#ARC II: THE AGE OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 28: The Great Runes and the Awakening of the Crimson Dawn
POV: King Arawyn Stark (298 AC)
Things beyond the Wall had begun to advance with an overwhelming force, as if the very fabric of time were wearing thin, slipping through our fingers. And, in a way, it is.
I spent the last few months locked away in Winterfell with my councilors, debating maps, scout reports, and harvest projections, pretending to listen to their mundane concerns while we tried to find solutions for what they considered "inevitable crises." What they don't know is that I already know exactly what I must do. Every step, every matrix, every contingency has been calculated in my mind since the moment I took my first breath in this world. Unfortunately for me, that certainty didn't lessen the physical toll; I had to spend more time than I cared to admit riding back and forth from the Wall, galloping beneath the relentless cold. It's a damn back-and-forth, but it's something I simply cannot avoid.
Unlike my lords and councilors, the wildling problem was never a real problem. The Free Folk are malleable when confronted with the right force and the promise of survival. What was truly occupying my mind, consuming every ounce of my mystical intellect, was the advancement and stabilization of the North's runes.
The cosmic clock is ticking. I know that at some point this year, on the other side of the Narrow Sea, a young and beautiful exiled princess will walk into the flames of a funeral pyre and bring dragons back to the world. And the very millisecond the first cry of those beasts echoes through the ashes, global magic will increase by an incalculable margin, flooding the veins of the world and bringing back, with the force of an avalanche, the true Age of Magic.
In the North, this will be both vital and irrelevant. You see, magic works based on the beings that use it; we are, simultaneously, its consumers and its creators. Every living being with mystical attunement acts as a dynamo, purifying and expelling energy back into the atmosphere. That is why I strove so hard to create and diffuse personal runes for my people. I want every Northener, from the blacksmith to the peasant, to be a small source of magic for the world, a living anchor that stabilizes the North against winter.
However, the amount of magic an ordinary person produces on their own is minuscule. The current population of the North, even with the basic runes I scattered, produces only what is necessary for our land's own consumption. That is why I limited personal bodily runic matrices. I could easily have refined the carvings so that any peasant could carry dozens of runes without exploding, but having more runes only serves the truly talented. They, indeed, are the dynamos who will produce magic on a massive scale for the world without collapsing under their own power.
But all of that will change with the dragons. Those fire-spitting lizards are no mere animals; they are massive power plants of living magic. The curious fact is that a dragon almost never consciously uses the entirety of the energy it stores; they merely contain it. Their mere physical existence acts as a mystical heat pump, making them responsible for raising the tide of magic for the entire world.
Currently, I am standing at the top of the Wall. The wind up here cuts like ice rapiers, but my titanic physique and latent runes turn the blizzard into little more than a warm breeze.
Keeping me company is my beautiful assistant and concubine, Ros, always attentive and relentless in her support around me, alongside the mysterious woman who leads my runeforgers. Beside them are my two dedicated apprentices: my cousin Aemon Targaryen—son of Aunt Lyanna, a boy with a mystical talent that sometimes impresses me—and my beautiful cousin, Sansa Stark. With each passing day, Sansa grows more stunning; her unusual blonde hair and her grey eyes like a winter sky give her an aura of gélid royalty that contrasts perfectly with the rustic vivacity of the North.
And no, just to be clear, my presence at the Wall today has absolutely nothing to do with testing Ros's eccentric theory. That damn scientific thesis on the libido of centenarian men already proved itself entirely correct a year ago, to my absolute physical exhaustion.
It wasn't just the elderly Maester Aemon who got rock hard from the groans echoing through the stone walls of Castle Black; the side effect was a wave of insomnia and distraction that left deep dark circles under the eyes of absolutely every man in the Night's Watch. The atmosphere became so absurdly tense and charged that, on the following nights, I was forced to grab my things and sleep in one of the abandoned castles along the Wall just to have a shred of peace.
This colossal wall of ice is not just a strange monument or a defensive barrier against wildlings; it is the great fiscal checkpoint of the world's magic. The real reason for the "death" and decline of magic after the Dance of the Dragons was that, without the living power plants that were the Targaryen dragons, all the mystical energy left on the continent was gradually sucked here, accumulating and freezing into the very structure of the Wall.
I am here to use this dammed energy. I am going to upgrade it, clearing the mystical channels to make it even stronger for the coming Long Night. Well, the Night King will still tear it down in the end; after all, the final apocalyptical battle will take place at Winterfell—which is obvious just by the name of the castle, where the winter fell. But that frozen bastard will have to work hard, bleed a lot, and burn heavily to manage to breach this place.
Obviously, I wouldn't be wasting my time and effort on something that will be destroyed anyway if there weren't a greater purpose. Besides repairing and re-energizing the primitive runes that the First Men placed on the structure when they built it, I am going to add new matrices of a completely different scale.
These are what my runeforgers—under the firm command of our masked lady of Lys—called simply the Great Runes.Yes, I know—the most creative name of all.
The Great Runes are massive structures. They need a large fiscal checkpoint of concentrated magic to function, like the Wall itself, the millenary weirwood of Winterfell, or a sacred grove of several of these trees together, like on the Isle of Faces. Their functionality, however, is of an elegant simplicity: they will bless the surrounding land and its people. Everything born, raised, and living in the lands under the influence of a Great Runa will be intrinsically stronger, healthier, more resistant to the cold, and more fertile. It is the industrialization of human evolution itself through the magic of the earth.
I look to the side and see young Aemon working on the complex carvings on the surface of the ice, guiding Sansa's movements with patience. The girl possesses a terrifyingly natural affinity for elemental magic, shaping the ice with her thoughts, though she still needs Aemon's technical rigor to keep the energy from dispersing. Further back, Ros and the leader of the runeforgers are working on the final details of stabilizing the matrix.
The beautiful masked woman still exudes an aura of silent, dignified anger, clearly irritated by the fact that I destroyed her old pyroclast mask during our night of carnal savagery last year. I smirk at the memory. The pride of that centenarian woman is almost as amusing as her statuesque nudity.
Having finished my part of the inspection at the top, I decide to go down. I don't use the slow ropes or elevators of the Watch; I descend in my usual style, conquering the ice steps with brutal, controlled leaps, but this time staying inside the castle walls. After all, now I always have company that demands space.
My direwolf has finally reached adulthood. His black coat is of a tone so dark and dense that it seems to actively absorb the light around him, and his intense green eyes glow like wildfire in the gloom. His true defining trait, however, is his monstrous size. He has far surpassed any ordinary direwolf recorded in history; his height easily reaches the mark of two adult men standing upright. A perfect runic predator.
I pass through the heavy gates of Castle Black and head to the nearest weirwood grove, just beyond the protection of the Wall. As soon as I enter the clearing, the silence is broken by the sound of dozens of wings. Several crows are perched on the white branches, their black eyes fixed on me with an almost palpable animosity.
— What's wrong, Brynden? — I say, crossing my arms and letting out a nasal chuckle. — Are you still angry just because I slept with Shiera? Come on, man, we're out here trying to save the world of the living. A little courtesy would be nice.
The crows let out irritated caws, flapping their wings with greater violence. Old Bloodraven seems to grow even angrier than usual. Maybe it's the mocking tone in my voice, or maybe it's the fact that I simply don't respect his aura of an omniscient mystical entity. To me, he's just a stubborn old man fused into a tree.
At the base of the heart tree, one of the crows hops forward and pushes a grey stone with its beak, pointing out a specific spot beneath the snow. I feel the subtle presence of the old man watching through the bird, but he only marks the location. Focusing my own power, I extend my hand toward the frozen ground. With a sharp surge of my own magic, I command the roots and the frozen earth to part. The ground splits open with a dry crack, churning up the soil and ice to reveal a bundle wrapped in waterproof canvas and old leather.
I step closer, pull out the bundle, and unfold the material, revealing the dark, rippled, and unmistakable gleam of a Valyrian steel sword of slender, elegant proportions. A weapon made for swift, deadly, and precise movements.
— Seriously? A Valyrian steel sword? — I ask, looking up at the sky while the crows continue to glare at me. — What the hell am I going to need this for? My fists do ten times more damage than any piece of metal. Well...
maybe it will serve as a good gift for Rhaenys.
Immediately, the crows begin to caw in unison. The old man in the tree begins to speak, using one crow at a time, alternating voices in a slow, deliberate manner, clearly an annoying trick to test my patience.
— *This... sword... must... go... to... the... prince... that... was... promised...* — the birds let out the words, one after the other.
— Yeah, yeah, I get it — I reply, waving my hand dismissively as I slide the blade into my belt. — But that's not going to happen. And no, it's not a concern. I will forge his sword myself, his true Lightbringer, when the right time comes. Now, if you'll excuse me, let me head back to the castle. I have a new position to teach my beautiful masked woman tonight.
The final insult and the mention of Shiera are the last straw for the old Bloodraven. The crows unleash shrill, deafening shrieks, taking flight all at once in a dark cloud of feathers. In an act of pure mystical pettiness, several of them dive straight toward me, attempting to shit on my head and shoulders.
I dodge with supernatural reflexes, shifting my titanic body from side to side as the droppings hit the snow behind me. I look up at the sky, pointing a finger at the retreating birds.
— So that's how you want to play, you miserable old bastard?! — I yell toward the treetops, laughing out loud. — Fine then! Now I won't show her any mercy at all!
Upon returning to the castle at the Wall, I push Bloodraven's pettiness aside and return to my role as ruler. I personally oversee the final adjustments and the locking of the Great Runes at the base of the structure. I feel the energy stabilize, creating a rhythmic, invisible pulsation that begins to radiate through the foundations of the earth, extending for leagues in every direction. The North is fortified.
Aemon approaches me with firm steps, his eyes darting to the ornate hilt protruding from my cloak.
— What is that, cousin? — he asks, curiosity burning in his dragon eyes.
— A sword I found in the snow — I reply with total indifference, shrugging my shoulders.
He narrows his eyes, clearly curious and not believing a single word of my flimsy excuse, but decides to leave it at that. He knows my pragmatism. With the work finished, we begin organizing ourselves in the courtyard to start the journey back to Winterfell.
Then, it happens.
Without turning around, I picture exactly what happened up there just by the sudden cries of terror from the watchmen and the collective, awestruck gasps from Sansa, Aemon, and Ros behind me.
More than the visual reaction of the people, I feel the magic of the world awakening like never before. It is a physical sensation, overwhelming and brutal. The latent energy around me, the carved runes, and the very air awaken with a magnificent violence. But that doesn't matter to me; everything is unfolding exactly as I foresaw.
Without turning around, I continue on my way with calm steps toward my mount, while the others remain completely paralyzed, staring at the clear sky where a massive red comet streaks across the darkness, illuminating the night with a crimson glow.
Well... now everything has truly begun. And time is running out.