Chapter 524: The Long Night Descends

The merchant ship entered the Whispering Sound just as dusk began to fall.

Standing at the bow, Shireen Baratheon gazed at a castle perched on a cliff. She turned to the knight beside her and asked:

"Ser Davos, is that the Hightower?"

"No, my lady," Davos shook his head. "That is Three Towers, the seat of House Costayne. The Hightower is far grander and taller than that."

Shireen nodded and remained silent for a moment before saying:

"Don't call me 'lady' anymore. My father has bent the knee to His Majesty Caesar, and he's no longer a king. That means I'm no longer a princess."

"As you wish, Miss Shireen," Davos replied.

The collapse of the Wall had been a catastrophe for Stannis Baratheon, stationed at the Shadow Tower.

After exhausting his last remaining forces, the king had finally accepted reality, removed his crown, and submitted to Caesar.

Caesar had shown magnanimity, forgiving Stannis and granting him a castle in the Rainwood.

While it was nothing compared to Storm's End, it preserved the dignity of House Baratheon and ensured its survival.

Moreover, upon learning of Shireen's desire to study medicine, Caesar had ordered her to be sent to the Citadel.

The Citadel traditionally did not accept female apprentices, but under the direct command of the King, even they were forced to make an exception.

Davos glanced at the girl's face and neck, marked with patches of gray and black dead skin, remnants of greyscale. Silently, he prayed the Citadel might have a cure for its lingering effects.

The ship sailed on, and by the next morning—or what should have been morning, though the sky remained shrouded in darkness—they finally caught sight of the beacon atop the Hightower, its flames burning day and night.

"The nights are growing longer," Davos remarked as he stared at the distant light. "Perhaps one day, the sun will never rise again."

"It won't happen," Shireen said with determined conviction, clenching her small fists. "His Majesty, Caesar will never allow it."

Caesar is a king, not a god, Davos thought privately, but he kept the remark to himself. He didn't want his pessimism to dampen the girl's spirits.

Her life had been tragic enough already.

As their ship entered the harbor, two small sailboats approached for inspection.

Davos stepped forward to handle the negotiations, and before long, their vessel was allowed to dock.

When Baelor Hightower, son of Leyton Hightower, heard of their arrival, he personally led a welcoming party to greet them.

"Miss Shireen," Baelor said respectfully, "would you like to rest at the Hightower, or proceed directly to the Citadel?"

Though House Baratheon had fallen from grace, Baelor treated Shireen with due respect.

He knew that, by blood, the girl before him was still the King's cousin.

And if Caesar had been willing to break the Citadel's rules for her, it suggested he held her in some esteem.

"I'd like to go straight to the Citadel, if that's alright," Shireen replied. She had little interest in noble gatherings, partly due to her shy nature and partly because her scars made her self-conscious.

"Of course. Please, follow me," Baelor said, arranging for a luxurious carriage to take her there.

The procession left the harbor and wove through the labyrinthine streets of Oldtown.

Shireen pulled back the curtains to peek outside. The darkness swallowed much of the city, and the firelight from torches barely penetrated a few feet. Oldtown lay shrouded in a mysterious gloom.

After half an hour, they arrived at the Citadel's gates.

Shireen's eyes lingered on the sphinx statues flanking the entrance until Baelor helped her out of the carriage.

Gray-robed maesters bustled about, casting curious glances at the young girl.

"Maester Norren, this is Miss Shireen Baratheon. Miss Shireen, this is Maester Norren, the Citadel's current steward. He will oversee your studies and accommodations here."

"Maester Norren, it's a pleasure to meet you," Shireen said, lifting her skirts in a polite curtsy.

"Likewise, Miss Shireen." Norren's smile was warm. "Please, come with me."

Shireen bid farewell to Baelor and followed Norren through the Citadel.

They crossed a courtyard, passed a statue of King Daeron I, and traversed several stone bridges before arriving at an ancient tower covered in ivy.

Inside, they encountered several novices without chains around their necks, who greeted Norren respectfully.

Shireen kept her face hidden beneath her hood as she followed the maester up a spiral staircase.

The arched windows rattled with a sudden clatter, startling her.

"Don't be frightened," Norren reassured her. "It's just some overly lively ravens."

Shireen nodded and glanced outside, where she saw several black birds flapping their wings against the glass, as if trying to get inside.

They stopped in front of an iron-bound oak door.

Norren knocked.

"Who is it?" a gruff, impatient voice called from within.

"It's me. Open the door, Marwyn."

The door swung open, revealing a burly middle-aged man.

Shireen instinctively took a step back—he looked more like a dockside thug than a learned maester.

"What do you want, Norren?"

"I've brought you an apprentice," Norren said cheerfully, pulling Shireen forward. "This is Miss Shireen Baratheon. You've heard of her, surely."

"Seven hells!" Marwyn swore. "This breaks every rule! The Citadel doesn't accept women!"

"This is the King's order." Norren seemed unfazed, producing a letter and holding it out for Marwyn to see.

"The King has no authority over the Citadel's rules!"

"The Conclave has already discussed the matter," Norren replied smoothly. "They've agreed to admit Miss Shireen as an apprentice."

"Damn cowards," Marwyn muttered. "Afraid of Caesar's dragons, I suppose?"

"Think what you will, Marwyn. The Conclave has also decided that you will personally oversee Miss Shireen's education."

"You'll regret this," Marwyn grumbled. "The Citadel forbade women because they're a distraction. This girl…"

His gaze fell on the gray patches of skin on Shireen's face. He paused and softened his tone.

"Fine. Come in, then."

"Yes, teacher." Shireen gave Norren a nervous farewell and stepped into Marwyn's cluttered chamber.

Books and scrolls were stacked everywhere—on shelves, tables, and even the floor. Faded tapestries and tattered maps covered the walls, and a fire crackled in the hearth. The room's sole source of light, apart from the flames, was a tall black candle in the center.

Shireen noticed something unusual about the candle. Its flame was white as snow, flickering faintly with a dark shimmer. Even as the door opened and closed, the flame remained perfectly still.

"That damn Caesar still owes me a dragon egg," Marwyn grumbled. "And now he's sent me a girl! Enough staring—don't look directly at the candle. It'll strain your eyes."

"Oh, alright." Shireen quickly averted her gaze, though the image of the flame lingered in her vision.

"Take off your hood. Let me see your face."

Shireen hesitated but complied.

"Teacher, can you cure greyscale?"

"No one can cure greyscale," Marwyn said bluntly, studying her scars. "Amputation can stop it from spreading, but that's not foolproof. Many people lose a limb, only to find the disease appears elsewhere.

"And in your case—"

"—you can't exactly cut off my head," Shireen said, attempting a wry smile.

Marwyn blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting such gallows humor from the timid girl.

"Typically, when the disease reaches the face, blindness follows. Your case is unusual… but greyscale can lie dormant. One day, you might wake up and find yourself unable to see."

Shrugging, Shireen asked:

"Teacher, is it true that the White Walkers bring eternal night with them?"

"Legends are hard to verify," Marwyn replied gruffly. "But the nights are certainly growing longer. And today… wait, what time is it now?"

Shireen hesitated.

"I've been on the ship for so long, I've lost track of night and day."

Marwyn began rifling through his books, seemingly searching for a clock.

Before he could find it, a deep, resonant bell tolled outside.

Dong… dong… dong…

Both Marwyn and Shireen counted the chimes. When they stopped, her face paled.

"Teacher… did I miscount? Was that the… Bat Hour?"

"You didn't miscount." Marwyn's voice was grim.

The Bat Hour marked dusk. Yet today, the sun had never risen.

It meant—

"The Long Night is here," Marwyn declared, staring out the window.

Darkness blanketed everything outside. Only a few scattered torches flickered like drowning fireflies.

Marwyn turned back to the glass candle, its cold, eerie glow illuminating the room.

—————

"What are they waiting for?"

A knight clad in armor draped with furs gazed toward the darkness covering the northern horizon from the Neck's defensive line.

Three days ago, the wight army had arrived, but they remained in place, circling aimlessly without launching an attack.

Now, under the smothering darkness, it was impossible to see how many wights had gathered. Yet the unending howls and the suffocating stench hanging in the air suggested their numbers were anything but small.

"Wights wouldn't be scared, would they?" someone asked, their tone deliberately lighthearted.

"Scared? Those things don't know fear," another immediately retorted. "Maybe they're waiting for reinforcements."

"Reinforcements? Don't talk nonsense. You think they're a human army or something?"

"Maybe wights don't understand the concept of reinforcements," someone else interjected. "But the White Walkers are intelligent, aren't they?"

Jon Snow climbed up to the battlements, his expression grim as he stared into the impenetrable darkness ahead. His brow furrowed deeply.

"The quieter they are now, the fiercer the storm will be when it comes," he said.

"Jon… Ser," the fur-clad knight addressed him hesitantly, "have you seen the White Walkers?"

Ever since Jon Snow became Rhaegal's rider, his name had spread like wildfire across the Neck's defenses.

Speculations about how a Stark bastard could ride a dragon were rampant.

Some suggested Eddard Stark's lover might have been a Targaryen. Others whispered he was the Mad King's bastard. Still, others claimed he was the illegitimate child of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark.

Jon ignored all of it.

In his heart, Eddard Stark was his father—always and forever.

And as this matter involved his father's honor and reputation, Jon believed that even if it warranted clarification, it should come with Eddard's consent.

But… where was his father now?

"I've seen White Walkers," Jon said, pushing aside his inner turmoil. "They are completely different from wights. They are intelligent. Which is why we must remain vigilant."

"So you think the wights are waiting for reinforcements to mount an attack?"

"Maybe." Jon nodded, then immediately shook his head. "Or perhaps they're waiting for the right moment."

"What kind of moment?"

"Do you know what time it is now?" Jon asked.

"Seems like it's just past the Bat Hour…" someone ventured.

"Yes, it's past the Bat Hour," Jon confirmed. "Another day has passed, but when was the last time any of us saw the sun rise?"

The realization hit like a slap. Faces paled as the men exchanged anxious glances.

Recent days had been so shrouded in darkness that many had grown accustomed to it, accepting perpetual night as the norm.

Now, with Jon's words, they realized that the sun hadn't risen at all since it set yesterday.

"The Long Night is here?" someone whispered, horror creeping into their voice.

"The Long Night has come," Jon replied, his tone layered with unease. "Legend has it that the arrival of the White Walkers heralds a harsh, unending winter and eternal night. They are the lords of winter, the harbingers of darkness. Perhaps they've been waiting for this very moment—the Long Night—when their power reaches its zenith, to launch their attack."

"Does that mean… the White Walkers are about to attack?"

"It's likely imminent…"

No sooner had Jon finished speaking than a cacophony of footsteps echoed from the northern darkness.

The sound grew louder and louder, merging into a single overwhelming roar, like an avalanche barreling forward, unstoppable.

The ground began to quake beneath their feet as if some monstrous force were about to burst forth from the shadows.

"Sound the horn!" Jon roared. "The enemy is attacking!"

(End of Chapter)