"Although I am not entirely certain how far your father's research has progressed, Lady Morroya," Eddard said, his voice level and devoid of the warmth usually reserved for guests, "I have no intention of cooperating with House Hightower. Nor am I particularly interested in the dusty knowledge you've hoarded in that spire of yours."
He looked at Morroya Hightower, a woman whose hair had turned a premature, snowy white but whose eyes remained exceptionally bright with an unsettling, intellectual hunger. The two of them were simply not operating on the same level. The native magic of Westeros was a fickle, blood-soaked thing—requiring the sacrifice of kings or the gradual loss of one's own humanity for results that were often unstable. Eddard's power, granted by the System, was clean, clinical, and increasingly efficient. He saw no reason to mix his lightning with their shadows.
"Your Grace, I understand and respect your decision," Morroya replied.
She was known as the "Madwoman" in Oldtown, a title earned through her obsession with forbidden scrolls and the glass candles, but she was still the eldest daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower. She possessed the manners of the oldest and proudest lineage in the Reach, tracing back to the Dawn Age. She bowed with a practiced, courtly grace, though her eyes betrayed a lingering curiosity.
"That is for the best," Eddard noted. He glanced toward the inner courtyard where Sansa was approaching, followed by a familiar group in black wool.
Jon Snow? Why is the Lord Commander back so soon? Eddard wondered.
He turned back to Morroya. "Let us conclude this for today. I have other guests who have traveled a long road to see me."
"As you wish, Your Grace. I shall take my leave."
Morroya turned and walked away without further protest. She was confident, however, that her time in Harrenhal wasn't wasted. Half the Maesters and acolytes currently filling the castle's libraries had ties to the Citadel and House Hightower. Whatever secrets the "Winter Wizard" shared with his pupils would eventually find their way back to the Hightower.
Eddard watched her leave, a faint smile playing on his lips, before turning to the two Maesters remaining by the stone table. "You two stay here. Continue your debate. If you have any breakthroughs, come to my study tomorrow."
"I will, Your Grace!" Marwyn the Mage replied, his voice a gravelly bark of excitement.
His large, rough hands - veined and calloused were tightly clutching a jagged piece of obsidian. Marwyn didn't look like a scholar; with his bull-like neck, thick chest, and a round beer-belly that strained his leather tunic, he looked more like a dock-thug from the Shadowblack Lane. His face was a map of academic pugilism: a slab-like chin, a protruding forehead, and mottled teeth stained a permanent red from chewing sourleaf. Yet, he held more Valyrian steel links on his chain than any man alive. He had spent eight years in the East searching for the mysteries of the shadowbinders, yet until he saw Bennett's Magic Arrow, he had only ever managed to light a glass candle.
Eddard watched Marwyn's fanatical focus and thought, Haste makes waste. He knew that building a school of magic would take years, not weeks.
"Eddard Karstark!"
Jon Snow strode across the courtyard, a weary, joking smile on his face. "You've given me a headache that reaches from here to the Shadow Tower. Do you have any idea what you've done? Since the day the first stone of the Wall was laid, no brother who took the black has ever been allowed to leave. Because of Tyrion, the Watch nearly tore itself apart in an internal mutiny!"
Jon's face held a lingering trace of genuine fear. When he had announced the "Tyrion Exception" in the Shield Hall, the roar of the brothers had been like a storm surge, nearly shaking the shields from the walls. Only the intervention of Maester Aemon—and the promise of Casterly Rock's gold and new recruits—had barely quelled the rage.
"You'll get used to it, Jon," Eddard shrugged. "We uphold the good rules. The bad and outdated ones? They are meant to be broken when the world changes."
Eddard winked at him. "And I think you understand the benefit of a broken rule better than most, Lord Commander."
Jon's face turned a violent shade of red. He knew Eddard was referring to Ygritte and the child currently hidden in the castle's nursery. He quickly turned his head, refusing to meet Eddard's gaze.
Tyrion Lannister, standing nearby in a heavy black cloak that looked several sizes too large, watched the exchange with a sharp, inquisitive look. He managed a polite bow. "Lord Eddard Karstark—no, I suppose I should say Your Grace. Do you require me to kneel and pledge my life to the Sunburst right here in the dirt?"
"No hurry," Eddard said, waving him off. "The coronation is in a few days. That will be the time for the world to see the new Lord of the West."
"Let us talk in the Banquet Hall," Sansa suggested, her voice a gentle balm. "I've already told the kitchens to prepare a feast. The guest rooms will be ready by the time we finish the wine."
After the meal, the atmosphere in the hall grew somber as the servants retreated. Eddard swirled a glass of Dornish red, his eyes fixed on Jon.
"What is the movement of the White Walkers, Jon? Are they testing the gates?"
Jon shook his head, his expression grim. "No. But their main force is close, no more than a day's march from the Wall. They've blocked the roads. Every Free Folk village I once knew is now occupied by the dead. I send rangers out, but they are driven back within hours. It's as if the Others want to blind us."
"It's more than that," Tyrion added, taking a large gulp of Arbor Gold. "They are probing the sea. At Eastwatch, I saw wights trying to cross the bay on the ice. It was a chilling sight, even with a hearth at my back. I've written to Ser Denys Mallister to watch the Gorge, but for now, the west remains quiet."
Eddard's brow furrowed. "They are looking for something. Since I have the fake horn here, they must be searching for the real Horn of Winter. They won't charge the ice until they can break it."
"How do we kill them, Ned?" Jon asked. "Truly?"
"Dragonglass," Bronn interjected from the side of the table. "Arrows tipped with the stuff. I saw it myself, when the glass hits a wight, it's like hot piss on snow. They just melt."
Eddard nodded. "Good. Then the strategy is clear. We don't just wait for them to hit the Wall. We hunt them."
"Your Grace," Samwell Tarly said, gathering his courage from the back of the room. "The brothers are... they are afraid. It's hard to fight at your best when you think the enemy is a god of death."
"Then we take away the fear," Eddard said, standing up and leaning over the table. "As of tomorrow, I am issuing a decree. Any brother of the Watch, or any man of the North, who brings back a wight's head or provides proof of a successful hunt will be rewarded. Gold, land, or even freedom from their vows."
Jon's eyes widened. "Eddard... you can't. The honor of the Watch, the vows of a thousand years..."
"Vows don't fill stomachs, Jon," Eddard countered. "And honor won't stop a dead giant. If a man can win his freedom by killing a hundred wights, he won't be a prisoner anymore, he'll be a predator. And that's what we need on that Wall."
Tyrion let out a sharp, appreciative laugh. "I like it. Bronn, if killing a hundred dead men meant you could have Stokeworth back, would you do it?"
"I'd kill two hundred and ask for a second wife," Bronn grinned, his eyes gleaming with the prospect of a payday.
A frantic knock at the hall door interrupted the planning. Karas Snow entered, his face pale.
"Your Majesty, Lady Alysane Mormont has arrived. She says it is urgent. She refuses to wait for the morning."
Eddard's expression hardened. "Take her to my study. I'll be there in a moment."
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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