eastbound | [un: whitewolf] video (backdated to before current event)

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[un: whitewolf] video (backdated to before current event)

[Jon looks rough, and he sounds it, too. Under his beard, his face is mottled, and he rubs at the affected area occasionally as he talks. His voice is a low rasp.]

I am seeking my sister. You might know her as Alayne Stone. Girl with long dark hair, but might be that you can see the red in it.

She has been missing for several days. I fear that she is lost in the forest, or that someone has taken her, or —

I don’t know what to think. She is simply gone.

One other thing. It’s not so important as finding Sa— as finding Alayne.

Will you tell me what you’ve done for your curses? I’m having a bloody hard time even thinking of how to set things right with mine. [He rubs at his beard yet again.] Harder still when my mind is on my sister.

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[She had preferred the romantic stories and songs, all of chivalry and love, but this was fascinating as well. It brought to mind her dream long ago, but she listened patiently.]

I believe I saw or heard something of this part.

[It was the rest that she was a bit unsure of.]

[He nods.]

The First Men, you know it’s said they took the land, all the land, from the Children of the Forest. But the Children were still there, out in the woods. And after many years of this, one man sought their aid, their magic.

He set out with twelve companions, and his sword, his horse, his dog. Together, they searched for long years in all the forests, finding nothing. Not more death — the Others do not leave dead behind them. The man: his companions died, killed by giants and by wights. Then his horse, his dog… then his sword snapped in the cold — they do that, the Others, they shatter steel. Finally there was nothing but the man and the White Walkers on his trail.

He found the Children, or they found him. It must be. Otherwise the story wouldn’t be worth telling, and there might not be anyone left to tell it.

What are the Children of the Forest? I have never heard of them before.

[She's a bit embarrassed to admit that, but her education was never thorough and all she learned of Westeros, she learned from Viserys, Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan.

As well as the books given to her.]

Are they considered myths as well?

[He makes an ambivalent gesture, tilting his head to the side and back.]

Some might think they were myths. But their gods are the gods of the North.

I don’t know much of them — it was so long ago. Back when the First Men spoke the Old Tongue, and had their runes to write with. I don’t know if the Children ever wrote anything at all. The rest is as I told you… they were the original inhabitants of the lands of Westeros, even before there were men.

[It was disappointing that there was nothing further he could tell her. Her mind was a sponge, wishing to soak up every legend, every story of Westeros, if only to know it better. It wasn't simply her family's history, but everything. Before the Targaryens, before the First Men. It made up Westeros brick by brick.

But this wasn't the point of the story. She nodded, gesturing for him to continue.]

What happened next?

[The shake of his head is small — vague.]

I don’t know. I wish I did. He must have gotten his truce — his aid. The Long Night ended. The Wall was built — by Bran the Builder, with the help of the Children and the help of Giants. He was my ancestor, but —

There are no more giants to help us. Even if the Children were real, they must be gone, too. We have only ourselves now.

This is a story of the Last Hero but there is not much known about the Last Hero?

[When she thought of stories like this, she imagined something sweeping and grand. Heroic sacrifices and true bravery in the face of despair. In truth, this seemed more realistic. Good deeds overlooked and unreported, only the shadow lingering of what was done and a world that was saved.]

So many things are said to be gone but it seems magic is returning. I was told the glass candles are burning again and apparitions walk through dreams and visions.

They weren’t writing things down. How much of it is true, I can’t say. Everyone thinks there’s no truth in stories meant to frighten children into behaving, but I’ve met a giant. He fought for me; I watched him die. I’ve seen White Walkers; I’ve seen the Night King. Why would those things be true, but not the Children of the Forest, not the Last Hero losing everything in trying to find them?

[He pauses, then frowns.]

Glass candles?

[He knows nothing of them.]

I do not doubt that all of this might be true. Legends are based off of something, are they not? I simply am curious that the Citadel would not have more. Or even the generations that followed. Oral stories that were written down.

But that is perhaps my wishful thinking.

[She frowned, surprised. Glass candles were given as tribute gifts. Did the North never hear of them? They had harbors and traders, did they not?]

Glass candles. They are quite common, made of obsidian? They are used by maesters and sorcerers. Supposedly, if you burn one, you can see across mountains and oceans. Men can communicate through them, appearing in dreams and visions. They have not been burned of hundreds of years, but only now have begun to burn again.

[He shrugs.]

I don’t know what the Citadel has. A lot of books and ravens. I sent my friend — my brother — to study there, but all he’s found is your dragonglass on your island.

[Is Sam his brother anymore? He has none left, only a sister now. And she has gone, too, in a way.]

Candles don’t help, unless they can be made into arrowheads and blades.

Edited 2022-04-30 08:43 (UTC)

Obsidian must be in a number of places or else glass candles would not be available for tribute gifts or in possession of sorcerers and maesters alike.

[She's a bit amused at the idea that Dragonstone would be the only source available to Westeros. Even as uneducated as she was, she had seen walls and gates made of dragonglass. She was gifted dragonglass when she arrived in Qarth. Such things didn't seem difficult to procure. No different than seeking a loan from the Iron Bank.]

The candles give visions and knowledge. They could show you where the Others are, where they move and how they move. Traveling across lands through such a means but never being seen by other men. That seems quite a boon.

It isn't the candle that is remarkable. It is that magic is appearing. Glass candles haven't burned for hundreds of years. The Others have not been seen for thousands of years. Dragons were thought long dead.

Does this not seem like more than a coincidence?

I don’t know what is and isn’t a coincidence. Maybe the magic is something to do with your dragons, or the dragons are something to do with the magic, or they all have to do with the White Walkers, or the magic is to do with them both, the ice and the fire.

[To know so little is frustrating to him, but it’s also the way of things.]

Maybe we’ll clean out some storeroom and find one of your candles.

[He says it bleakly enough that she’ll understand his skepticism.]

What we might have isn’t what we do have. I wish it was.

[Ice and fire. It sounded like a song.]

If you do, perhaps we can communicate through them? Or you may see my dreams?

[She's teasing again, trying to make him feel a bit lighter in the face of loss.]

Though what you have may be something you need?

[Or want?]

[He is not so distraught that he cannot recognize that she’s trying to jest, maybe to lighten the air, so he tries to respond in kind.]

What sort of things would I see in Daenerys Targaryen’s dreams?

[Dragons, he imagines, or clouds in the sky that look like them.]

That would depend. Dreams vary. Sometimes they may mean something, sometimes they are what we wish.

[She can think of several that she would not want to share with him. Disturbing dreams or erotic, that might disturb him. Men with blue lips that felt cold.

There were better ones. Ones of home with a red door.]

Simple wishes a girl has. A good life with a man she loves and a warm home with a red door.

[Anyone might want that — might dream of it. Except for one thing…]

Why a red door?

It was the only home I knew. For the brief time we were there in Braavos.

I used to dream of Winterfell… the only home I had known. But it was no home in my dreams, it was - a dead place, and empty.

[He realizes that he’s still holding her hand between his — it is not unpleasant to do it. He gives the back of her hand another reassuring little pat.]

You might paint any door red.

[She thinks she should pull her hand back, but the pat is comforting and she doesn't mind his touch. Not at the moment.]

I thought that once. Painting every door of the Red Keep red.

It needs more than that to be a home.

It was your family’s home for hundreds of years. It will be again.

[But he’s also staring at her as he says this.]

If we ever find a beacon, that is. If we ever get far enough east. If the Merchant hasn’t decided to leave us on our own. I helped dispose of those bodies back at the lighthouse, but — I don’t know if he understands.

So you do have some hope.

[She flushed under his gaze, breaking it a moment to duck her head, but soon found herself looking back. It wasn't flowers or the gifts Daario brought. It wasn't sweet words and courtly attempts at wooing.

But it was something and she liked the way it made her feel and she liked the heat he brought to her cheeks.]

I would rather have someone than a red door-

[Never really realizing how that might be taken.]

Someone?

[A slight nod. It might be acknowledgement, or encouragement — he isn’t thinking of which.]

They would be lucky, I think.

[A compliment!]

[Her smile was shy and curious, aware something passing between them.]

Do you truly think so?

Truly?

Truly.

[He doesn’t mean the throne she intends to sit on; he thinks, instead, of the way she tried to care for him after his time in the dark mirror. He thinks of her curling against his back so that he might feel safe enough to rest.

She looks more shy, more girlish, than he can remember seeing her before.]

Do I seem to you like a liar?

[Half jesting, half helpless.]

No.

[She knew from the start that he was no liar. There were few truly honest and loyal men in the world, but Jon Snow seemed to be among the rare sort. She liked that about him.

She liked that she felt as though they met before. Or that she had seen him in some dream or other.]

I simply never can predict how you feel.

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oh, Jon. You’re gonna *wish* this is all Sam found!

Jon, really, did you listen at lessons?

Yes, but also no

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oh, Jon. You’re gonna wish this is all Sam found!