Chapter Text
(322 AC)
The quick patter of footsteps echoed in the silent hall. It was late in the evening, the fires burned low from the sconces along the walls. Shadows played on old, aged stone.
A girl whispered, insistent. "I already told you, Ned, the dragons are here."
"But I don't want to go there. I can't see anything," the boy Ned, named by their mother after the Lord Stark's father, answered in a long, drawn-out whine of a child woken abruptly from his deep slumber. His small hands clutched at the girl's dress, much to her annoyance.
The two children were deep in the belly of the Red Keep. They never wandered so far without their septa or Ser Richard, their sworn sword. For this attempt, they had had to conspire with Stannis.
Ser Richard, the boy had called over from his chamber. There's... um... something weird here... in... my... wardrobe? No, out the window! It's a dragon, Ser Richard, come quick!
The children had stifled their giggles into their fists as their older brother did all the work for them. Stannis was ever so indulgent with his siblings, and he never missed an opportunity to trick the knights that shadowed him. Much to the misfortune of the Kingsguard.
You'll stop this nonsense, the king once told him, heavily reprimanding the boy in front of his siblings. The guards will do their duty as you will do yours.
I'm a child, grand-uncle, the boy Stannis had groused. My duty is to play.
The insolence was not often tolerated by their father and their grand-uncle was ever sternerthan the prince. Shireen had feared that her brother would live out his days in the dungeons. Then I would be queen, she thought, at once horrified and stunned by the idea.
Young princesses do not get dirty, her grand-aunt said so. Queen Selyse with her regal bearing, clicking her tongue as Shireen was once again dragged into her solar, her hair caked with dirt.
Oftentimes she was terrified of them, the king and the queen. They weren't like Lord Davos, who chuckled at her antics when the king was not there to reprimand both of them. Or Lady Marya, who embraced her often and brushed her hair, tutting at Shireen's wishes of dying it green as her mother once colored hers. Your hair is beautiful the way it is, Lady Marya would say, But red would suit you better, I think.
"We're almost there," Shireen whispered to Ned. She didn't know why she tried to keep quiet. Nobody else kept quarters in this part of the Red Keep.
They reached the small oak door that led to the underbellies of the Keep. She'd heard tell from the servants that dragons were kept there. Balerion the Black Dread, Meraxes, Vhagar, and all their siblings, lying in wait for worthy dragonriders.
Shireen could count the few times she'd seen Daenerys Targaryen's dragons for herself. Grand Maester Pylos said that they used to fly more frequently in the realm but of late, they rarely did.
The first time she saw a dragon was when Drogon flew low enough that his wing almost touched her window. She'd barely caught sight of his tail until he soared too high above the clouds and she didn't see him again. Another time on a progress north with her father. The Lord Stark's direwolf howled at the sky. She'd looked up then and saw another dragon, Viserion, her father said, flying high above them. A shadow in a field of winter grey.
The third time--her favorite memory thus far--was on her sixth nameday. Her parents had journeyed east to Dragonstone and brought only her with them. It was a rare occasion that Shireen got her parents all to herself. Often it was Stannis, dragged to this holdfast and that holdfast, as their father's heir. Her brother was ever so tired of it and often complained that his siblings never had to be so burdened.
It was the first time she'd ever been to Dragonstone. It was a monstrous thing that rent the sky, almost ghastly. The stone was a deep black that hurt her feet when sharp edges bit through the thick soles of her shoes.
Inside, it was even darker despite the numerous sconces that lit the halls. There she met Ser Alyn Florent, the new castellan of Dragonstone after the passing of his father Ser Erren. Dragonstone is yours, Your Grade, Ser Alyn had greeted her father, bending the knee.
The family stayed there for a fortnight. Her father and mother spent much of it in the Room of the Painted Table, discussing boring things with lords that sailed from other parts of the Crownlands to seek audience with the Prince.
You've gotten quite big, haven't you? said Lord Monterys with a kind smile. Shireen liked him; he smiled easy and when he laughed he did so with all of his jowls aquiver. Why, you're almost at the age of my son Monford.
Shireen had frowned. She didn't like Monford. He sniffled too much and grimaced in disgust when she had showed him a litter of puppies in the Red Keep. She liked puppies.
Wylla had barely restrained a sigh, quick as she was to show her happiness as much as her displeasure. There would be a proper time to talk of these things, my lord.
Shireen didn't know what they were talking about but Monterys only shrugged, his great barrel of a torso moving tightly under his cloak. My boy is a good lad, my lady. I mean to send him to King's Landing, to squire for your lord husband. Perhaps the princess would... he trailed off as Wylla ushered him along, impatient with his prattle.
Shireen soon found that the trip to Dragonstone wasn't going to be as interesting as Shireen had hoped. Sitting beside her father as he spoke to the lords of the Crownlands, she soon grew bored and disinterested, preferring instead to explore the keep as her parents kept busy with "Lord and Lady Things," or so her brother called them. Ser Garlan had shadowed her footsteps, often driven to the last of his patience as she flitted in and out of hallways, disappeared around corners, and wandered into dark rooms and even darker wardrobes.
One of Shireen's great finds had been a balcony that looked out to the Narrow Sea. From there she saw that the sea was a vast shade of dark blue, frothing in an angry roar as it ravaged the foot of the stronghold. It reminded her of Shipbreaker Bay but more vicious, somehow, as though Dragonstone would fall into the sea at every battering wave that knocked on its doors.
Don't lean too far, Princess, Ser Garlan warned her. Shireen had sighed and sprawled on the stone bannister instead, her feet akimbo on the floor and her arms splayed out on the bannister.
She heard Ser Garland’s sigh behind her shoulder but he didn't reprimand her again. She guessed that he was only relieved that Shireen found another nook where she could while away the time.
I'm so bored! she'd shouted at the sky. She hated that the only time she got to spend with her parents turned out to be an idle, mindless business with other people. This was supposed to be her nameday gift.
Just then, a great thunderous roar filled the clouds. Startled, she leaned forward to peer past the stone balustrade. She thought a giant rock had fallen into the sea, but the froth remained unbroken.
A great wind whipped her long black hair into her face. She cried out, stumbling back. Ser Garlan caught her before she fell, steadying her on her feet.
Look, princess. A dragon, Ser Garlan said. Even the Gallant had not been spared the awe at the sight, it seemed.
She quickly brushed her hair from her face. Where? Where's the dragon? Where is it?
And there he was, Drogon the great black dragon everyone said to be Balerion the Black Dread come again. It hovered close to the balcony but Shireen only saw it from its side. Drogon's skin was leathery, like the scales of armor along Ser Garlan’s arms but black where the armor was white. Its wings flapped mightily, slowly, as though the cold winds themselves came from them.
Princess! Ser Andrew called out behind her. He'd come running from her father's side, his armor a loud clang of metal on metal as he slowed to a stop. The Prince calls for you.
But the dragon--she'd sputtered. Ser Andrew shook his head and she knew the conversation was over. Sullenly, she followed him to the Room of the Painted Table.
Her father met her at the door. He held her shoulders and steered her to the direction of the large window that opened out to the sea.
There it was again. Drogon. Its grand head barely visible in its entirety. Shireen gasped, at once scared and awed. She burrowed into her father's side, clutching the hands at her shoulders.
Beautiful, isn't he? said another voice. Shireen turned to find a lady she'd never met before, dressed in riding leathers, her long silver hair falling into a braid over her shoulder.
Y-yes, Shireen had replied, looking to her father for guidance. Strangers were often introduced to her, and so she always knew their names, their titles, and the manner by which they ought to be greeted before she was expected to converse.
My daughter, Your Grace, Edric told the lady. Shireen of the House Baratheon.
Shireen had curtsied, albeit awkwardly. The woman smiled, her eyes kind as she approached her. She knelt to look her in the eye.
Come, sweetling. The woman smiled at her. Princess Shireen. The woman brushed her tangled hair, dark and black against her fair skin. A fawn has come to Dragonstone.
Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, had taken her hand when she rose to her feet and led her to Drogon. The great flap of his wings from so close nearly deafened her. For a moment, Shireen thought Drogon might eat him, but he did nothing with the razor sharp teeth in his mouth.
Shireen stared at the dragon and a great happiness blossomed in her breast. Hello, she'd said with a grin, her fears shaking free from her curiosity. Drogon.
Daenerys had stayed for a night and a day. Shireen had sat at her father's right, peering over the edge of the Table, though she'd much rather venture outside and play with the dragon. Dragons don't play, princess, Daenerys had said with a laugh.
She was bored for most of it, but she watched with some fascination as Edric and Daenerys discussed matters of the Seven Kingdoms, of the New Valyria that now rose in the Free Cities, the trouble brewing in Qarth, the booming trade in Lys, the politics of Braavos... names and names of places and things that Shireen couldn't pronounce just yet.
She'd flown to King's Landing first, she said, and met with the king there. The first time a dragon had landed at King's Landing in years and Shireen hadn't been there to see it. Stannis told her all about it when she came back. The banners of House Baratheon accompanied that of House Targaryen; the crowned stag and the three-headed dragon side by side, flying from the ramparts and towers of the Red Keep.
You should've seen it, sister, Stannis had said. Drogon was huge and I got to fly him.
Shireen had gaped at him. You lie! You little monster! The king would never have allowed him to do anything so dangerous. Stannis had laughed as he dodged the pillow Shireen threw at his head.
Stannis didn't ride the dragon, it turned out in the end. Shireen had asked the king himself and the king never lied. I wanted to, though, Stannis told her when she confronted her brother about it, armed with a pillow of her own. With a sigh, Shireen had to admit that she did too, but she let fly at his head anyway and left the room laughing as hard as Stannis had done.
It was after that visit that Shireen learned she was Princess of Dragonstone, a title that had been vacant for years since the heir to the Iron Throne took the title of Storm's End instead.
Does that mean I have to be queen, father? Shireen had asked, her nose scrunched in distaste.
Edric had chuckled, shaking his head. It was as the king decided, with the permission of the Mother of Dragons. Dragonstone could not always be in the hands of castellans, and the king would not bestow it on the many lordlings that vied for the seat.
And so it was that the secondborn of the heir would sit the stronghold in the name of the dragons in the east. When her brother Stannis became king, Second of His Name, Storm's End would fall to his heir and Dragonstone to his second child.
I won't be a princess anymore, then? Shireen wondered. You will always be a princess, Shireen, her father had reassured her, kissing her brow. From now till the end of your days.
The Princess of Dragonstone wandered into the dark now to find the so-called dragons in the Keep. She'd expected the grandness of Drogon, flapping his wings. She'd wondered why the Red Keep stood so tall, unshaken by the thunder of a dragon taking flight within its walls.
"Sis, please," Ned sniffled, tugging more insistently at her dress. "I don't like it here."
At the last of her wits, Shireen pushed him away. "Oh, grow up, Ned!" she shouted at him. He stumbled back, nearly losing his footing. She almost felt bad, guilt warring with her anger, until Ned let out a long, terrible wail.
"You pushed me!" Ned shouted, more insulted than hurt. "Father said you're not supposed to push me!"
Shireen matched his shouts with hers. "Cry all you want, you--you're such a--you're--"
"What's going on here?" A thunderous voice echoed in the walls. The children jumped at the sound. For a moment, Shireen thought it was the dragon itself, angered by their noise.
It was the king, three of the Kingsguard trailing behind him. He held a torch in his hand, the light playing shadows on his tall figure. Even dressed down to his robes, his head free of his crown, he appeared the towering, imposing man that the bards sang of in their songs.
Ned rushed to Shireen's side, clutching at her dress. He was trembling now, hiccupping as the sobs bubbled in his throat.
Shireen was afraid of her grand-uncle but she didn't tremble. At eight years old, she was too old to shake in her shoes. A Princess stands with pride, the Princess Arianne once said to her, smiling as Shireen attempted this stance that Arianne instructed. It had looked silly and Shireen flushed red in embarrassment. She hoped she didn't look foolish now. The king had no patience for foolishness.
"Oh gods be good, there you are," said Ser Richard Horpe, standing behind the king. Sweat beaded the knight's brow, his face flushed.
The king silenced him with a glance and he fell back alongside Ser Devan and Ser Rolland. They did not don their helms. Shireen saw the worry on their faces, plain for her to see.
Oh, look at what you've done you big oaf, she thought guiltily.
The king looked at her then at Ned. With a long, drawn-out breath, he gestured at her brother.
Ned, barely containing his sobs, obeyed and approached him. "I'm sorry, grand-uncle. I'm sorry I was noisy." His breath jumped as hiccups broke through the tremors in his voice. "I'm--hic--I'm sorry, don't tell mother. She promised I would--I would go hawking with her tomorrow."
The king looked down at him, his dour face softening somewhat. Shireen thought it was a trick of the light but when the torch shifted in the king's hand, his stern face appeared not as stern as before.
"Devan," he said over his shoulder. "Bring Eddard to his room."
"You won't tell mother, will you? Grand-uncle?" Ned insisted, even as Devan scooped him up in his arms and carried him away. "Grand-uncle--hic--promise!"
The king sighed again but nodded all the same, a slight tilt of his head that Shireen barely saw.
"I won't tell your mother," the king relented. Ned's face broke into a watery grin, cheerful now depsite the hics that spilled from his throat. "Your father might, but I won't. Now, to bed with you," the king said gruffly.
"Yes, Your Grace," Ned said sullenly, though both of the children knew that the battle was all but won. The Prince of Storm's End could be stricter than their mother but when it came to reporting their misdeeds, their father often kept his tongue. One parent's ire was punishment enough, Lord Davos would say of Edric and Wylla, that the two rarely disciplined their children together. And be thankful for it, Lord Davos had mused with a laugh.
You damned rat, Shireen thought fondly of her younger brother. Ned knew how to worm his way out of the king's foul temper. It always boggled Stannis and Shireen how their brother seemed to manage it. When they asked him, Ned had only shrugged. I'm adorable, he'd said, sticking out his tongue.
Well, he was a wet sop of a rat now, his cheeks still wet with tears. Not quite as adorable, Shireen thought, but he must be capable of some sorcery that the king would give him a brief pat on the head as he passed.
"I'm," Shireen piped up. Her feet scuffed the floor. "I'm sorry too, grand-uncle."
The light shifted as the king approached her. The torch in his hand hovered close to his face that Shireen saw how displeased he was. She cringed. She courted trouble but unlike Stannis, she did so for a reason. Or so she kept telling her parents.
"Don't lie to me," the king said. "Don't apologize when you mean to break your word again."
Shireen gaped at him. I already said sorry! "I don't mean to--" It was her pride that spoke, not her remorse.
"Yes you do," the king huffed. "One of these days you'll wander too far from the Kingsguard and walk into danger, all because you're curious about some trifle or other."
That's not true, she wanted to say. I'm always careful. But in the end she just bit her lip, sighed, and admitted her defeat. "I just wanted to see the dragons, grand-uncle."
"There are no dragons here, child," the king said. "A dragon has not been seen in the Seven Kingdoms for almost a year now."
Her father told her so but she'd refused to believe it. Daenerys will come again, she'd told him. She'll bring Drogon and Viserion and Rhaegal and they'll fly over King's Landing. Mayhap she'll even let me ride one of them.
Tears pricked at her eyes. She sniffed. She just wanted to see a dragon again. Soon, she found herself crying and she was angry that she was. Shireen hated crying. It was an ugly affair, with snot all over her nose, her face flushed like a ripe plum. I'm a princess, she thought angrily. A princess is not a plum.
"Come, then," the king said, and passed her by as he walked to the door. It seemed a heavy thing, that door. With its rusted hinges and the dust and spiderwebs lodged in the cracks on the grain.
Without a word, the king passed her the torch. She held it in both of her hands.
"Keep it high and steady," the king instructed.
Behind her, the brief rustle of chainmail and armor. "Your Grace, we should--"
The king grunted in annoyance. He was fifty-eight on his next nameday. The oldest person Shireen knew besides Lord Davos who often poked fun at the creak in his joints and the white in his hair. Her father often warned the king of tiresome activities but the king had insisted. What's so tiresome about holding court?
But Edric had not meant that, and the king knew it. Until now, the king insisted on attending Great Councils himself. On the trip north, the king went with them, but he travelled even farther north, to the young towns and new holdfasts along Brandon's Gift, and even farther farther north to the Wall. He had yet to return when Edric and his family arrived at King's Landing. He was gone for so long that Shireen half-expected a wight in his place.
He had taken ill not long after that, ravaged by fever and a wracking cough that kept him from holding court for nearly a month. Shireen feared he would die, but never thought to say so. Her father had worried enough for both of them.
The door creaked as the king pulled it open. Not without great effort, as the door seemed as heavy as it looked. It was high enough that the king didn't have to stoop to enter. Shireen looked into the darkness beyond. She shivered. Ned was right; it was too dark down there.
"Bring the light," the king said to her. Reluctantly, she did as she was told.
Soon enough, the gaping maw of darkness withered away to reveal a large chamber peopled with... with things. Dead things. Not dragons. She stood there beside her grand-uncle and felt as small as she was. With the torch held so low in her hands, large shadows danced on the stone walls.
When her eyes had adjusted in the dim light, she found that she was wrong. They were dragons. But they were dead things as well. A welling sadness engulfed her and she couldn't put a name to the feeling. It was as though the torch had been snuffed of its fire, and the dark had returned from the shadows.
"Dragons fly in the east," the king said. He took the torch from her hand and held it high over his head. With his other hand, he took hers and led her farther into the chamber.
The Kingsguard waited by the door.
"They don't fly here," Shireen said.
They inspected each skull... from the very large, to the very small. Dead things. She tried to name each one as she'd read in the books, but couldn't marry the blackened, charred bones with the glorious creatures drawn on the page.
"They did once," the king answered her. "They brought fire when the winter winds came and almost froze the realm."
Her hand tightened around the king's fingers. His hand was rough and stiff, too large that her fingers barely met even as she held him tightly.
"Why do we keep them here, grand-uncle?" she asked him. "The dead are buried, aren't they? We should bury them and let them rest."
"They weren't always here," the king told her. "The Targaryen kings had them in the great hall, as a reminder of the power they once wielded. When my brother Robert took the throne, he had them brought down here. He detested dragons."
"Did you love them?"
The king snorted. It was a funny sound she rarely heard from him. She smiled to herself, amused by it. "I did not love them, but there is power in dragons. I've seen it with mine own eyes."
Shireen frowned at him. "So you loved dragons, then?"
The king shook his head. "You can grow to hate things that you love, child, as much as you can come to respect things that you mislike."
"Then you... mislike dragons?"
The king smiled. Shireen barely saw it but it was there. He didn't seem so terrifying when he smiled but he did it so seldom that Shireen always forgot what he looked like without his usual severity.
"I respect dragons. Before the dragons had come again, I had dreamed of them as they were writ in books, drawn on the pages by others long dead before my time. It had been a hundred years since a dragon was hatched again. No man living saw them for what they truly were."
"Not until the Long Night," she added, remembering that from her lessons.
The king nodded, approving of her astuteness. "Very good. You know your history."
Shireen beamed with pride. The king was not generous with his praise.
A sudden quiet fell over them. The torch shifted once again as the king lowered the fire as though hiss arm had grown tired. Shireen looked up at him to realize that he looked at her oddly, almost sadly.
Shireen frowned. "Grand-uncle?"
Hearing the alarm in her voice, the Kingsguard stirred from where they stood. "Your Grace?" called Ser Rolland.
The king glanced at them dismissively and they stilled.
"My own knights take me for a dying man. I won't die for a while yet," he told them.
Shireen misliked hearing talk of death, especially when she was surrounded by it, armed only with a torch that kept the darkness at bay.
Sensing her unease, the king tightened his hand around hers. "Not for a long while," he said again, softly this time, and only for her ears. The king didn't lie. "I mean to to see the end of this winter. It's gone on for too long," he sighed. "If the Long Night truly is the stuff of history and not of legend, then this must be ours."
Shireen mustered a smile, though a sudden fear seized her. The dragons had not been seen for a while and many thought that their presence meant that the Night wore on, longer and longer, until farmers knew not to expect fruit from the barren earth.
She'd sat in the throne room with Stannis once, taking her place among the small council. A commander of the Night's Watch had come to King's Landing to seek audience with the king. When he was asked how many swords he needed that year to feed the Wall, the commander grinned. None, he'd said, and Shireen didn't know what it meant. Stannis didn't either, but the king did.
He'd looked at his small council with something like surprise on his face. When his eyes drifted to Stannis and Shireen, an odd look passed over them. Shireen didn't understand it then. That's good, isn't it? she'd asked Stannis. That the Wall doesn't need swords anymore. Her brother only shrugged. The moment ended before Shireen could mull it over and hadn't thought of it again until now.
In a brief flash of bravery, she dared to burrow closer to the king's side, leaning against him.
"I think I shall miss you when you're gone," Shireen said, matter-of-factly. "I'd hate to miss you, so you mustn't ever leave."
The king let out a laugh. It sounded like the snap of old wood."Even when I terrify you, child?"
Shireen grimaced. "You don't terrify me, grand-uncle."
"You must not lie," the king told her. "You will find many hard truths in your long life and all of them will scare you into silence or, worse than silence, falsehood, and that is the darkest road of all. You will lose yourself," his voice softened. "And never find your way again."
Shireen took his words to heart, nodding. Her hair scratched at his robe but she didn't mind. "You do terrify me, then. Sometimes," she said. "I'm not scared of you now, though. But I was little scared earlier. Alright, I was scared a lot."
"And why were you scared?" the king asked her. Shireen bit back a sigh. She knew that tone. It meant that a long lesson was going to unspool, with Shireen's guilt wound at the end of it.
Shireen rehearsed the answer Grand Maester Pylos had always expected from her. "Because I was doing something I wasn't supposed to. I know, grand-uncle."
"Then where's the wisdom in repeating deeds with terrible consequences?" the king asked again.
Shireen looked up at him as though the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. "Father always said that if I wanted something I needed to work for it. So I worked for it."
The king huffed in bemusement. "Of all the values to inherit from your father, you choose his bull-headedness."
"Stags are bull-headed, aren't they?" Shireen said with pride. "And I'm a Baratheon, aren't I?"
The king sighed. "That you are. Both bull-headed and a Baratheon, and your father's daughter."
"And your grand-niece," Shireen said, smiling.
The king chuckled under his breath, a deep rumble like the threat of rain. "When Edric named you after Shireen, I didn't expect you to grow so willful," he said, his voice softening.
Of her namesake, Shireen only knew as much as Edric and Lord Davos cared to tell her. Even the queen spoke so infrequently of the daughter she'd lost. A portrait of her, the princess Shireen, hung by the doors of Maegor's Holdfast. Shireen passed it often, when she left her chambers in the morning and returned to it at night.
Shireen often wondered why she was named after the princess. They didn't look much alike. She was prettier, for one, or so she liked to think. She inherited her father's look, the Baratheon black of his hair, and the blue of his eyes. She smiled like her mother, Lord Davos often said, and laughed as easily as she did. The princess Shireen, on the other hand, had been a quiet child, marred with greyscale and almost reclusive because of it.
She loved to read, Lord Davos had said, speaking of the child he knew from her birth to her death. But of the three children it was Stannis that loved books the most, not Shireen. Not this Shireen, at least.
"Did she not like adventures, grand-uncle?" Shireen asked.
The king was quiet for a moment, digging deep for memories that had withered away through time. "She must have," he said at last, with the uncertainty of someone who hadn't witnessed it firsthand, yet with the surety of a father who liked to think he knew the manner of his daughter. "She read about them, that much I know. She often dreamed of dragons," he said, his voice growing heavy. "But they were not happy dreams."
"My dreams of dragons are often happy," Shireen said, frowning in confusion. "They're exciting creatures, aren't they? Last night I dreamt that I flew high above the Eyrie and went as far as the North where Lord Stark's direwolf chased after... Grand-uncle?"
The king had grown quiet, distracted. Shireen didn't like it when people didn't listen to her stories.
She jostled the hand in hers, trying to win back his attention.
Slowly, as though mired in mud, the king looked at her. "Come," he said gruffly. "It's time you went to bed."
Shireen sighed but obeyed the king as he steered her towards the door, her hand still in his, and led her out.
"The dragons don't get lonely in here do they, grand-uncle?" she asked, casting one last look over her shoulder. The light went with them and she saw only shadows.
"They're things, Shireen. Things don't get lonely. And they must always be here," the king said, handing the torch to Ser Richard as they passed the Kingsguard. "To remind us of our duty."
Behind them, Ser Rolland shouldered the door closed with a creaking thud.
"Our duty to... death?" Shireen asked as they walked down the hall.
The king laughed his non-laugh again. Shireen found that she liked the sound, as unusual as it was.
"Our duty to the dragons that fly in the east," the king said. "The stag sits the Iron Throne but it had not been built for us. You would do well to remember that, Shireen. The Red Keep has many secrets, most of them terrible. Dragons rest within these walls and here they will remain until the end of our days."
end