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109: The Son of Ice and Fire, The Depths of the Hightower pt.3
🕑 Added 2025-02-28 12:53:16 +0000 UTCMaekar and Melisandre descended the spiraling stone steps, their footsteps echoing into the depths. The chamber they entered was smaller than the ones above, but what it lacked in size, it made up for in mystery.
Narrow corridors branched off in all directions, each entrance framed by a heavy stone door—some sealed, others left ajar. Despite Blackfyre’s fiery glow, the sword’s light barely penetrated the oppressive darkness.
They moved carefully through the maze-like hallways, uncertain of their path. More than once, Maekar found himself tightening his grip on Blackfyre, half-expecting another wave of undead to surge from the gloom.
But there was only silence.
Then, as he rounded a corner, realization struck him.
“It’s a vault.”
He gestured to the heavy doors leading into small chambers. Stepping into one, he glanced at the scattered contents—gold coins glinting faintly in the dim light, golden and bronze pottery (some pieces miraculously intact), jewels, trinkets, and fragments of ornate weapons, all forgotten beneath layers of dust.
Then he spotted something.
A chamber stood at the far end of the vault, different from the rest. Even from a distance, Maekar noticed a peculiar outline inside—something that looked distinctly like a tree.
Slowly, he moved forward. Melisandre followed close behind.
As the light filled the chamber, Maekar froze, breath catching in his throat.
Before him stood a withered weirwood tree—gnarled and skeletal, its branches twisted upward like grasping fingers. It was rooted in stone, its trunk ashen and bone-dry.
“…this was the last thing I expected to see here,” he muttered.
Melisandre’s gaze lingered on the pale, dead bark.
“Why a weirwood tree?” she asked quietly, uncharacteristic uncertainty in her voice.
Maekar frowned, stepping farther inside. “I think I have an idea.”
Near the tree’s base, he spotted a pedestal hidden beneath layers of dust. Something small and round rested on it. He brushed away the dust and lifted the object—a circular disk no larger than his palm. It was carved from an unfamiliar metal and weighed more than he had expected.
Then recognition dawned.
Not an unknown metal.
Sky-metal.
His heart quickened. This was the same material as Dawn. He had seen it countless times with Ser Arthur Dayne and later came into possession of it after Arthur’s death.
He turned the disk over in his hands, eyes narrowing as he studied the design. Etched into the metallic surface was a dragon’s head—snarling, fierce-eyed, fangs bared. It was familiar in a way he couldn’t place.
“I don’t understand,” Melisandre said, her voice edged with disbelief. “Where is Lightbringer? I thought…”
Her crimson eyes flickered with frustration as she looked around the chamber, clearly expecting something more—something greater.
Maekar shook his head. “We didn’t leave empty-handed. We found something.”
He lifted the strange metal disk, letting the firelight dance across its smooth, silvery surface.
Melisandre stepped closer and took the artifact from him, her brow furrowed in thought.
“I’ve seen something like this before,” she murmured, turning it over in her hands.
“Where?”
She kept her gaze on the disk, her voice distant as though recalling a long-buried memory. “Once, in Asshai. To access one of the forbidden chambers in the sorcerers’ quarters, I saw something like this used to open a sealed vault—one that no key or spell could unlock until this was fitted into just the right slot.”
Maekar nodded slowly. “So it’s a key. That’s a start.”
Melisandre’s grip tightened around the disk. For the first time since he’d known her, her composure wavered. Lips curling in frustration, she paced the chamber.
“This cannot be all there is,” she muttered. “The murals, the inscriptions… This place was meant to hold something greater.” Her voice rose, anger bleeding through. “All this effort—for a key? Where is Lightbringer? R’hllor showed me a vision of you wielding it!”
Her fingers clenched into a fist. “We were meant to find more than this…”
Maekar gave a small, knowing smirk. “Oh, there is something,” he said, his gaze drifting past her.
She followed his eyes—toward the withered weirwood tree.
Melisandre’s eyes narrowed. “How can this symbol of the false gods help us?”
Maekar turned to her, his tone firm. “I told you before, Melisandre—R’hllor alone cannot win this war. All gods and all their faithful must stand together. If we cling only to one, we fail.”
For once, she had no immediate reply. She stood in silence, watching as he stepped toward the withered tree.
Maekar reached out, pressing his hand against the rough, lifeless bark of the ancient weirwood. The moment his palm met the surface, a sharp breath tore from his lungs.
And the world vanished.
====
When Maekar blinked, he was no longer standing in the dark, ruined vault. He was in the same chamber, yes, but in a time when it was whole.
The weirwood tree was no longer dead and withered. Its branches spread wide, vibrant red leaves rustling gently, bathed in a soft, golden light streaming from an opening in the ceiling above. The chamber itself was intact, filled with treasures—gold coins, jewels, ornate statues, weapons—all heaped and overflowing from chests and piles on the ground.
Men moved about, carrying these riches out of the chamber. Maekar watched as two of them approached the weirwood tree. The first made his breath catch—a man who looked strikingly like him, or at least bore a resemblance. He had the strong, sharp features of the North, yet possessed violet eyes. The second man appeared different at first, almost Valyrian in aspect, but Maekar quickly realized he was a Hightower—he had those characteristic features as well.
The first man, Eldric, was someone Maekar recognized instantly—he appeared older than the last time Maekar had seen him in Brynden’s vision.
“Uri, my friend,” Eldric said, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated. “I see no reason for you to move your treasures just because I asked you to guard a small trinket.”
The man named Uri—likely short for Urrigon—sighed, crossing his arms. “I hate this place, El,” he muttered. “Putting your key here gives me a reason to seal it and never come back.” His gaze swept over the vault’s hoards of gold and jewels. “The Old Guard won’t object to my decision either, since we’ll be guarding the precious trinket of the great hero.”
Eldric chuckled. “So you’d rather build upward than live down here?”
Urrigon smirked. “Of course. Why dwell in the depths when you can rule from the skies?”
Eldric glanced upward. “My uncle did fine work on the base. I hope you can build the tower you want now.”
“It will take generations,” Urrigon admitted.
Eldric nodded, then moved to the pedestal near the weirwood. With careful hands, he placed a circular metal disk onto it—the same artifact Maekar had just found.
“The Earthsingers did quick work growing the weirwood here,” Eldric said, running his fingers along the tree’s smooth, white bark.
Urrigon frowned slightly. “Why did you even want one here? It’ll die once we seal this place.”
Eldric smirked, still touching the tree. “It will be helpful for the next hero,” he murmured. Suddenly, he turned his head, looking directly at Maekar.
For a brief, frozen moment, Maekar was certain Eldric could see him, as though his gaze pierced the veil of time itself. Then, just as quickly, Eldric turned back to Urrigon.
“When the time comes, when the next wielder of the sword arises, this must be given to him,” Eldric said. “I have already given one to the Shepherd King of the Land of Always Summer.”
He hesitated, his expression growing distant. “Another I entrusted to my good friend Muwatalli, the greatest of the Kings of the Assuwan kingdoms.”
“And the sword itself…” Eldric’s fingers tapped the hilt at his hip. “I take it with me to Zarnoq.”
Urrigon sighed, his gaze softening. “I wish you would stay, Eldric,” he said quietly. “But I understand why you want to live out your days there.”
Eldric’s smile was small, almost sad. Without another word, the two men walked away, exiting the chamber through a door behind the tree.
And then—
The vision ended.
====
Maekar awoke to the sensation of cold stone beneath him and the distant echo of dripping water. A sharp, pulsing ache throbbed at the back of his skull, and he groaned as a shadow loomed over him.
“My king, are you well?” Melisandre’s voice was tinged with concern, her crimson robes brushing the ground as she knelt beside him.
“I’m fine, Melisandre,” Maekar muttered, pushing himself up. His head pounded, and when he touched the sore spot, he winced. “I should’ve sat down before doing that,” he grumbled, rubbing the place where he’d likely struck it when he collapsed.
Melisandre said nothing at first, her sharp red eyes studying him intently.
“I saw something,” he finally explained. “The weirwood held a memory of the past… I saw Eldric.” He exhaled, steadying himself. “He was with a Hightower king. Eldric took the sword with him to a place called Zarnoq.”
Melisandre’s brow furrowed. “Zarnoq?” she repeated, unfamiliar with the name.
Maekar shook his head. “Probably an old name. Could be a lost kingdom in Essos—or maybe an old name for somewhere in Westeros.” His fingers curled around the disk in his hand. “But that’s not all. There are two more keys like this one.”
Melisandre’s frown deepened. “Where?”
“One was left with a king in Assuwa—wherever that is.” He sighed, rolling his shoulders as he stood to his full height. “And the last… Eldric entrusted to a Shepherd King in the Land of Always Summer.”
Melisandre’s eyes flickered with something akin to recognition. She whispered the title under her breath. “A Shepherd King…” There was a note of realization in her voice. “You don’t think—”
Maekar nodded grimly. “It is in Valyria,” he confirmed, rubbing his temple. “Fuck.” He glanced at the eerie, skeletal weirwood. “How in the hell are we supposed to get one of these from Valyria?” He let out a bitter laugh. “And we don’t even know where the other two places are.”
A heavy silence settled between them.
Finally, Melisandre spoke, her tone calm but resolute. “R’hllor will guide us. I will gather the other priestesses. We will seek His wisdom.”
Maekar glanced at her, then let out a slow breath. “At this point, I’m up for anything.” He turned toward the far side of the chamber, recalling how—in his vision—Eldric and Urrigon had left through another door. “Come,” he said, taking a step forward. “I believe there’s another way out of here.”
Without another word, he and Melisandre headed toward the hidden passage.
The passage they entered was different from the rest. Gone was the eerie, smooth black stone they’d grown accustomed to. Instead, the walls were rough-hewn rock, the tunnel looking more like it had been dug out by the First Men than built by any ancient empire.
Maekar ran his fingers along the jagged surface, feeling moisture seeping through. He exhaled sharply. “There’s water just on the other side,” he muttered. “We’re moving away from Battle Isle—away from the Hightower itself.”
They walked for what felt like an hour, the air growing heavier with dampness as they went. Then, abruptly, the tunnel opened into a massive cavern.
They slowed their steps, surveying their surroundings. Stalagmites and stalactites jutted from ground and ceiling like the fangs of an ancient beast, and the sound of dripping water echoed across the cavern. Remnants of old wooden support beams—long rotted and crumbling—hinted at some past construction.
Melisandre’s keen gaze fixed on a section of the cavern wall. “There,” she said, pointing. “That part looks man-made.”
Maekar moved closer and pressed a hand against it. Unlike the natural rock, this portion was built with crude masonry—blocks of stone held together by decayed mortar. Beneath the stone, he could see remnants of wooden reinforcement, eroded by time but still holding firm.
“It’s old,” he mused, pressing against it. It didn’t feel particularly sturdy. He stepped back and flexed his shoulders. “With enough force, it should break.”
He slammed his body against the wall. A dull, splintering sound reverberated through the cavern, but the structure held. Gritting his teeth, he reared back and threw himself against it again—and then again. Wood cracked. Stones loosened. Dust rained around him.
With a final, thunderous crash, the weakened barrier gave way. The wooden beams snapped, stones tumbled, and Maekar stumbled through to the other side.
He barely had time to steady himself before finding four very startled, very scarred old maesters staring down at him.
For a beat, silence reigned.
Maekar smirked. “Aha. Just as I thought. We’re in the Citadel.”
The four elderly men gaped, eyes wide with a blend of shock and fear.
“W-Who are you?” one of them stammered, his voice trembling.
Maekar dusted himself off and straightened, standing tall. “Do you not recognize your king?” His tone was firm, but amusement lurked beneath it.
The maesters huddled together, muttering in hushed, agitated whispers. When Melisandre stepped through the broken wall behind him, their fear seemed to deepen.
He turned to the Red Priestess. “Come.”
The maesters offered no resistance as the king and priestess brushed past them. “The Citadel must have lower levels, too,” Maekar observed. “They probably keep their most valuable knowledge here, with only the most senior among them allowed inside.”
They ascended several flights until they emerged into a large library, where Maekar spotted a lone acolyte pulling scrolls from the shelves. The moment the young man saw them, his face went pale.
“Your Grace?” he gasped. “What…what are you doing here?”
Maekar tilted his head. He recognized the boy. “Ah. You’re one of Mace’s cousins, aren’t you? Chose the Citadel over the Wall.”
The young man swallowed nervously. “Y-Yes, Your Grace. I… I am Loren.”
Maekar gave a curt nod. “Well, Loren. Take us outside. We need to return to the Hightower.”
Loren took a shaky breath and bowed quickly. “Y-Yes, Your Grace. At once.”
Wasting no time, he turned and led them toward the nearest exit.
====
Maekar strode out of the Citadel’s grand entrance, passing between the large sphinx statues that stood on either side. He was followed by more maesters than he could count, and the moment he halted, they surrounded him—a sea of gray robes, their faces a mix of confusion and concern.
“Your Grace,” one of the elder maesters spoke first, his wrinkled hands trembling slightly. “How... how did you enter the lower levels?”
A dozen other voices murmured similar questions, their eyes darting between Maekar and Melisandre at his side.
Maekar raised a hand to silence them, his gaze sharp. “Everything will be explained soon, but I must return to the Hightower.”
The gathered maesters shifted uneasily, whispering among themselves, but no one dared argue. Maekar did not linger. With a swift motion, he turned and headed to the stables, Melisandre gliding silently beside him.
Within minutes, they were riding through Oldtown’s winding streets, their horses’ hooves echoing on the cobblestones. The city was alive despite the late hour—merchants packing away their stalls, drunken men stumbling out of taverns, torchlight flickering along every corner. None of it mattered to Maekar.
Ahead, the Hightower rose into the night sky, its beacon shining brightly—a solitary flame illuminating the darkness.
As they neared the fortress gates, the guards on duty gaped in astonishment. One guard stepped forward hesitantly. “Your Grace?” he stammered.
Maekar reined in his horse. “Open the gates,” he ordered curtly. “Now.”
The guards hurried to comply, hauling open the heavy iron gates and allowing Maekar and Melisandre to pass through.
The moment they entered the courtyard, Maekar spotted a group of men assembled near the base of the tower. At the forefront stood Gunthor Hightower, flanked by workers with hammers and armed knights. They seemed ready to descend into the lower levels.
Gunthor froze when he saw Maekar. His eyes widened. “Your Grace!” he exclaimed. “You’re here?”
Maekar raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Where else would I be?”
Gunthor approached, still looking stunned. “Father and the others returned saying you were trapped. We were about to send men to break open the sealed entrance and rescue you.”
Maekar’s expression grew a touch more serious. “Are they still down there?”
Gunthor nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. We were just about to start the search.”
“Tell them to meet me in your father’s solar,” Maekar replied. “I’ll be waiting there.”
Gunthor bowed quickly, then turned to relay Maekar’s command to the others.
Maekar and Melisandre ascended the steps into the Hightower, heading for Leyton’s solar. Inside, the first thing Maekar noticed was a silver pitcher filled with deep red Arbor wine.
He walked over and poured two cups—one for himself and one for Melisandre. He handed her the cup without a word, then took a long sip of his own. He needed it, especially after the night he’d just endured.
It did not take long for the others to arrive.
The doors to the solar burst open with enough force to rattle the hinges. Maekar turned just as Ser Jaime Lannister strode in, his golden hair damp with sweat, relief washing over him the moment he laid eyes on his king.
Maekar smirked. “Miss me, old man?”
Jaime let out a short, breathy laugh, his tension melting away. “You have no idea,” he muttered, moving closer.
Before Jaime could say another word, Maekar pulled him into a firm embrace. The Kingsguard stiffened in surprise for a moment, then clapped Maekar on the back.
“I’m very hard to kill,” Maekar assured him, stepping away with a grin.
Jaime ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I thought I’d failed,” he admitted.
Before Maekar could respond, Leyton’s voice broke through the moment.
“How did you—?” the old lord began, his typically measured tone now edged with astonishment.
Maekar turned to Leyton, his gray eyes sharp. “We reached the lowest level,” he said, pouring another cup of wine before setting the pitcher aside. “And we found another way out. It led to a tunnel—one that opened into the Citadel.”
Leyton’s eyes widened. “The Citadel?”
“You went that deep?” Malora asked, more fascinated than shocked. “And?” She tilted her head, her unruly silver hair catching the light. “Did you find it?”
Maekar met her gaze, then exhaled slowly. “There’s…a lot to talk about.”
====
“King Uthor V’s legend being true—I did not expect that,” Malora said, her eyes gleaming with fascination.
“Oh yes, it was quite the surprise,” Maekar muttered sarcastically, pouring himself another drink.
Jaime, still pale from the story, shook his head. “Your Grace, I take back what I said before,” he admitted, rubbing his temple. “I’m glad I wasn’t able to come with you.”
Leyton folded his hands in front of him. “That explains the First Men runes,” he observed. “They were made centuries after the Long Night, warning of the undead army created by Uthor the Profaned.”
Malora, smiling slyly, reached out and picked up the disk key from the table, turning it over in her hands. “And you said there are three more?”
“Yes,” Maekar confirmed, leaning back in his chair. “One was given to a king in a kingdom of Assuwa, another to a Shepherd King in the Land of Always Summer.”
Leyton let out a long sigh, rubbing his temples. “A Shepherd King,” he repeated. “You know what that means.”
Maekar exhaled wearily, running a hand through his hair. “I hope it’s not there. If it is, then we’re fucked.” He paused. “Valyria… How are we even supposed to find it there?”
Jaime shifted uneasily. “Princess Aerea went to Old Valyria,” he said, his voice cautious.
Maekar snorted. “Yes, and that went well for her,” he replied dryly.
Jaime hesitated before adding, “Didn’t you once say that Euron Greyjoy boasted of exploring it as well?”
Maekar arched an eyebrow. “He could’ve lied,” he pointed out.
As Leyton, Melisandre, and Malora began theorizing about the location of the kingdom of Assuwa and the mysterious Zarnoq, Maekar sat in silence, turning the disk key over in his hands. He was certain he had seen it—or something like it—before. The weight, the design, that snarling dragon…
He closed his eyes, trying to remember.
Then—
A flash of clarity.
His eyes snapped open, and he stood abruptly, the chair scraping across the stone floor.
The room fell silent, everyone turning to look at him.
“We have to go,” Maekar said urgently.
Jaime blinked, startled. “Now?”
“Yes.” Maekar nodded, already heading for the door. “I know where the second key is.”
Leyton’s brow furrowed. “Where?”
Maekar didn’t stop to explain. Instead, he turned to the Lord of the Hightower with firm instructions. “Bring the Citadel in on the research. The ‘grey rats’ are needed more than ever.”
Leyton’s eyes widened slightly. “Are you sure?”
Maekar nodded. “Perhaps it would also be wise to revisit the lowest level. But go through the Citadel entrance—we don’t want to wake any more of the undead.”
Leyton acknowledged this with a slow nod.
Maekar said nothing more. He simply turned, motioning for Jaime and Melisandre to follow. The three of them left Leyton’s solar at a brisk pace, descending into the courtyard and finding horses to speed them through the Hightower’s gates, past the curious stares of guards and onlookers.
Before long, they were clear of the city, riding hard across the fields beyond, where Neferion awaited them.
The massive dragon stretched out across the outskirts of Oldtown, his piercing green eyes tracking Maekar’s approach. Without hesitation, Maekar climbed onto Neferion’s back, settling into the great saddle. Jaime, grumbling under his breath, mounted behind him with far less enthusiasm, while Melisandre assumed her usual place.
Jaime sighed as he adjusted his seat. “You know,” he muttered, “we didn’t even get a chance to eat.”
Maekar smirked, gripping Neferion’s riding chains. “We’re not stopping until we reach Dragonstone,” he warned, “so it’s going to be a long ride.”
Before Jaime could protest, Neferion stirred. The dragon spread his colossal wings and leaped into the sky, a powerful gust of wind flattening the nearby wheat fields and rippling the waters of the Whispering Sound.
They climbed higher and higher, Oldtown receding behind them, Neferion’s wings sweeping through the cool night air, his immense form blotting out the stars. Maekar turned his gaze northeast, focusing on their destination.
Dragonstone.
.
.
.
As dawn broke over Dragonstone, Neferion soared high in the sky alongside the rising sun, his massive wings cutting through the wind like blades. The morning air was crisp, filled with the salty tang of the Narrow Sea as they descended toward the castle.
Maekar guided his dragon lower, sharp eyes searching for the safest spot to land near the castle. With a powerful beat of his wings, Neferion descended sharply, nearly shaking the ancient walls as he settled just outside the fortress.
Maekar, Jaime, and Melisandre dismounted without delay and began their trek up to the castle. Reaching the courtyard, Maekar spotted a group of figures waiting near the steps—Daenerys and Rhaenys, along with Lyonel and several others. They looked as though they had just been roused from sleep.
Daenerys was the first to speak, her violet eyes narrowing as she stepped forward to intercept him.
Why in the Seven Hells did you land Neferion so close to the castle?” she demanded, her tone sharp.
Maekar said nothing, striding past her without a glance. His boots clacked against the stone as he marched purposefully toward the keep.
Daenerys blinked, stunned, before her expression darkened.
“Did you just ignore me?” she yelled after him, clearly unused to being brushed aside.
Beside her, Rhaenys turned to Jaime, who was rubbing his temples with an exhausted sigh.
“What happened?” Rhaenys asked, concern evident in her voice.
Jaime exhaled heavily. “I’m too tired to explain.”
With that, they followed Maekar into the keep.
As Maekar made his way through the stone corridors of Dragonstone, he turned to Lyonel.
“Bring my warhammer to the throne room,” he ordered.
Lyonel gave a quick nod. “At once, Your Grace,” he replied, then hurried away.
“Maekar! Maekar!” Daenerys called after him. “What are you doing?”
By now, the lords in the castle had also awakened, trailing him curiously.
He entered the throne room—Dragonstone’s grand hall, its walls lined with dragon-carved pillars and lit by the flickering glow of torches. The Targaryen throne, carved from obsidian, loomed at the far end; less grand than the Iron Throne, but no less imposing.
Maekar paused for a moment, eyes fixed on the throne as he scanned it, looking for something.
A few moments later, Lyonel arrived, carefully carrying Maekar’s warhammer. He stepped forward and offered it with both hands. Maekar took the weapon, gripping the handle tightly. He rolled his shoulders, exhaling slowly, then raised his gaze to the throne before him—a seat shaped like a dragon, its serpentine form coiling into a seat of dark, volcanic glass.
Behind him, Rhaenys spoke, her confusion evident.
“What in the seven hells are you doing, Maekar?”
Maekar gave no answer.
He strode forward, his boots echoing across the stone floor, and stepped onto the throne itself. The entire court—now gathered in the hall—watched in stunned silence, eyes following their king’s every move.
From this vantage point, Maekar looked up. His sharp gaze locked onto the wall above the throne, where a dragon insignia was engraved in the stone.
His grip on the warhammer tightened.
With a powerful swing, he brought the hammer crashing down against the stone.
A thunderous crack echoed through the throne room as the stone shattered. He struck again, and with a final, grinding groan, the dragon insignia broke free, tumbling from its ancient perch and crashed onto the floor below.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The court stood frozen, expressions wavering between shock and horror at what their king had done.
Daenerys’ voice sliced through the silence.
“Have you gone mad?!” she shouted, her face aflame with fury and disbelief.
Still, Maekar ignored her, his mind locked on a single thought he’d nursed for the past seven hours.
He stepped down from the throne, his boots crunching on broken stone, and bent to pick up the insignia that had fallen. He showed it to Jaime and Melisandre with a triumphant smirk.
“Seven Hells,” Jaime said, awe creeping into his voice. “We don’t have to go to Valyria after all.”
Maekar turned it over in his hand, brushing away dust. The shape… the curve of its edge… the dragon etched into its surface…
It was nearly identical to the circular key he had discovered beneath the Hightower. Meeting Jaime’s and Melisandre’s eyes, he allowed himself a small smile.
“I told you I’d seen it before.”
Comments
mlungisi mguni
Poor Danaerys is literally crashing out in the background 😂😂😂😂
