Atop the highest tower of Castle Black, the banner of House Wull fluttered in the cold wind, letting out rhythmic, snapping sounds. Inside the fortress, soldiers were clearing away the corpses left behind by the battle.

  Kenvin sat in a room that had once been the haunt of the Night’s Watch maesters. He squinted at the figures recorded in a mountain of ledgers piled before him. His sword, "Screamer," stood silent beside his chair. In the hearth, a flickering fire caused the logs to pop and crackle.

  Under the guttering candlelight, Kenvin’s face appeared strangely gentle. The usual defiance and arrogance were gone, replaced by a look of maturity, making him resemble a scholar more than a bloodthirsty swordsman. Every so often, he turned a page with intense focus. It seemed Kenvin was searching for something.

  Beside him, several guards were doing the same, flipping through the records of the Night’s Watch. Much like Kenvin, these men were deeply concentrated.

  After a while, Kenvin stood up, stretching his limbs until his joints popped. Pulling his warm marten-fur cloak tight, he stepped slowly toward the window, flung it open, and gazed pensively toward the Wall, his thoughts unreadable.

  "Found it, milord!" a subordinate cried out, snapping Kenvin out of his reverie. He turned hurriedly and strode over.

  The man handed Kenvin a ledger. Kenvin took it, his eyes locking onto the script. It was a Night’s Watch journal recorded ten years ago.

  September 23rd: Jossh and twenty men engaged ten mysterious swordsmen near the ice mines in the Haunted Forest. Nine swordsmen were killed; their leader was captured alive and brought to Castle Black. The Night’s Watch lost 6 men, with 5 wounded.

  October 1st: Jossh brought the leader to Castle Black. Lord Artek recognized him as Prince Consort Atur Wull, husband of the Northern Queen, Evanna Stark. A raven was dispatched to the Capital immediately.

  October 10th: Castle Black received a raven from the Capital. Secretly executed Atur Wull; body buried in the Haunted Forest. Lord Artek performed the deed personally.

  Kenvin’s eyes burned like fire. He slammed the journal shut, his teeth grinding audibly. "Father! I wasn't wrong. Now Tracy won't be able to argue anymore. Bran, you just wait."

  The subordinates glanced at each other nervously as Kenvin’s demeanor suddenly shifted. Their pulses quickened, and anxiety filled the air. No one knew what this Prince would do when his bloodlust took hold. Those who did know were all dead.

  A heavy silence stretched across the room. The guards did their best not to make the slightest sound; they even tried to stifle their breathing. The atmosphere became suffocating and terrifying. Every time a log in the hearth popped, the guards flinched, staring hatefully at the flames. If they could have strangled the wood to keep it quiet, they would have. They would rather be burned than killed.

  However, their worries soon passed as Kenvin regained his composure. He paced around the piles of records, interlacing his fingers and cracking his knuckles. Then, he rested his hands on the table, tapping it rhythmically.

  "For nearly 300 years, why have they been mining so much ice?" Kenvin frowned, puzzled.

  "Maybe to build the Wall?" one guard interjected.

  Kenvin shook his head. "If you don't know, shut up. The section of the Wall destroyed by the Night King was rebuilt immediately after. My point is, for nearly 300 years, why has the Night’s Watch been responsible for mining ice and shipping it by sea from Hardhome to the Capital?"

  "Maybe they're selling it for drinks? I heard the weather in the Capital is sweltering..." another offered.

  "Shut your damn mouth!" Kenvin hissed, causing the man to slump to the ground in shock.

  "My father lost his life over this—you think it was for some ice cubes for a drink?" Kenvin glared at the guard, who nearly died of heart failure then and there.

  "There must be something sinister for them to murder my father," Kenvin calmed down, looking at the records of the massive volume of ice mined and shipped to the Capital over the last three centuries. The numbers were staggering.

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  As Kenvin racked his brain, hurried footsteps approached the door. He looked up, waiting.

  The door burst open, and a figure like a winter wolf stepped in. The man had long hair, a thick beard, and a face crisscrossed with scars. Tiny skulls dangled from his person, clacking against each other as he moved. A massive double-bladed axe rose above his head from his back. He wore layers upon layers of animal pelts.

  "Uncle Marrok!"

  "Kenvin, you rascal!" Marrok opened his mouth and laughed loudly, his scarred face wrinkling hideously. The guards couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying.

  The two embraced. Marrok pounded Kenvin’s back so hard the younger man’s face contorted in pain.

  Releasing Kenvin, Marrok smiled. "I saw fire rising from Castle Black and rushed over to see what happened, only to find the Wull banner flying. I found out it was you. It’s been years since I saw you and Tracy. I told the soldiers I was here to see you, but they wouldn't let me in," Marrok boomed, his voice like thunder.

  "And then?" Kenvin urged.

  "I hacked them all to death!" Marrok roared with laughter, as if killing were a mere pastime.

  Kenvin laughed along, leaving the guards pale with fright. After a moment, Kenvin handed the journal to Marrok and explained the situation. Marrok nodded, sat down heavily, and said, "I told you from the start. Your father’s death was definitely linked to the Cripple. That year, your father asked me to go to the Haunted Forest to see what the crows were doing. Unfortunately, the night before we left, I met a wench who was too good to pass up. She wore me out so much I overslept. When I got there, your father was gone. I told you then he was likely dead and the Cripple was behind it. Now we know for sure."

  Kenvin glared at the guards. Taking the hint, they bowed hastily and retreated. Once the door closed, Kenvin pulled up a chair and whispered to Marrok, "Do you know what the hell they need all that ice for?"

  Marrok stared at Kenvin in surprise. "Since when did my nephew learn to whisper like a woman?"

  Kenvin caught himself and smiled. "Just a habit of caution. You know as well as I do—in Westeros, they say 'the crows hear, the crows see, and the Old Gods are everywhere.'"

  A peal of laughter rang out, startling Kenvin. Marrok pulled a necklace from his tunic; the pendant featured two small eyes about the size of a pinky nail. He curled his lip. "For Marrok, the crows, the Old Gods, and the New Gods can all go to hell."

  "What is this?" Kenvin squinted.

  "This is ancient magic from the nomads. This pendant is called the Hawk’s Eye, made from black stone. This charm can block eavesdropping and spying magic, nephew. I learned how to make it after sacrificing my body to an old nomad hag in the middle of a blizzard. Trust me, she was older than my grandmother. Her breasts were sadder than a pair of tattered rags." Marrok rubbed the Hawk’s Eye and sighed.

  "In a blizzard, with a pair of rags... and yet I still managed to get hard, nephew," Marrok recalled his trauma gloomily.

  Kenvin’s eyes lit up. He grabbed Marrok’s shoulders and shook him. "Do you really know how to make these? Can they truly stop the spying and the green-seeing?"

  "Truly!" Marrok nodded firmly.

  "Can you make a lot of them?" Kenvin asked eagerly.

  "How many do you need?" Marrok was surprised.

  "I need them for an entire army," Kenvin said, staring intently into Marrok’s eyes.

  "An army? My dear boy, just a few can protect a whole host," Marrok explained with a smirk.

  Suddenly, Kenvin paused, doubt creeping into his eyes. "Why are you so sure it works?"

  "Because if it didn't, I’d have been dead long ago, dear Kenvin. Because I know exactly what the Cripple uses that ice for," Marrok laughed heartily.

  "What does he use it for?" Kenvin could hardly contain himself.

  This time, it was Marrok who leaned in close to Kenvin’s ear, whispering: "The Cripple uses the northern ice to preserve corpses, nephew."

  King’s Landing

  High Priest Asher silently pushed the wheelchair along a subterranean path within the Temple of the Old Gods. The path was sloped, winding downward in a spiral.

  Bran sat in the chair, head tilted back, his eyes white and sightless. He seemed to be traveling somewhere far across the land of Westeros.

  The deeper they went, the more Asher felt the whistling cold winds blowing upward. The temperature dropped until it felt no different from the frozen North.

  At the end of the spiral path, Asher brought the chair to a halt before a massive steel door. The door was coated in a thin layer of frost, with faint wisps of vapor rising from it. On either side of the door, four inquisitors stood silent as statues. They did not speak or move at the sight of Asher and Bran.

  Asher stood still, hands gripping the wooden handles of the wheelchair, waiting.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Bran’s eyes returned to normal. He adjusted himself and looked toward the steel gate. The four inquisitors stepped forward in unison and knelt. "Pope."

  Bran nodded and signaled for them to rise. The four divided to both sides of the door and pushed with all their might. With a long, grinding screech, the heavy steel doors opened. A blast of frigid air rushed out, fluttering Asher’s robes. Bran’s hair whipped in the wind. He looked no different than he did when he first ascended the throne nearly 300 years ago.

  Asher gently pushed the chair inside, murmuring softly, "The ice mining in the North has ceased, Your Holiness. The Northern army has taken Castle Black and the Wall. The fate of the Night’s Watch is unknown."

  "They are all dead," Bran said.

  Asher felt a chill run down his spine. His hands trembled, struggling to maintain his grip on the handles.

  "Do not worry," Bran said, his tone as cold as ice.

  "But you haven't yet learned..." Asher stammered, at a loss for words.

  "Soon. And I will no longer have need for ice." Bran looked deep into the chamber, his eyes filled with ambition.

  Before them was a colossal hall, filled with blocks of ice stacked in perfect order. All around, guards were using pulleys to move massive chunks of ice, packing them around a giant object lying silently in the center of the frost.

  For a brief moment, the corner of Bran’s mouth quirked up as he looked at the massive shape. He whispered:

  "I won't need the ice anymore. I am going to fly... isn't that right, Rhaegal?"