Years flew by like water. Shadows of old trees shrinking and new ones forming replaced the bamboos at the front of the western temple.
Swirling leaves, sounds, and movements filled the inside and outside of the temple as heavy silence dwelled within.
Buildings remained in their ruined postures, ashes and human bones scattered on the ground like stones. But at the front of the descending stairs leading to the Shadow Cult, warm blood streaked the ground.
At the base of the stairs, Jack's rotting body remained in a crawling posture, its hands stretched toward the half-moon arc door.
Meanwhile, at a far distance from the western side of Westeros to the country's central point, noises rose.
"Who is that boy who always walks wearing an old-fashioned robe?" a man leaning at the side of a mirror-like wall asked.
"No one knows where he comes from. But he passes by every day, same hour, same robe." Another guy with a long white beard added, then sighed.
