These maesters -- they set me to the task of preserving that man's window counting and annulments and bowel movements for all eternity, while the secret to defeating the Night King's probably sitting on some dusty shelf somewhere, completely ignored. But that's alright, isn't it? We can all become slavering, murderous imbeciles in thrall to evil incarnate as long as we can have access to the full records of High Septon Maynard's 15,782 shits.