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108: The Son of Ice and Fire, The Depths of the Hightower pt.2
🕑 Added 2025-02-28 12:51:12 +0000 UTC“Fuck,” he muttered.
Maekar sent a silent prayer to whatever deity or cosmic force had cast him into this world. He already had enough problems—ancient champions of an eldritch outer god, waging war against them for the fate of the realm—and now this. Deep Men. Fish-men. Whatever the fuck they were, he did not have the patience or the will to deal with another eldritch abomination.
From his side, Jaime let out a low whistle as he studied the mural. “Fish-men. Who would’ve thought? Do you think mermaids are real, too?” he quipped.
Maekar did not share his amusement. He deadpanned, “That would be the only silver lining.”
Jaime chuckled.
Before Maekar could speak again, a voice called from across the chamber.
“Your Grace.”
Maekar turned to see Leyton, Malora, and Melisandre gathered near the entrance to the next level, torchlight flickering against the smooth, black stone walls. Something had caught their attention.
He exchanged a glance with Jaime before striding toward them.
Leyton gestured toward the wall, his fingers tracing shallow carvings barely illuminated by the torchlight. “Look, Your Grace. First Men runes.”
Maekar’s brow furrowed as he stepped closer. He reached out, running his fingers over the crude markings. Unlike the intricate and alien reliefs behind them, these were different—simpler, rougher.
Leyton continued, “It seems these were inscribed long after.”
Malora nodded. “Yes. They are far newer than the murals. A later addition, perhaps by our own ancestors, Father.”
Jaime snorted. “So the other murals are ten thousand years old, and these are, what, eight thousand? So much for new.”
Maekar smirked at the joke, then turned his attention back to the runes. He narrowed his eyes, focusing, trying to recall the knowledge buried deep in his mind. The script was crude but decipherable. Slowly, he traced each symbol, whispering the words as he read:
ᚹᛁᛚᛚ ᚲᛟᛗᛖ ᚦᛟᛋᛖ ᚹᚻᛟ ᛞᛖᛋᚲᛖᚾᛞ ᚨᚾᛞ ᛗᛖᛖᛏ ᚦᛖ ᚷᚱᚨᚢᛖ ᛟᚠ ᚹᚨᚱᛒᛟᚾ.
“WILL COME… THOSE WHO DESCEND… MEET THE GRAVE OF WARBORN.”
ᚦᛖ ᛗᛖᛏᚨᛚ ᚳᚨᚦᛖᛞᚱᚨᛚ ᛁᛋ ᚾᛖᚨᚱ, ᛏᚻᛖ ᚺᛟᚢᛋᛖ ᚲᛖᚱᚷᛖᛞ ᚠᚱᛟᛗ ᚲᚨᚱᚱᛁᛟᚾ ᛏᚨᛚᛖᛋ.
“THE METAL CATHEDRAL IS NEAR… THE HOUSE CRAFTED FROM CARRION TALES.”
ᚦᛖ ᚷᚱᛖᚨᛏ ᛞᛖᚨᛞ ᚱᛖᛋᛏ ᚺᛖᚱᛖ, ᚾᛟᛏ ᚦᛖ ᛗᛖᚱᚲᛁᛖᚱ.
“THE FOUL DEAD… REST HERE, NOT THE MERCIFUL.”
ᚲᛖᛖᛈ ᚦᛖ ᛞᛟᛟᚱ ᛋᛖᚨᛚᛖᛞ, ᛚᛖᛏ ᛏᚻᛖ ᛞᛖᚨᛞ ᚾᛖᚢᛖᚱ ᚹᛟᚨᚲᛖᚾ.
“KEEP THE DOOR SEALED… LET THE DEAD NEVER WAKEN.”
Maekar let out a slow breath as the meaning fully settled in.
Jaime frowned. “That’s… not ominous at all.”
Leyton, his expression grave, murmured, “King Uthor the Profaned. His necromantic army is sealed here. The warning is clear.”
Maekar exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Fucking wonderful.”
“So… nothing about this sword we’re looking for, then?” Jaime asked.
Maekar shook his head. “No. Just a fucking warning about doom and death.”
“Do not be so quick to dismiss fate, Your Grace. I can feel it—something is guiding us further inside. Lightbringer is here,” Melisandre declared.
Jaime scoffed, motioning toward the inscription. “It looks like whatever’s down there is some kind of undead army.”
“Maybe,” Maekar allowed, “or maybe it’s just a scare tactic, meant to keep fools from looting whatever the old Hightower kings hoarded down there. Who knows?”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode toward the large entrance where the winding staircase descended deeper into the darkness. The passage yawned before them like the mouth of a beast, its depths swallowing even the flickering torchlight.
Melisandre followed at his side, her crimson robes swirling behind her like flowing embers. “I am certain, my king,” she whispered. “Lightbringer is here. And by the end of this day, you shall wield it. R’hllor will not lead us astray.”
Maekar nodded, though he kept his expression neutral. He wasn’t sure what he believed, but arguing with a fanatic was pointless.
The two of them stepped forward, nearing the entrance—
BOOM.
A deafening crash echoed through the chamber as two enormous slabs of stone, hidden within the walls, slammed shut behind them. Dust and ancient debris rained down from above as the doorway sealed with an unsettling finality.
“Fuck!” Maekar cursed, spinning around, his torch casting frantic shadows over the stone.
From the other side, he heard Jaime’s voice, faint but urgent.
Then—silence.
The thick stone had swallowed all sound, leaving only the distant dripping of water somewhere deep below.
Maekar scowled, running his hands along the stone, searching for any seams, a lever—anything that might trigger the mechanism to reopen it. He pressed his weight against the doors, but they did not budge. Even after slamming his palm against them in frustration, the passage remained sealed.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
Melisandre, unshaken, merely watched. “This is no accident,” she said softly. “It is R’hllor’s will. We are meant to go forward—alone.”
Maekar turned to her, his gaze sharp. “You think this is a sign?” He sounded incredulous.
“I know it is,” she replied without hesitation. “The Lord of Light has chosen you. This path has been laid before us.”
He sighed, his irritation fading into resignation. There was no use standing here, beating at the stone like a fool. Whether by divine intervention or some ancient mechanism, they were sealed in. There was only one way forward.
“Fine,” he muttered. “No point in standing around.”
With a final glance at the sealed entrance, he turned and stepped onto the first stair leading down.
Melisandre followed.
The stone steps beneath them were smooth with age but steep, spiraling downward into the unseen depths of the Hightower. Their descent was slow, careful, the only illumination coming from the torch in Maekar’s grip. Shadows flickered across the walls, revealing strange carvings—twisting, unnatural symbols that neither of them recognized.
The deeper they went, the heavier the air became. It was thick, stale, carrying the scent of dust and something else—something ancient and foul, like rot buried beneath stone.
Yet Melisandre did not waver. Her steps were sure, her faith unwavering.
Maekar, on the other hand, kept his free hand on the hilt of his sword.
He felt that something was waiting for them below.
====
The chamber they stepped into was vast. Maekar’s torchlight flickered against the stone walls, revealing the tattered remnants of banners that hung like specters of a bygone era. The sigils upon them were faded, their colors dulled, and their fabric rotting away. Some bore symbols he recognized—wolves and lions—but the ones that truly caught his attention were those adorned with dragons.
The floor was littered with the remains of desks and chairs, their wooden frames long since crumbled into heaps of splinters. Once-pristine parchments and scrolls had degraded into unreadable scraps, so fragile they disintegrated into dust with the slightest touch.
Maekar reached down and picked up a rusted bronze seal from one of the desks. Its once-detailed engravings were nearly worn smooth, but he could still make out the faint insignia of a dragon curled around the image of a rising sun. Turning it over in his hand, he exhaled.
“Safe to say the Empire of the Dawn was a Valyria before Valyria,” he mused aloud.
Melisandre studied the remnants around them, her red eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “Your ancestors were but shepherds who found dragon eggs,” she said. “Who is to say that is the only thing they found? Perhaps they discovered something like this in the old ruins near the Fourteen Flames—its knowledge, its secrets—and built upon it.”
Maekar nodded slowly. “That would explain a great deal. How simple shepherds suddenly became the most powerful empire in recent memory.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the sight of a massive iron door at the far end of the chamber. Its surface was darkened with age, the metal rusted but still imposing. Carved into the stone wall beside it were inscriptions—not in the script of the Dawn Empire, but in something far more familiar:
The runes of the First Men.
ᛏᚺᛁᛋ ᛁᛋ ᚨ ᚹᚨᚱᚾᛁᚾᚷ
ᛏᚻᛖᚱᛖ ᛁᛋ ᚾᛟ ᛏᚱᛖᚨᛋᚢᚱᛖ, ᛟᚾᛚᚤ ᛞᛖᚨᛏᚺ
ᚹᚨᛁᛏᛋ ᚠᛟᚱ ᚤᛟᚢ ᛒᛖᛚᛟᚹ
ᚲᛖᛖᛈ ᛏᚻᛖ ᛞᛟᛟᚱ ᛋᛖᚨᛚᛖᛞ
ᛟᚱ ᛏᚱᚢᛚᚤ, ᛞᛁᛖ ᛚᛁᚳᛖ ᛏᚻᛟᛋᛖ ᚹᚻᛟ ᚲᚩᛗᛖ ᛒᛖᚠᛟᚱᛖ ᚤᛟᚢ
Maekar ran his fingers over the runes, reading them aloud in a quiet voice:
“A warning.
There is no treasure, only death.
Waits for you below.
Keep the door sealed…
Or truly, die like those who came before you.”
“Again,” he muttered, “no mention of Lightbringer. Just whatever Uthor the Profaned created.”
His grip tightened on the rusted handle of the iron door. He braced himself, set his feet, and—with a grunt of effort—pushed. The metal groaned in protest, rusted hinges shrieking as the door slowly gave way. Dust billowed from the unseen depths beyond, carrying with it an ancient staleness that reeked of something long undisturbed.
A wide, spiraling staircase stretched downward into the abyss.
Maekar took the first step.
Melisandre followed without hesitation.
They stepped off the stairs onto the third level, which was eerily empty—a mirror of the second, yet devoid of any life or remnants of purpose. Its vast halls stretched into darkness, with stone thrones lining a grand chamber at its heart. Dust lay thick over them, undisturbed for millennia. There were no corpses, no bones—just empty seats, as if their occupants had long since faded into history.
Neither Maekar nor Melisandre lingered. There was nothing to be found here, nothing to learn. With steady steps, they descended once more, deeper into the abyss.
The fourth level was different.
The moment they stepped into the chamber, a wave of decay filled Maekar’s nostrils—thick and choking.
They stood in an ancient library. Rows upon rows of towering shelves filled the vast space, stretching from floor to ceiling, each packed with books, scrolls, and parchments. But the weight of millennia had not been kind. The paper was brittle, eaten away by dust and time, their words reduced to unreadable fragments. The slightest movement sent pieces crumbling to dust, their secrets vanishing before their eyes.
Melisandre ran a hand over the ruined tomes, her ruby glinting faintly in the dim torchlight. “So much wisdom… lost,” she whispered, her voice tinged with regret.
Maekar’s gaze swept the chamber. His eyes flickered to the corners of the vast library, where bronze statues loomed, carved in the likeness of dragons, their wings spread wide. At the far end of the chamber, near the entrance to yet another stairway, he and Melisandre found something more unsettling.
More First Men runes:
ᛏᚺᛁᛋ ᛁᛋ ᛏᚻᛖ ᚠᛁᚾᚨᛚ ᛋᛖᚨᛚ
ᛏᚻᛖ ᛈᚱᛟᚠᚨᚾᛖᛞ ᛗᛖᚾ ᚱᛖᛋᛏ ᛞᛟᚹᚾ ᚦᛖᚱᛖ
ᛞᛟ ᚾᛟᛏ ᛋᛖᛏ ᛏᚻᛖᛁᚱ ᚢᚾᚦᛟᛚᛚᚤ ᚚᛟᛟᛞ
ᛁᚠ ᚤᛟᚢ ᛟᛈᛖᚾ ᛏᚺᛁᛋ ᛞᛟᛟᚱ, ᛚᛟᚾᚷ ᚨᚠᛏᛖᚱ ᛚᛁᚷᚺᛏ ᚹᛁᛚᛚ ᚠᚨᛚᛚ
ᛏᚻᛖ ᚤᛟᚢ ᚲᚨᚾ ᚾᛟᛏ ᛋᛏᛟᛈ ᚺᛁᛗ ᛏᚻᚨᛏ ᛁᛋ ᛚᚨᚨᚦᛖᛞ
Maekar ran his fingers over the carvings, reading them aloud:
“This is the final seal.
The Profaned Men rest down there.
Do not set their unholy blood free.
If you open this door, long after light will fall.
You cannot stop him that is…”
He could almost hear what Jaime would have said: “Another warning, another pile of cryptic bullshit.”
Maekar turned to the iron door. This one was heavier than the last, rusted shut. He rolled his shoulders, bracing himself. Then he pushed. The metal groaned, its rusted hinges screaming in protest. He gritted his teeth, veins bulging, muscles straining with the effort. The door did not yield easily.
“Ahhhhhh!”
With a final roar of exertion, Maekar threw his full weight into it. The iron door jerked, then, with a violent lurch, it swung open. Dust and stagnant air burst forth, carrying with it a musty, ancient stench.
Melisandre stepped closer. She gazed at him, her voice smooth and unwavering. “You truly are blessed with strength, my king.”
Maekar exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “I think I pulled something.”
Together, they stepped forward, down the winding staircase.
====
As they descended deeper, each footstep echoed unnaturally against the stone walls—echoes lingering longer than they should, as though the darkness itself whispered back to them.
Then, the whispers began.
Faint, distorted, like voices submerged beneath deep water. They twisted and curled through the air, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once—words in no language Maekar recognized, slithering through his mind, alien and wrong.
The torch in his hand sputtered, its flame barely holding against the oppressive blackness. It cast a flickering, uneven light that stretched their shadows unnaturally along the cold stone walls. Everything beyond the fire’s feeble glow was consumed by absolute darkness.
He clenched his jaw and pushed forward. Eventually, the descent ended.
Before them stretched a vast chamber—the largest yet. But unlike the grand halls above, this one felt…wrong. The torchlight barely reached the far walls, leaving most of the room shrouded in shadow. The ceiling soared overhead, vanishing into the void.
Maekar took another step, and his torchlight revealed them.
Sarcophagi.
Stone caskets, thick and ancient, lined the chamber in tight rows. Their surfaces were adorned with strange carvings and sigils, worn by time but still faintly visible. Some stood upright against the walls like silent sentinels, while others lay flat on raised platforms, their lids sealed shut. In the torchlight’s flicker, the shadows they cast seemed to shift, as if they might be stirring.
Maekar exhaled, his breath visible in the chamber’s unnatural chill.
“Well, it looks like the legend of Uthor the Profaned was real after all.”
He moved cautiously, torch held high, its light barely illuminating the nearest casket. His fingers brushed along the stone. He counted as he moved, eyes narrowed.
“…Not much of an army,” he muttered.
Melisandre did not share his skepticism. Her ruby pulsed, a faint glow against the darkness. Her voice was hushed. “I feel it. Dark sorcery lingers here, my king. This place is steeped in it.”
Before Maekar could respond, a sound shattered the silence.
A deep, grinding groan of stone against stone.
He froze.
The torch trembled in his grip, light dancing wildly as one of the sarcophagi near them shook. A low, hollow thud echoed through the chamber as the lid shifted.
Then—
Boom.
The lid crashed to the ground, splintering into jagged fragments.
“Fuck,” Maekar hissed, stepping back as he drew Blackfyre free of its sheath. He barely had time to steady himself before a horrid, dry rasping sound filled the air—like ancient lungs trying to remember how to breathe.
Another casket shifted.
And another.
Their lids slammed against the stone, one after another.
Beyond the torch’s glow, movement stirred. Shadows writhed where no light touched. From the depths of the caskets, figures began to rise. These were not like the wights beyond the Wall—mindless corpses reanimated by the Others. Their flesh was tight, mummified, clinging to bone in a way that suggested preservation rather than mere decay. Their eyes glowed like embers, flickering with eerie intelligence. Rusted armor of a bygone age clung to their emaciated forms—armor of the First Men, inscribed with old sigils and patterns.
And in their skeletal hands, they gripped bronze weapons.
A sudden gust of air, ripe with the scent of dust and death, swept through the chamber, making the torch’s flame falter. Shadows danced across the walls, stretching unnaturally. Beyond the small circle of light, more sarcophagi stirred in the darkness.
Maekar tightened his grip on Blackfyre.
“Good thing I decided to wear my armor,” he muttered, shifting his stance as the undead closed in.
The first one lunged, its bronze sword flashing in the weak light. Maekar barely managed to raise his torch, jamming it into the creature’s face.
Whoosh.
The dried flesh ignited immediately, flames racing across its skull, illuminating hollow eye sockets as it let out a shrieking, rasping howl. It staggered back, clawing at its burning face—but another adversary was already upon Maekar.
He pivoted, Blackfyre singing as it cleaved through the second undead’s midsection. The ancient armor posed little resistance—Valyrian steel sheared through rusted bronze and brittle ribs, splitting the creature in two.
Clang!
A third rose to Maekar’s left, its curved bronze blade slashing at his flank. He barely managed to raise his gauntlet in time to deflect the blow, the force driving him back a step. The undead pressed the advantage, sword raised for another strike.
Snarling, Maekar twisted Blackfyre’s grip in his fist and drove the torch into the creature’s chest. Though flames flared, it did not stop. It swung again, and Maekar met the blade with his sword. Sparks flew, and the clang of metal rang through the chamber.
They were everywhere now—more lids scraping aside, more ancient dead shuddering to life. A rasping hiss sounded behind him. Maekar turned just in time to see another undead creature rising, skeletal fingers reaching out—
Suddenly, a deep, commanding voice cut through the chaos.
“Azor Ahai! The flame is with you—R’hllor is with you!”
Melisandre raised her hands, her ruby necklace glowing brighter than ever. Ancient words poured from her lips in a rhythmic chant.
The torch in Maekar’s hand exploded.
A ribbon of fire shot from its tip, twisting and writhing like a living thing. It surged through the air, drawn to Melisandre’s outstretched hands, gathering at her fingertips in a swirling mass of white-hot flame.
With a cry, she thrust her arms forward.
A great wave of fire roared across the chamber, engulfing the nearest undead in a torrent of scorching light. They shrieked, their parched, ancient flesh igniting instantly. Some tried to retreat, stumbling into the shadows, but the fire was merciless—it followed them, consuming them where they stood.
Renewed vigor coursed through Maekar. He surged forward, Blackfyre cleaving through the neck of another foe. Its head toppled free as flames licked at its armor. Another lurched forward, and he rammed his torch into its exposed chest, sending it tumbling into the inferno.
The chamber was ablaze now—wild, twisting flames cast dancing shadows on the stone walls, illuminating every horror the ancient dead could offer.
Maekar saw them still coming. More lids crashed to the ground, more of the Profaned King’s undead army rising from their tombs.
Melisandre, her hands still wreathed in flame, stepped beside him. “R’hllor is with us, my king. The dead will not claim us this night.”
As the last of the first wave of undead crumbled into ash, Maekar let out a sigh of relief. The battle had been brutal, but it wasn’t over—not yet.
“Hand me your sword, my king,” Melisandre requested, stepping forward.
“You want my sword?”
She extended her hands. “I will bestow R’hllor’s blessing upon it.”
He handed it over.
Melisandre took the greatsword reverently, holding it out before her with both hands. She closed her eyes, her lips moving in silent prayer.
Then—
A surge of fire erupted along the length of Blackfyre, dancing and writhing like a living thing. The dark steel was wreathed in flame, its edges glowing with the heat of a forge. The air around it shimmered, waves of heat distorting the chamber.
Melisandre turned the burning blade over in her hands, admiring it, before offering it back to Maekar. He took it, feeling the warmth radiating through his gauntlets. A slow grin spread across his face.
“Well, this ought to make things easier.”
The second wave of the undead stirred. More lids slid from sarcophagi, more ember-eyed warriors dragging themselves free, weapons raised.
Maekar surged forward. Blackfyre—now wreathed in fire—sliced through them like parchment.
The first undead to meet his blade erupted in flames at the sword’s touch, its armor glowing red-hot before the body collapsed into embers. A second lunged—Maekar twisted, Blackfyre carving a burning arc through its midsection. The creature let out a shrieking rasp as its ribs split apart, flames spilling from the wound like molten gold.
Melisandre stood behind him, raising her hands once more. Gouts of fire burst from her palms, striking the undead in blasts of holy flame. One, two, three of the mummified warriors were engulfed, their dried flesh igniting instantly.
Maekar fought like the avatar of R’hllor himself, his burning sword severing limbs, cutting through armor, and setting the dead alight wherever it struck. One tried to flank him—he reversed his grip, stabbing backward through its chest. The moment Blackfyre entered its body, fire burst from its eyes and mouth, consuming it from the inside out.
Another leaped at him from the side—he barely had time to react. Before it could strike, a pillar of flame from Melisandre’s hand blasted it midair, reducing it to charred bones before it even hit the ground.
It was over within minutes.
Maekar stood in the center of the chamber, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. The undead lay scattered around him. But the fire surrounding them had not stopped. Ancient banners hanging from the walls were ablaze, flames licking at the stone ceiling. Smoke thickened, filling the chamber. The dry parchment and wooden remnants from above were feeding the inferno, turning the once-dark depths into a suffocating hell of heat and ash.
Maekar coughed, eyes stinging. “Fuck.”
Melisandre stepped beside him, her face serene despite the exhaustion of her magic. “We must go, my king. The fire will claim this place soon.”
He nodded. No point arguing.
At the far end of the chamber, he saw a massive iron door—similar to the one they’d come through.
“Let’s go!” Maekar shouted.
They ran.
Reaching the iron door, Maekar slammed his shoulder against it, forcing it open just as flames roared behind them. The heat pressed at their backs like a living thing, driving them forward. He wasted no time in hauling the door shut, sealing the burning chamber behind them.
Maekar turned, breathing heavily. The corridor ahead stretched downward—no way back now. Gripping Blackfyre, still wreathed in flames and lighting the path, he muttered:
“Let’s hope there’s another way out.”
