"Release the ravens."
Jon Snow, having reviewed the entire contents of the letters, gave his command to the maester of the Eyrie with quiet authority.
He stood arrayed in iron-grey plate that seemed to drink the light from the chamber. Upon his breast he wore a golden six-pointed star that gleamed with unnatural brilliance, and several badges of varying designs adorned his chest like strange constellations.
The four men who stood guard behind him wore similar attire, save that their armor was painted a deep crimson red that reminded the old maester of freshly spilled blood.
"As you wish, my lord."
The white-haired maester calmly re-rolled the three letters. Though his own hand had formed each word upon the parchment, the thoughts they expressed were not his own.
The old man leaned forward slightly, warming the stick of red wax in the flame of the candlestick that sat upon the table before him.
While he waited for the wax to soften properly, the maester withdrew a precious seal he kept close to his person. He wiped it carefully with a soft cloth, ensuring the engraving would display fully and flawlessly upon the wax.
The seal depicted a pair of griffins locked in eternal combat.
Griffins—the symbol of the Eyrie, the sigil of House Clinton.
The combination of ravens and sigils had proven remarkably effective through the ages. The First Men had begun using this method for long-distance communication some ten thousand years past, and it endured to this very day.
As a maester, his primary duties had always included tending to the ravens, writing letters, receiving correspondence, and dispatching messages across the realm.
The old maester performed these tasks with such practiced skill that error had become all but impossible for him.
He removed the semi-molten red wax from the flame—soft enough to take an impression, yet not so liquid as to drip messily, nor too firm to shape properly.
With a deft flick of his wrist, the old maester sealed each letter's opening with the red wax, forming thick, rounded caps.
Then he raised the seal, expertly breathed warm air upon its surface, and pressed it firmly down upon the yielding wax. He held it steady until the wax hardened sufficiently to preserve the impression.
The three letters were quickly prepared.
Next came the task of sending them to their destinations—Lormouth, Storm's End, and Green Valley.
Each bore the griffin seal of House Clinton and contained the old maester's own distinctive handwriting, identical to countless letters that had preceded them over the decades of his service.
It was all but certain the recipients would harbor no suspicion upon receiving them.
What consequences would follow?
The old maester turned to regard the black-haired young man who stood watching his every move—the new lord of the Eyrie, the temporary castellan, Jon Snow.
That face was so young.
Those grey eyes were gloomy and cold, forever carrying the memory of the icy, desolate North from which he hailed.
The old maester couldn't help but sigh at the impermanence of the world.
Just the previous night, the man who had instructed him to write letters reporting events and requesting aid had been Ser Raymond Clinton. And before that, it had always been a Clinton.
For decades upon decades.
He had witnessed countless events unfold, had been an old friend to several generations of House Clinton, and had observed the grievous blows suffered by the ancient Eyrie.
During the Usurper's War, House Clinton's lands and the title of Earl had been stripped away by the Mad King in a fit of paranoia.
Later, King Robert had returned a small portion of their ancestral holdings along with the title of knight.
The Eyrie had thus managed to endure, though no longer as wealthy and prosperous as in days of old. At the very least, the name of House Clinton had not been extinguished from memory.
But now, with another war for the Iron Throne engulfing the realm, could House Clinton survive this latest calamity?
The old maester harbored deep misgivings.
He personally held no strong opinion regarding this Jon Snow.
All knew that maesters sent to various castles served the castles themselves and their people, not any specific lord. Maesters were expected to remain neutral, untouched by the infighting of ambitious men.
But he was old, after all, and had served at the Eyrie, in the household of House Clinton, for far too many years.
Moreover, now he found himself compelled to falsely use the name of House Clinton to deliver lies to Lord Renly, who had crowned himself king...
"Maester?" Jon Snow prompted him softly, breaking his reverie.
The old maester averted his gaze. "A momentary lapse—a common affliction of the elderly. Pray forgive me, Castellan."
Jon Snow merely pointed toward the rookery, his expression unreadable.
The old maester knew he could delay no longer. Everyone in the castle had been taken prisoner. Whether out of duty or emotion, he had little choice but to serve diligently.
Although, he had to admit, the army that had entered the castle had shown unexpected restraint, neither killing indiscriminately nor molesting the women.
But that terrifying power they wielded...
The old maester procrastinated no further. He walked quickly to the rookery, selected three of the healthiest ravens, and carefully secured the letters one by one into the message tubes fastened to the birds' legs.
The previous night, the old maester had sent out four ravens in just this manner.
The army that had launched the night attack outside the castle had failed to intercept them. All four ravens had safely taken wing, soaring toward their respective destinations.
However, it later proved that this success had been merely an illusion—a cruel jest of the gods.
Not long after the four ravens had disappeared into the darkness, the army outside the castle had revealed its terrifying power.
Heavy iron balls had been launched from strange iron pipes with devastating force. The iron gate of the "Eyrie's Throat" had instantly shattered amidst a thunderous crash that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle.
The old maester and all the guards had stood paralyzed with shock.
Then, a small contingent of the enemy force had swiftly rushed through the breach and onto the barren ridge beyond, sprinting directly toward the main gate of the castle proper.
The guards stationed in the twin round towers flanking the main gate had quickly launched their defense, raining down spears, stones, and arrows upon the attackers.
Yet somehow, the enemies had advanced unscathed!
When those same invaders had broken through the main gate, seemingly untouched by the boiling oil poured upon their heads from above, the old maester had finally released the first raven bearing an urgent plea for aid.
But this time, the enemy's bows and crossbows had proven unerringly accurate, and the strange flames they commanded had proved deadly. Neither of the two crucial ravens had escaped the sky's sudden hostility.
After that, the old maester had found no further opportunity to summon help.
Once the enemy revealed their true capabilities, the Eyrie had held out for barely half an hour.
The old maester had watched helplessly as one familiar face after another was dragged forth and gathered in the great hall. The empty griffin seat at the far end, passed down through countless generations, had remained silent and unresponsive to the plight of its people.
The black-haired young man leading the invaders had even instructed his subordinates with chilling precision: "Beneath the Mother's Altar in the Eyrie's Sept lies a staircase leading to a secret refuge. Another staircase in the northwest tower leads directly to the sea. Find them both, and bring everyone to this hall."
How could the enemy possess such knowledge?!
These were closely guarded secrets, unknown to the vast majority of those who dwelled within the Eyrie. Those few who did know had no conceivable reason to reveal such information to outsiders.
The old maester truly could not comprehend it. Could some bloodthirsty demon have whispered the answer in the young man's ear?
But such questions soon became insignificant in the face of what followed.
The black-haired young man had pronounced judgment upon the Eyrie and House Clinton:
All within the castle walls must obey any directives issued by the Kingsguard, dedicating their strength to the gods, to justice, and to the true king.
Jon Snow had been appointed as temporary castellan of the Eyrie, invested with full authority to manage the affairs of the castle and its surrounding territory, to preside over matters of war, to mobilize personnel, allocate supplies, adjudicate laws, and collect and remit taxes.
House Clinton would be permitted to continue dwelling within the Eyrie, retain their title, and enjoy a portion of tax revenue and income from various industries.
Finally, the Kingsguard had displayed a strange power, healing the injured and sick, and embedding a peculiar crystalline disc—reminiscent of dragonglass but somehow different—into the neck of every man, woman, and child.
The old maester had witnessed it with his own eyes. Was this truly a creation of the gods, or some fell game of demons?
They called it the "Divine Grace Light Screen."
Clearly, King Joffrey preferred to be thought favored by the gods rather than blessed by demons.
The "missions" displayed upon the light screen were flashing now, demanding attention.
The old maester sighed silently and offered a handful of corn kernels to the waiting ravens.
After the three birds had eaten their fill, they took flight with evident contentment, winging northward, bearing their crucial message—a perfectly reasonable message.
A deadly message.
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