a rare thin smile. "Indeed, nothing magical is afoot in the Seven Kingdoms." Though perhaps beyond those borders… Marwyn's thoughts went to the candle of twisted black glass in his study that burned with uncanny light. A light that had only gotten brighter in the morning after the false dawn. A change of scenery might be in order, he thought. As well as getting a report from young Alleras in person, methinks.

JAIME

Another sennight. Just seven more days and this will all be over.

The Neck stank of mud and rot and worse things. Passing through with Robert's parade was without question the worst part of the progress north. Even now with the weather slightly cooler than before Jaime could feel the stink wrap around him like a lover's embrace, coating every inch of his skin. Not even the white armor of the Kingsguard could keep the Neck away from him. Jaime hated it, hated the squelching mire and the insects that covered everything not wreathed in smoke and the Seven-forsaken lizard lions that hid in every puddle. Every morning in this muddy hell Jaime tallied the days until the army reached Moat Cailin and reminded himself that once they reached the moat the worst of it would be done with.

Seven days to the moat, then we're loose in the North. The hard part would be forcing the passage, but Moat Cailin was a ruin and no doubt lightly held at best. Once through Father expected things to be fairly simple. The Dustins were said to be fair weather vassals to the Starks at best and would likely bend the knee at the slightest pressure. With Barrowton as a base of supply and reinforcement the army could march on Winterfell, put their fields to the torch and simply wait for the Starks to surrender or starve. Quick and simple, so Father says.

Jaime tried to put the thought of little bells out of his head. The witch complicated things, but she was not invincible. Aegon's dragons could be felled by a scorpion, her magic ship was no different. No one person, be they witch or warrior, could stand against an entire army and win. The witch would be theirs, and Jaime would have justice done.

"Hail, Lord Commander," Ser Addam Marbrand's voice came from behind him. Addam's usual cheer had faded like everything else in the Neck; today he sounded as tired and drawn as Jaime felt.

"Addam," Jaime greeted him. "What news, cousin?"

"Three dozen gone this morning," Addam replied soberly. "Crownlander men-at-arms guarding the baggage train."

Jaime snorted. "Deserters." It was what Father would say, and Tywin Lannister tended to be right about such things. Men would always leak away from any army, his father had taught him. Most men weren't willing to live a soldier's life if they could help it, and no levy kept perfect numbers while on campaign.

"Possibly," Addam grunted. "They could've been taken by the crannogmen in the night. No way to tell."

Jaime sneered at the mention of the Northern frogs. Ever since entering the Neck the crannogmen had taken to harrying the army whenever they could, mostly by acting like craven bandits. Arrows from ambush, knives in the dark, fouling provisions and the like. "Ah yes, the little frogs," he said lightly. "Too craven to face us, so they prick and prick and prick."

Addam said nothing, looking out over the reek. "Enough little pricks can end up bleeding a body out," he said finally. "And it's only going to get worse after that false dawn. The men are starting to talk about signs and portents. After Darry—"

"Enough of that," Jaime said sharply. "We are knights of the Westerlands; I'll hear no more talk about us being cowed by foreign mummery, Ser Addam. We are not cravens, nor are we Essosi decadents, powdered and perfumed." The sound of little bells echoed in his skull, but anger shoved it aside. "We will not be afraid of Stark's foreign bitch and her bag of tricks, and I'll have any man who dares show themselves craven flogged."

To this Addam asked, "Is that what you truly think, or is that your father speaking with your voice?" Jaime bristled at the quiet question. "The further north we go, coz, the more the men murmur. They might be talking about signs and portents now, but the question I hear more and more is why. Why are we here, Jaime?"

"We have to punish the Starks for their treason," Jaime said automatically. It was his father's answer to the question, and none would dare speak against the Hand of the King.

But Jaime was not his father. "Do we?" Addam pressed. "Ned Stark isn't going anywhere. We could blockade the Neck for a generation and no Stark would dare cross that line. Meanwhile your uncle has only half our strength to hold King's Landing facing Renly and Stannis. We should be reinforcing the king, not haring off to get revenge."

"It is not revenge!" Jamie said, turning to face his friend. "We can't let treason or insult stand, and Ned Stark and his witch have given us both. If Joffrey's rule is to be successful then they must face the king's justice. Anything else and we will be seen as weak."

"And what good is it if we drag Stark out of his den only to return home and find Renly on the throne?" Addam shook his head. "I grew up with the rains of Castamere just as much as you did, my friend, but this… I understand it, truly, but the closer we get to Winterfell the more I question whether it's right."

The wolf has no right to judge the lion, and neither does that witch. The thought of taking his justice out on Robert's pet mage burned in Jaime after that day in the throne room, after her grumkins stripped him while she watched in judgment like the Mother, Maiden and Crone as one. That she had apparently done so to the benefit of that high-handed prig Stark only infuriated him more. But what Addam said pricked at his heart like a crannogman's dart. What is the right thing, then? Knights obey, the Kingsguard more than most. We guard, not judge. Should I defer justice like I always did with Aerys and Robert, or do I take it with my own hands?

For a brief, dizzying moment Jaime thought of saying all of this to his closest friend. Instead he said "Do you think you can convince the Hand?"

Addam shrugged. "I had hoped you could, actually. You're his son."

Jaime laughed, though there was no humor in it. "His son I might be, but I doubt the gods themselves could sway my lord father if he thought them wrong." He looked out at the swamps he hated. "No, coz, I'm afraid that our course is set and we must see it to a conclusion."

Addam said nothing, staring out at the Neck alongside Jaime as the army began to pack up and prepare for another day's march.

Just seven more days and then we'll be through and ready to finish this.

ASHA

"Hello, stranger," the witch murmured, looking at the magic window.

Somewhere between Captain Hasegawa entering the warlock's domain and her ship using bolts of thunder to reduce it to smoldering rubble in instants—a demonstration of raw power that had Asha trembling somewhere between terror and ecstasy—the red comet that had led them to Qarth vanished in a flare of uncanny light. The captain and the dragon princess's party split paths after this, and the sky-ship lifted off once again to land well outside the city walls so it's mistress could ponder what new wrinkle the gods had seen fit to throw in her path.

"So this is what was hiding inside the comet?" The maester boy Alleras stared at the thing in the magic window. The strange object was made of worn gold laced with long veins of the deepest blue running along sweeping curves, a grasping, long-fingered hand reaching for something Asha couldn't see. The fingers came together into an egg shape at one end, surrounded by ten curved blades that looked almost like wings.

"Mm," the captain said. "Probably buried at least partway intentionally, though it probably picked up a bunch of crap in the long cold soak. The probe's active scan must've woken something up so it burned off all the ice in one big pulse."

The big Myrman Thoros cleared his throat. "I'm a bit lost at sea about such things," he ventured, "but this is the work of the northern tree-gods' creators, do you think?"

"Oh absolutely. The color of the material is indicative of Builder construction. It's not quite as advanced as some of the works I've seen, though… considering this seems like an early project of the High Builder culture, that makes sense."

Asha tilted her head. "Looks like a kraken fucking a flock of vultures," she noted. The maester boy gave her a funny look, but she paid it no heed. "That or something they'd probably worship in Yi Ti or Sothoryos or wherever. What is it?"

"Well… I'm not sure," the captain admitted. She gestured, causing the image in the window to spin and tumble at her whim. "Could be a ship. I don't see anything resembling a functional warp coil array but it could be integral to the hull. That might be problem; we'd have to destroy it and I'm not sure I have the necessary tools here…"

Asha blinked, a deep surge of outrage welling in her breast at the thought. "Destroy it!? Why would you sink so magnificent a ship?"

"Because the Unbidden want a ship to get them offworld," the captain said firmly. "Whatever else happens, that can't. But I'm not sure this is a ship; there's no secondary thrust structures visible. The wings might be a reactionless array but the bend isn't quite right. I'd say they're more likely supports of some sort, meant to lock onto a larger structure for transport assuming that it wasn't built in place. And see these prongs?" She spun the image so the long fingers were prominent. "If those aren't verteron nodes I'll eat my engineering textbook. Moving a live verteron array through warp is just begging for a random unplanned disassembly."

"Verteron?" Alleras prompted. At least the maester seemed just as lost by the witch's rambling as Asha was.

The witch waved off the question. "Advanced physics shit. Subspace particles that show up in some of the weirder phenomena, usually connected to wormholes and transwarp conduits. In fact…" The witch leaned back in her chair, deep in thought. "Victory, archive search: give me a picture of the Arcadia gate generator, split-screen with current probe feed." A bell tinkled somewhere inside the ship and then another strange thing appeared next to the kraken-thing from the comet. This new one shared the same flowing curves and gold-blue material as the kraken-thing, but the curves spread out and weaved around each other into a great hoop of gold.

"Okay, yeah." The captain nodded, apparently satisfied. "You can see how the nodes are interlinked on the Arcadia object, right? They're all separated on our mystery guest. It looks more like an accelerator gun than something meant to create a subspace event horizon. So the base generates the verterons, the nodes collimate the stream and project it… but where? And to do what, exactly? What are you supposed to do, laddio?"

As if she had summoned it, something began to chime. The magic window's border turned yellow, and the words ANOMALOUS SIGNAL DETECTED flashed over the kraken-thing. The captain swiped furiously at the air, the golden wreath replaced by glyphs and blocks of words spinning around faster than Asha could read.

"Anomalous signal?" Alleras said cautiously. "It's… signaling?"

"It's trying to talk to something," the captain said, then smacked her forehead. "Of course it's trying to talk to something! We woke it up! It probably mistook the active probe for a communication signal and now it's looking for a controller." The kraken-thing was replaced by a crude drawing that dwindled into a tiny dot in a painted orrery with lines streaming from it.

"Does this mean there's a crew?" Asha asked. "Something alive on that thing trying to speak with whichever wizard was responsible for leaving them in the ice?"

"No more than Victory's alive," the witch answered. "Some kind of VI maybe. Dunno, really. Something to question once we can talk with it." Her fingers blurred in the air, more and more arcane knowledge flashing before them as she mumbled to herself. "Okay, it tried talking to the probe but didn't get an answer because it doesn't know how to talk to it. So once that failed it tried to talk to something on the planet. Where is it looking? Please don't be the pole, please don't be the pole..." The displays settled into a map of the world with a large red splotch on it. "Here, then? Relatively close, that's nice." The witch looked up from her studies and gave them a faint half-smile. "Alright, step one complete. The widget is trying to talk to something on the ground in that general area. Step two: we go poke around and see if we can find what it's trying to talk to."

Asha nodded absently, then she actually saw where the red splotch was on the map. "Fuck me, that's Valyria," she breathed. Alleras's head snapped up, his eyes met Asha's and for one instant they were of the exact same mind: she cannot possibly be serious.

***FLASH TRAFFIC***

TO: SUVOK, Cdr., cmdg FSWC Kirkwood Gap R-1821

FROM: HASEGAWA, Cpt. Jade, cmdg FWSC Carefree Victory AGS-3172

Commander:

Attached is a complete sensor record of a probe approach on the comet tagged Anomaly 01 in my previous message, as well as the Builder artifact that was apparently hidden inside of it. My preliminary analysis of the data suggests that it's some kind of verteron accelerator. Exactly why the Builders were accelerating verterons I have no idea, though. I'd appreciate it if your physics team could go over the data and tell me if I'm wrong or right, as well as pass the data up the chain to SCE to see what they make of it. This thing might be important to figuring out the Unbidden puzzle… or it could be a huge wild goose chase. Not sure yet. But my gut tells me this is important somehow.

—Hasegawa

THE CASTLE ON THE FROZEN SHORE

All who met Cotter Pyke would agree that he was a hard man. The Iron Islands were not a place that the soft thrived in to begin with, and any ironborn who ended up in the Night's Watch were harder than most. Life in the Watch would harden or kill any man who came into contact with it, and that suited Pyke just fine. He may never be able to leave the Watch save through death, but he had a castle and a fleet to command and that was more than any tavern wench's bastard could expect in the Iron Islands. He was not liked, but he was feared and at times respected, and that was enough for him.

Then the world got queer. Almost a year before he'd seen a falling star in broad daylight while hunting smugglers in the Bay of Seals. He put it out of mind until strange messages started coming in from Castle Black. Requests to see if the wildlings were gathering, the Lord Commander wanting to know about anything strange happening in the vicinity of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Pyke had his drunken fool of a maester keep the ravens flying as elk and mammoths began to gather near the Wall. His rangers reported more and more wildlings camping along the shore, and on one momentous the smoke from some great fire beyond the Wall managed to drift all the way to Eastwatch.

Not long after that the sky-ship came, captained by a slip of a Dornish girl with eyes to cow even the hardest reaver, along with messages and commands from the Old Bear himself: the Others march on the Wall. Lord Commander Mormont has agreed to let the wildlings through to hide in the Gift. Keep the peace but otherwise do not injure the wildlings; they are not the true enemy here.

It was sheer madness so far as Cotter Pyke was concerned, but the sky-ship, the uncanny captain and the half-frozen head she brought as proof was enough to convince him that old Jeor's brain hadn't frozen. And so, rebelling against every instinct in his body Pyke allowed wildlings to cross the Wall and mingle around his holdfast. Now the hard ironborn was nursemaid to a host of savages, his ships blocked by fishing coracles and his days filled with dealing with the irritations of a hundred little complaints.

"I don't give a single fuck about your problems, Tormund," Pyke growled at the latest thorn in his arse, this stubby whitebeard of a wildling "lord" who was considered the leader of their band today. "Your problems are your own until they become my problems, and my problems get solved with steel."

The wildling ignored the implied threat with a booming laugh. "Ha! If more crows were like you, we'd all be brothers!" he chortled. "Look here crow, all you have to do is keep your flock on your side of the line and we'll have no trouble. I don't like the looks some o' your boys have been giving our women. Mance said not to start something, and I'll hold to that, but by the gods I've no problem finishing something or I'm not the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall."

"My men stick with yours, wildling," Pyke replied, scowling. "We aren't taking the chance."

"What chance?" wondered Tormund. "You've not seen the white walkers, crow. I have. Mance has. That little witch of yours and her steel canoe set half the fuckin' forest on fire to slow them down. The only chance we're taking is that bloody stupid thing—" he jabbed a thumb at the bulk of the Wall rising outside the castle "—stopping the white walkers long enough for us to flee further south. We ate your meat and mead, crow; we'll not break guest right if you don't do it first."

Pyke bristled and would've replied but for a sudden interruption. One of the young boys fresh from Castle Black burst into the solar with a breathless "Sir!"

Thank the Drowned God's watery bollocks, Pyke thought. "What is it, boy?" he snapped. Whatever frippery was afoot would be a thousand times more palatable than dealing with the great bag of wind that styled himself a wildling lord.

"Sails, Commander! A dozen or more galleys approaching the shore!"

The ironborn's brows went up. Other ships weren't unknown at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Transports bringing recruits from the south stopped by on the regular, as well as the occasional trader looking to swap trinkets or food for furs from wildling and Watch alike. A dozen galleys, though, that meant trouble. Pyke had heard enough gossip about the bloody damned greenlanders and their war to the south, and if a fleet of galleys was inbound then that war was coming to the Wall, right when they didn't need it. "What banners are they flying?"

The boy swallowed hard. "I… Commander, it's best if you see for yourself." Which was a strange damned answer. Cotter shoved the boy aside and made his way to the watchtower, where the lookout with the Myrish far-eye was stationed.

"Give me that," he commanded, snatching the far-eye from the lookout's hand. He could see the sails on the horizon, perhaps no more than a few hours from shore. Through the far-eye he could make out details. The ships themselves were Braavosi or Pentoshi in make, not Westerosi, and definitely war-galleys. He cast about looking for a banner or a sigil, something to identify the army approaching his shore. The banners flapped in the wind, which was blowing in the wrong direction for him to see anything more than a flash of red and black, and a faint flash of something metal on the prow of the lead ship.

"Friends of yours?" The wildling's voice rumbled in Pyke's ear.

"Hardly," Pyke said, still searching for a banner. "They're from across the sea, and there's enough of 'em to be a threat." The wind shifted just enough to float one of the banners across the far-eye's sight, and Pyke could see the sigil emblazoned there: a red dragon with three heads on black.

Cotter Pyke was not a man given to surprise—surprise could kill just a sure as drowning or cold—but he pulled back from the far-eye in shock. "That… can't be right," he said slowly. He grabbed the lookout's arm. "Get to Harmune," he growled. "Ravens need to fly to Castle Black right fucking now. Tell Harmune to tell the Lord Commander that we've got fucking Targaryens coming."

The man looked blank, but nodded jerkily and dashed off to find the maester. "Targaryens?" the wildling mused. "Those were yer dragon kings, weren't they? Thought they were all dead."

"Aye, so did I," Pyke said slowly.

*/ "The King's Arrival" Ramin Djawadi Game of Thrones Season 1 (2011) /*

Hours later, a ragged band of black brothers and wildlings stood on the shore watching the strangers disembark. The wildlings watched in blank confusion; none of them had seen anything like this procession.

The first man off the lead boat carried a broad banner with the sigil of House Targaryen flapping in the wind, and the pike it was attached to topped by gilded skulls. The sight tickled something in Cotter Pyke's memory. "The Golden Company?" he murmured. "Bugger me."

The herald with the banner stood ramrod straight as two more men came ashore. One was older, red hair laced with gray and in armor with a sigil Pyke didn't recognize. The other was younger, with the silver hair and fine features that marked those with the blood of Valyria in their veins, dressed in red and black armor emblazoned with the icon of his house.

"Men of the Night's Watch, rejoice!" cried the herald to all around them. "All hail His Grace Aegon of House Targaryen, Sixth of his name! Lord of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men! Protector of the Realm! Rejoice, for the true king has returned in the hour of need!"