Daemon stood by the vast window of his chamber, the book of his ancestor still slightly ajar on the table behind him. The candle flames flickered with every gust of wind crawling in from the highland towers, but his eyes—sharp, brooding, unblinking—stared far beyond the stormy skyline. His mind was not here. Not in this age. Not even in this body. It was buried in that book, in those fragments of an era when Arthur Hurellion, the "Lion of the Flame," had walked these halls.
And it was buried in the image of that boy.
That cursed red-gold-eyed boy who dared touch Carxex with nothing but his voice.
The moment replayed in his mind again and again: the golden light in the boy's eyes, like twin suns caught at dusk, shimmering with something more ancient than blood. That voice. That tongue. One that neither he nor the elders in the Tower of Sigils could decipher. And Carxex—his dragon—had lowered its head like a dog before a long-lost master.
Daemon clenched his jaw until his teeth ached.
"I will find out who you are," he whispered to the storm. "And when I do, you'll tell me what you said… or I'll carve it from your soul."
Behind him, the chamber doors creaked open. Sir Grethorn entered—one of his oldest knights, face greyed by age, loyalty etched into his every step.
"My lord," the knight said, bowing deeply, "you summoned me?"
Daemon turned slightly, nodding.
"How is Carxex now?" His voice was deceptively calm, like ice hiding a current.
Sir Grethorn straightened but hesitated. "Still quiet, sire. Breathing, but slowly. He hasn't eaten. Hasn't moved. He doesn't even growl when the clerics come near. He… watches the ceiling. Like he's listening to something the rest of us can't hear."
Daemon turned from the war table, his shadow spilling long across the stone floor as the torchlight hissed in its sconces. The knight before him—young, nervous, but loyal—stood straight despite the weight of the silence pressing in the chamber.
"You said…" Daemon began slowly, folding his arms behind his back, "Your grandmother lived during the era of His Highness the Archduke Arthur?"
"Yes, sire," the knight replied quickly, lowering his gaze. "She was a child back then. Twelve winters, I think. She never met him directly, of course. But she used to say the skies were blacker in his time, and people kept their voices low even when praying."
Daemon narrowed his eyes slightly. "Your grandmother… is she still alive?"
The knight hesitated. "Yes, sire. She lives in the Eastern Vale. In the hills beneath the ruined watchtower of Haleth. She's blind now, and her mind drifts often… but she remembers strange things."
Daemon stepped forward, his voice dropping into a sharp whisper.
"Ask her," he said. "Ask her where the Royal Academy was."
The knight blinked. "Sire? I thought—"
"You thought it was where the current Academy now stands," Daemon cut in, his tone suddenly edged with iron. "Where they train nobles to cast light spells and recite battle hymns. That's not what I asked. I'm not speaking of the modern academy."
He turned away, his voice deepening with each word.
"I mean the original… the hidden Royal Academy. The one my ancestor went to. The one erased from the maps after Arthur's disappearance. The one where the deepest spells were whispered, the blood of dragons mixed with men, and kings were taught to kill gods."
The knight felt a chill crawl down his spine.
"Yes, my lord," he said quickly. "I'll ride at once."
"Take a black seal," Daemon added. "If any border lord stops you, tell them this order comes from the heir of House Hurellion. Tell them I ride beneath Arthur's flame once again."
The knight bowed deeply and left in haste.
Later that night, Daemon stood alone in the ancient tower library, where the ceiling opened into the sky and the stars watched like silent judges. The wind howled outside. The book lay shut on the pedestal before him, but its weight seemed to pulse like a living heart.
He ran a gloved hand along the stone wall until he came upon a half-buried symbol—faded by centuries, but not forgotten.
Three spears.
A burning sun.
Arthur's sigil.
His mind reeled.
Why would Arthur choose the Royal Academy? He already wielded power. Already carried the Emperor's favor. What did he go there to find?
Daemon clenched his fist.
Whatever it was, it wasn't for study.
Hee torchlights flickered low along the ancient halls of the Royal Academy as Arthur stepped into his chambers, his boots silent on the polished stone. Aisha stood behind him, waiting for instructions. He turned, eyes calm but sharp like twin blades of molten gold.
"Don't get carried away," he said, voice low and firm. "If any noble disrespects you… say nothing."
Aisha raised an eyebrow. "Nothing, sire?"
Arthur nodded. "They're worms seeking reaction. Give them silence, and they drown in their noise. But—" he added, his tone shifting, "if they touch you, if they attack… break their arm. Break it in a way they'll never hold a sword again. But don't kill them. Not unless I say so."
She nodded, her expression cold and composed. "Understood."
"Our identities must not come out. If they do…" Arthur's gaze grew distant for a moment, then returned like a hammer falling. "We're as good as doomed."
"Yes, sire." She saluted and turned toward the block of dormitories reserved for commoner cadets. Before leaving, she paused. "Will you be alright tonight?"
Arthur gave her a small smile. "I've walked darker roads than this, Lyra. Go."
She vanished into the shadows, and just as the echo of her footsteps faded down the corridor, a whisper came from behind Arthur—soundless to the untrained ear.
"My lord…"
A shadow peeled itself from the wall. Cloaked in grey with a mask of smooth obsidian, the figure stepped forward and bowed deeply. It was Shade, one of the Five Silent Vultures—Arthur's elite spies from the Black Forest.
"Shall we begin the search?" the shadow asked.
Arthur nodded. "Yes. It's here, somewhere beneath the academy. The Witch would not be posted here otherwise." He stepped toward the window, the moonlight casting long shadows across his face. "Also, keep an eye on her."
"The Witch of the Abyss?" Shade asked with a touch of hesitation.
Arthur's expression darkened. "She used to serve the old crown. If she suspects what we do… she'll turn us in, or worse—she'll try to use me."
"And if she already knows?"
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Then we find it before she makes her move. And if need be… I'll kill her myself."
Shade bowed. "As you command."
"Good. Scatter the others. I want every hidden door, every sealed floor, and every forbidden tome checked by dawn. The Academy hides things the Empire wants buried."
Meanwhile, deep into the cold, dark beyond the Wall, the distant drums of celebration still echoed faintly in the air near the Night's Watch outpost. Wine had flowed like melted snow that night — an unusual moment of joy amidst a land carved from cold and sorrow. Laughter roared, tankards clashed, an songs were sung of old valor and past glories. But in the creeping dark beyond the firelight, something ancient stirred.
The blizzard had arrived without warning — swift, cruel, and biting as only northern winds could be. The sky cracked with howls that weren't made by wind. Snow whirled in unnatural spirals. And then—
THUMP.CRACK.A sound not of frost, not of falling branches, but the thunderous crack of timber — and bone.
A sharpened log the size of a ballista bolt came flying from the treeline. It speared through the chest of a laughing ranger mid-sentence, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the tavern wall with a wet splatter.
"GIANTS!" someone screamed.
Then the bell began to toll.Dong. Dong. DONG.Iron against iron. Panic against silence. The alarm met the night too late.
Men scrambled for weapons, slipping in mud and snow, some still half-dressed, their swords at their bedsides. The gates groaned under the sound of rushing feet. From the ramparts, fire arrows lit up the darkness—and in that fiery orange glow, the truth became horrifyingly clear.
They were not alone.
From the white curtain of the blizzard emerged massive shadows — tall, hulking beasts with horns like twisted roots and fangs that jutted past their lips. Their fur, stained with old blood, fluttered like banners in the cold. Giants — not from legend, but from nightmare.
There were five of them. Maybe more.Led by one far larger than the rest, whose eyes glowed faintly blue like a burning glacier.
This was no mere rampage. This was vengeance.
The leader let out a bellow — not of anger, but sorrow, rage, and ancient hunger — and began charging. Each footfall crushed stone. The ground shook. Snow scattered.
A second sharpened log flew from another hand, smashing into the ballista tower. Men screamed as they fell from the heights, their bodies bouncing lifelessly off the frozen earth.
"Defend the walls!" the Watch Captain yelled, sword drawn, his breath fogging in the cold. "Archers to the front!"
Flaming arrows rained into the snow, but many glanced off thick hides. One giant simply ripped a tree from the ground, roots and all, and swung it like a club, battering down the outer barricades as if they were matchsticks.
A horn was sounded—low and long—echoing through the fortress and deep into the icy valleys below. That sound was meant to awaken reinforcements. But it also awakened something else.
Beyond the battle, deeper in the frost woods, the trees bent.
The storm quieted.
And from between them, they came—a second wave. Not giants this time, but wights. Dozens of them, eyes glowing blue, dragging weapons of rust and bone, marching without breath or soul.
"Seven hells..." one man muttered as he backed into the keep's shadows. "They're working together…"
For the first time in centuries, giants and undead walked side by side.
Inside the keep, an old steward ran down stone corridors, shouting, "Wake the Maester! Light the fire sigils! By the gods, we need to signal the capital!"
He stumbled into a side room and froze.
A young crow stood there, staring at the frost-coated floor. Etched into it, drawn by some unseen hand, was a sigil... a serpent curling around a sword, its tail biting into its eye.
"Who… who drew this?" the steward gasped.
"I didn't," the crow whispered. "It was… already here."
And then the walls shook again.Snow fell from the ceiling.A cry of death rang from outside.
At the front lines, the Watch Captain roared, charging toward the lead giant with his two-handed blade, striking its leg with a mighty slash — only to be swept aside like a fly. His body slammed into a tower, bones cracking.
Aisha, awakened by the chaos in the guest wing, looked through the window, stunned by the carnage. Arthur, already dressed and armored, was tightening his cloak.
"This wasn't meant to happen yet…" he murmured. "They're moving early."
"You knew?" she asked, eyes wide.
"I suspected," he said grimly. "But if the giants have allied with the dead… then something far worse is coming."
He turned to her, eyes glinting with firelight.
"We ride to the old tomb. Now. The dragon must awaken."
Through the chaos, fire, and snow, the Watch Commander staggered to his feet. Blood poured from a gash above his brow, and his right arm hung uselessly at his side, the shoulder dislocated from the giant's earlier blow. Yet still, he stood. His breath steamed in the frozen air, and his voice cracked like thunder:
"Send a crow to House Hurellion! Now!"
His remaining men looked at him with wide, haunted eyes. Some were still fighting atop the walls. Others lay broken and twisted on the ground, their black cloaks torn, faces frozen mid-scream. A boy—barely old enough to hold a blade—nodded through the terror and ran, boots slipping on bloody stone as he made for the rookery tower.
"Tell them..." the Watch Commander rasped, stumbling toward the inner gate. "Tell House Hurellion… the dead are not just walking. They are marching. And they come with giants. With monsters that know hate. And with a will that commands them… like a general at war."
He clutched a broken spear and glanced once more toward the gate. It had begun to splinter now. The lead giant raised a stone and slammed it again. Snow and wood burst apart like feathers.
"Ask for reinforcements. Ask for fire. Ask for Arthur himself if you must. Just... go!"
The boy, Callan, shoved open the ancient wooden door with trembling hands. Inside, crows stirred restlessly in their cages, the air thick with feathers and droppings. The Maester had died last week, his lungs frozen in the last storm. No one had taken his place.
Callan fumbled with parchment and ink, his fingers numb, nearly dropping the quill.
To House Hurellion, the Black Keep of the North—By order of the Night's Watch Commander—We are under siege by giants and wights. I repeat, giants and wights have joined forces. They are intelligent. Coordinated. Vengeful.This is not a raid. This is war.Send help. Send fire. Send your armies. Or there will be no Wall left to guard.
The boy sealed the letter with trembling hands, bound it to the leg of the black-feathered raven—the fastest of the flock. "Go," he whispered. "Fly. Fly fast. Tell them everything."
The raven took off with a loud flutter, wings slicing into the storm like a dagger into silk.
The towering obsidian doors of the Imperial Hall creaked open with a low, groaning sound like the cry of some ancient beast. Outside, the winter wind howled through the arched corridors of Hurellious Palace, stirring the crimson banners of the Empire. Snowflakes drifted in like restless spirits.
The scent of iron and cold stone filled the throne room, where Emperor Rinegar von Hurellious sat atop the Dragon-Glass Throne, forged from the obsidian left behind by the fall of the Abyssal Gate. A man of age and hard-earned silence, Rinegar's dark eyes flickered beneath the golden crown etched with sigils of fire and ruin. His hand rested on the hilt of his ceremonial sword, Dreadhymn, a blade he had not drawn in twenty years.
A steward approached, kneeling with reverence, his breath visible in the frosty air. In his gloved hand was a letter sealed with black wax — the mark of the Night's Watch, urgent and never good.
"Your Majesty," the steward said solemnly, "a raven arrived from the North Wall. The Night's Watch sends this. It bears the highest urgency."
Rinegar's brow twitched faintly. "Read it," he said, his voice gravel and frost, heavy with unspoken burdens.
The steward broke the seal, hands slightly trembling — not from fear of the cold, but fear of what such a message might contain.
To His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Rinegar von Hurellious, Defender of the Flame and Sovereign of the six Thrones —
The Watch has been attacked. The Giants of the Winter Waste have broken their long silence and crossed the Eastern Icepath.
The outer tower was shattered. Five men dead, one missing. They tore through the gate like paper. We fear this is only the beginning.
We request reinforcements. Supplies. Men are trained to handle what we cannot. Something has awakened beyond the ice.
Commander Garran Blackmoor, Lord of the Wall.
The throne room fell deathly still. The braziers hissed softly in the silence, and far above, the iron chandeliers creaked under their weight.
Rinegar exhaled slowly. "The Giants have not marched in over a century," he murmured. "Not since the Abyss was sealed."
An aging general stepped forward from the shadows — Lord Calvius Rehn, Master of Strategy. "Shall we dispatch the Black Guard, Your Majesty? Or alert the High Council?"
But Rinegar shook his head, eyes narrowing. "No… not yet."
A younger noble scoffed behind him — Duke Merroth Yale, arrogant and golden-haired. "If I may, Your Majesty — why heed the warnings of drunkards and bastards stationed in snow? They're barely soldiers. If a log falls, they piss themselves and call it the end of the world."
Rinegar did not turn. He simply raised a hand, and silence fell again.
The royal court of Solgard simmered with tension. The once-golden tapestries that draped the pillars seemed to darken in the candlelight as whispers spread like fire through dry leaves. The Watch's raven had arrived bearing dire warnings — giants attacking the Night's Watch, old spells stirring in the north — and now, all eyes turned toward the throne.
Seated upon the high dais, Emperor Rinegar von Hurellious looked every bit the part of a ruler: regal garments of black and crimson, a crown wrought in gold-veined obsidian, and the Hurellion signet — a falcon piercing a crescent — upon his breast. Yet his voice, though firm, lacked the iron that once echoed through these halls in his brother's time.
One of the nobles, Lord Duvrain of the Iron Marches, rose from his seat and shouted, "Your Highness, the giants march beneath the veil of snow and blood! If you do not give the order to send the Black Knights north, then who will? Is the Empire to rot while your brother remains hidden in shadow?"
Gasps rang out. A few nobles nodded in approval; others looked away, afraid. Even uttering his name — Arthur — carried weight.
Rinegar's eyes, tired and distant, fixed upon the lord. "You forget yourself, Duvrain. I am Emperor of the Six Kingdoms, yes. But the Black Knights… they are not mine."
He leaned forward, hands gripping the armrests. "The Black Knights' answer to one man — Arthur. Supreme General. Commander of the Grand Host. Bearer of the Sigil."
The chamber quieted instantly.
"Then summon him!" came a voice — Lady Varentia, youngest of the Crimson Duchy and sharp as a viper. "Call back the ghost and end this farce of half-rulership."
"I have sent him letters. No reply."
Someone muttered, "Perhaps he is dead."
"No," Rinegar said without hesitation. "You don't know my brother. If Arthur were dead… we would all know it."
He stood now, descending from the throne to face them directly.
"You see this crown?" He tapped it. "My father, Emperor Lucien, left it to me. He gave me the quill and the seal — the tools of peace. Treaties, law, and the right to speak for the Empire."
"But the sword… the sword was never meant for me. It was forged for another."
The room froze as the memory of Arthur von Hurellious settled like a shadow over the court — the man who once cut through the Ommans like wheat; who executed priests for abusing demi-humans in the capital square; who, with a single look, made kings tremble and popes kneel.
Rinegar looked out toward the court windows where the snow began to fall again.
"You ask me to move the Black Knights? I cannot. Their oaths bind them to him. Not even the gods could command them if Arthur forbade it. And he has not… spoken."
There was silence until Lord Malric — an old war veteran with one arm — stepped forward and said grimly, "Then we are damned. The north burns, and the greatest army in the world stands still."
"I did not say that," Rinegar said slowly.
Candles flickered.
Across from him stood Ravik, one of his most elusive spies, wearing the robes of an archivist. His face was plain, forgettable, except for his eyes — two cold slits that never blinked unless necessary.
Ravik bowed and presented a sealed scroll. "From the Night's Watch, my lord."
His golden-red eyes flicked back and forth across the parchment.
A long pause.
Then a quiet breath.
"So the giants stir… and the dead rise with them," Arthur muttered, voice as steady as ever, though his knuckles whitened around the letter.
The spy asked carefully, "What would you have us do, my lord?"
Arthur stood and walked to the window. Outside, lightning cracked in the distance, flashing across the blackened sky. The Academy behind him remained silent, full of nobles and scholars too distracted by courtly games to notice the storm gathering in the North.
He turned back to the spy.
"Send a raven to the Emperor," he said. "Tell my brother this is no longer a matter of diplomacy or treaty. This is war against the unknown."
The spy raised an eyebrow. "You'll inform the court?"
Arthur's stare hardened. "No."
The man nodded, understanding. "And the army?"
"I will move the 34th," Arthur said simply.
The spy blinked. "The 34th… The Black Knights?"
Arthur stepped toward the armor stand in the corner — his jet-black cuirass gleaming with crimson runes, untouched for years. He rested his palm against it, the ancient sigils glowing faintly beneath his fingers.
"Yes," he said. "Let the world sleep. Let the nobles squabble in their marble halls. The north shall burn unless we act."
"But your brother—"
Arthur cut him off, his voice now quiet. "My brother knows what I am. And he knows what must be done. He will not stop me. Not for this."
He moved back to his desk and pulled out fresh parchment, writing swiftly.
To Rinegar, my blood and crown.
I've received word from the Wall. Giants have stirred, but worse still, the dead walk again.
I ride north with the 34th. You and I both know the court will argue and delay. This cannot wait.
Do not send the White Cloaks. Do not send diplomats. Send no banners.
Let this be handled in darkness — as it always has.
I ride not as a general, nor as a prince, but as the last warden of the forgotten war.
—Arthur
He rolled the letter, sealed it with black wax, and handed it to the spy.
The man bowed again, deeper this time. "And the headmistress? Shall we keep her under watch?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Yes. Closely. She's older than she lets on... and I suspect she's not uninvolved."
"Understood."
As the spy turned to go, Arthur's voice followed like a blade.
"Prepare the 34th in silence. No banners. No fanfare. We march within three days."
"And… where will you be, my lord?"
Arthur's eyes flicked back to the window, toward the northern darkness.
"In the library," he said, "finding out how far back the dead have been watching."