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Chapter Text

The sky shines brightly this day, though an easterly wind blows the halls of the throne room. Men in rough spun and armor hauled stones across the shattered throne room, voices echoing beneath scaffolds and half-mended walls. Paint clung fresh to the columns where flames had once danced, a pale whitewash that tried to erase the black soot of memory. Sculptors carve the walls to design the reign of a new era.

The former Targaryen throne room of the Red Keep, once the pinnacle of the royalty and supremacy, the throne room originally a camp of wooden stakes and walls where Boris Baratheon crowned Aegon Targaryen as ruler of the 7 kingdoms. The throne room where once stood the iron throne, forged from the flames of Balerion the Dreaded, the most powerful and feared dragon in Westeros history, with the swords of all the defeated opponents of Aegon Conquest. Now, lies a broken hall just like Harenhall, vanquished by dragon fire, in the fury of Daenerys Targaryen. Its walls destroyed, the glasses shattered, and the iron throne, once a remainder of the power of the Targaryen's, now completely melted, unable to withstand the despair and hatred of Drogon over the death of his mother.

In the refurbish side of the hall, in a wheelchair lies Bran the Broken, First of His Name, King of the Andal's and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. His head lies looking at the sky, though his eyes are pale white.

“Can’t believe it’s been 5 years since the battle of the Red Keep.” Ser Podrick says, seeing the rebuilding of the hall. “Rebuilding the castle has gone quite well despite all the troubles in the realm.”

“Lord Tyrion has been hard at work, focusing on the reconstruction of Kings Landing.  Although I have seen him often argue with Ser Bronn on the account of money and such.” Ser Zayen responds.

Podrick Payne, stands on the right-hand side of the King, glistering in golden cloak and armor, hand resting atop the pommel of his sword. No longer the timid young man he once was, a rugged warrior with a stern look on his face, but still the kind-hearted individual he is. On the other side stands Zayen Martell, a new young member of the Kingsguard, quite handsome yet a bold individual.

“Still rebuilding after all this time," said Ser Zayen Martel, his voice low and marked by the sands of Sunspear. "The palace feels like a dying beast trying to regrow its own bones."

Podrick gave a small nod. “Better bones than ashes.”

“You don’t often talk about your life before arriving in Kings Landing” Podrick pondered while looking at Zayen.

Ser Zayen ran his fingers over a fresh-carved banister. "When I was a boy, I used to sneak into the Water Gardens. The guards never looked for bastards among the lilies. My mother said I had Doran's eyes but my father's fire. I suppose this is what that fire got me — a sword, and a place beside a king who doesn’t speak.”

Podrick offered a half-smile. "You’re not the first bastard to stand guard here. You’ll not be the last."

Zayen laughed a little and then looked towards the throne. "What do you think he sees, when he stares like that?"

Ser Podrick’s eyes did not move. “I don’t know. And I hope I never do.”

Charred corpses stretched endlessly, mouths agape in frozen agony. Some were burned black and smoking. Others were pale and rimmed with frost. Ravens circled overhead, silent in the sky without wind. Bran Stark, The current king of Westeros and last of the Greenseer, stands alone in the field. He moved forward, gliding rather than walking, his long cloak dragging behind him. In the distance rose a strange tree — a Weirwood, but grotesquely altered. Its roots blazed with crimson fire, hissing and spitting ash into the air. Yet its branches were sheathed in ice, heavy and glistening, unmoving.

Bran turned, and saw two figures across the field. One shimmered in heat, skin glowing like molten steel, hair a river of fire. The other moved with frost clinging to its limbs, every breath turning the air to mist. Their faces were blurred — not human, not quite.

They charged each other. When they met, the world screamed. Flame and frost collided, and from the explosion came light — not golden, but white-hot and eternal. It swallowed everything.

He gasped.

Bran’s body trembled, beads of sweat rolling down his brow. His hand clutched the armrest of his throne.

“Your Grace?” came Ser Podrick’s voice, cautious but firm.

Bran blinked once. Then again. The light of the vision faded from his pupils.

“No,” Bran whispered, catching his breath. “I’m fine. Take me to the Small Council.”

Ser Zayen moved forward, joining Ser Podrick at the throne. Together, they wheeled the King forward. The rebuilt floor of the throne room creaked beneath them.

As the doors opened, Bran turned his head slightly, speaking so softly they almost missed it.

“I fear the song of ice and fire is yet to be completed.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 – The Hand and The Crown

The Red Keep stood almost reborn new, though its walls, despite being rebuilt anew, still bore the marks of flame and claw. Stone by stone, Westeros’s great seat of power was being remade – not just by brick and mortar, but in its very fabric of rule and govern. Beneath the vaulted ceilings of the newly restored small council chamber, the kingdoms finest advisors gather to discuss the future.

Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King, sat at the head of the newly polished table, idly tapping the quill in between his fingers. Although his face appeared aged, but still marked by his wits. Years of reading and serving many rulers, have expanded his horizon of knowledge.

“Well, I daresay it’s not often we all get together and discuss matters without trying to kill each other. A welcome change I say!”, with a bit of sarcasm in his voice.

“Considering the fact that many small council members in the past often have succeeded in killing or threatened to kill each other, I’d say as welcoming as it is, isn’t it Lord Tyrion” Lord Davos Seaworth, Master of ships added, a nod to Tyrion ‘s past.

“Let’s leave the past as it is Ser Davos” with chuckle in his voice.

There are slight giggles and chuckles heard throughout the chamber. The chamber where once, each often tried to overthrow one another, has come far indeed. Although not entirely.

“Very well, let’s begin shall we? Lady Rhaenys, how fares the rebuilding of the royal army?”

Lady Rhaenys Caron, the new Master of War, leaned forward with a rare smile. A stern woman in her early forties, Rhaenys wore her black hair bound tightly in a braid, her armor polished and adorned with the sigil of House Caron—a nightingale in flight, whose house served as bannermen for House Baratheon. Her eyes, sharp as the steel she bore, betrayed a soldier’s discipline.

“Our knightly orders have been consolidated,” she reported. “Discipline is returning. The Gold Cloaks are no longer a mob of drunkards. We’ve begun training a core of professional soldiers under direct crown oversight. The city is safer, and the Reach has offered fresh grain levies to feed the camps.”

“Well done my lady” replied Tyrion with a smile. “It’s refreshing to know a sword not being just used to stab someone’s back for once.”

Grand Maester Samwell adjusted his chain, nodding along. Now fuller in face and rounder in form, Sam retained the earnestness of his youth.

 “I’ve received ravens from several citadels expressing renewed interest in cooperation. Healing houses are open again. And with Lord Edric’s help, we’ve begun compiling the first full codex of laws since before the Targaryen Conquest.”

“Finally,” said Lord Edric Hightower, voice calm and clear.

A composed man of middle age with a neatly trimmed beard and scholarly robes lined with green and silver, Edric carried the bearing of a noble raised in the halls of Oldtown by the Hightowers.

“Written law, not lords’ moods, must guide justice. We owe it to the realm. The Faith has pledged scribes to assist the effort.”

 “Sounds like a lot of scrolls and not much action.” Ser Bronn grunted. Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, one a sellsword in the service of Tyrion, now the Master of Coin.

“I’d rather trust ink than your sword, Ser Bronn,” Lord Edric replied coolly.

 “And yet, when things go wrong, it’s not scrolls that bleed and shit themselves.” Ser Bronn gave a sharp grin.

The anger within Lord Edric was visible in his face, while Ser Bronn sat casually, sipping wine from a cup, smiling. Before tensions could rise further, Ser Davos Seaworth spoke, his voice steady and grounded. The former smuggler turned Lord of the Tides wore no jewels, only a worn surcoat marked by the stag of House Baratheon.

“We’ve eh….re-established shipping lanes with White Harbor and the Stormlands. Trade is flowing again, slow but sure. Salted fish from Sisterton, lumber from the Kingswood. The ports are alive again. People are working. Eating. That’s what matters. Even the free cities of Astaphor, Yunkai, Meridian, Volantis and even Braavos have agreed to begin trade with us.”

On the far right side of the table sits Nyra Velmont, Master of Whisperers, crossed her legs and laced her fingers. Draped in a flowing robe of shadow-dyed silk, Nyra was a lithe, olive-skinned woman whose eyes glimmered with mischief and secrets. A former street performer and spy from Braavos, she moved like a shadow and smiled like someone who always knew more than she let on.

“And the word on the streets matches your reports, Ser Davos. The people aren’t whispering rebellion anymore. They’re whispering curiosity. Uncertainty. But not fear.” Nyra says.

“Aha, a marked improvement then.” Lord Tyrion said. “The months of negotiations have turned fruitful.”

Brienne of Tarth, standing tall in her white cloak, finally spoke. Towering and broad-shouldered, the Lady Commander of the Kingsguard radiated honor and stoic strength.

“Peace is fragile, but it holds. The roads are patrolled. Lawlessness is down. The oath I swore to serve the realm—it's finally feeling worth something.”

“And yet, the rumours about the Ironborn and Dorne are deeply pressing.” Lord Edric said.

“What can you tell about these rumours, Lady Nyra?” Lord Tyrion inquired.

“Based on what my people…forgive me, informants have found out is that there are multiple reports of envoys arriving at the iron islands, nearby smaller houses who are slowly shifting their loyalty towards the Ironborn. An increase in construction of warships is also being sighted. While in Dorne, its silent. Unsettlingly silent.. My informants are having a hard time trying to gain intel from the city. There is unrest on both these frontiers” Lady Nyra replied.

“Let them grumble. If they challenge the realm again, they’ll find us stronger than before.” Lady Rhaenys roared.

“That’s assuming they fear strength more than starvation,” Ser Davos countered. “The Reach is rich, yes—but not all regions fared so well. We’ve still got holdfasts eating rats. I’d wager feeding the realm buys more peace than blades.”

“Sentiment is noble,” Lord Edric replied, “but without law and order to enforce stability, no breadbasket will keep the wolves at bay.”

 “You two should marry. Starve ‘em with sermons and rules.” Ser Bronn leaned back with a scoff.

“Enough. Let’s not devolve into tavern squabbling. The realm needs direction, not jest.” Lady Brienne cut in.

 “And yet, jest might be all that keeps us from drawing steel.” Lady Nyra’s smile.

Lord Tyrion raised a hand to steady the mood. “Let’s not forget, we all want the same thing: survival. Rebuilding a realm doesn’t happen overnight. And no one here drinks enough to make it painless.”

At that moment, the heavy doors opened. King Bran the Broken entered in his wheeled chair, pushed silently by a royal attendant, with Ser Podrick and Ser Zayen by his side. The room fell into respectful quiet as he rolled to his place at the head of the council table.

His gaze swept the room, and though he said nothing at first, his presence carried weight. Eyes seemingly unfocused, yet all-seeing.

“Your Grace,” Lord Tyrion said, rising slightly.

“Lord Tyrion, forgive me for being late, I was occupied for a while.” King Bran said.

“Nonsense your Grace, we are aware of your responsibilities.” Lord Tyrion replied.

As all the council members sat down, King Bran requested, “What are the updates of all the endeavours throughout the kingdom, Lord Tyrion?”

“Well as of now, your Grace, we are glad to inform you that the realm is improving. The royal army is being trained and maintained as planned. The trades routes and agreements are all coming in place. The city itself is slowly recovering as well. Although there are a few issues regarding the Ironborn and the……” Lord Tyrion spoke, detailing all said in the meeting.

But Bran attention goes elsewhere. What is his vision supposed to mean? Who are the two figures of fire and ice? What does the elemental weirwood tree represent? Wasn’t the chaos supposed to have ended? And why does he feel a sense of impending doom approaching?

The council looks on as Tyrion recounts everything. Lady Rhaenys stares at Ser Zayen Martell. For far too long has she been distrustful of the Dornish. She fears whether Zayen is nothing but a spy.

“Can’t imagine what made you consider choosing this traitorous Dornish bastard as a Kingguards, Lady Brienne.” Lady Rhaneys smirked.

“I know you have your issues with dorne, but the Hand of the King choose him for a reason. Besides, I know the young man. He is strong, devoted, eager and loyal to a fault, and a even finer swordman. Paired with Ser Podrick, our King is as safe as he gets.” Lady Brienne whispered.

Ser Zayen offered a courteous smile, but Rhaenys’s eyes held only disdain.

“Your Grace…?” Lord Tyrion asked as he finished recounting everything.

King Bran listened, distant. “Good. The realm lives. I thank you all for everything you have done.”

“It is our honor to serve the realm, your Grace.” Grand Maestor Samwell replied. Everyone else nodded as well.

“I have witnessed a famine approaching soon across the Reach and the South. Ser Samwell, coordinate with Ser Bronn and Lord Edric to prepare for it.”

“You have our word, your Grace. No ones going to starve to death.” Ser Bronn added. Tyrion gave a disapproving look, to which Bronn smirked.

Then, in that soft, unnerving tone that silenced the room, King Bran added, “But there is something else. I have seen a shadow across the land. Something old stirs.”

A hush fell.

Lady Rhaenys leaned forward. “Do you speak of war, your Grace?”

Bran’s eyes seemed to gaze through her. “Not war as you know it.”

Lady Nyra frowned. “Something beyond the wall, your Grace?”

“No,” King Bran replied. “Something beyond the realm.”

Murmurs rose, unease flickering in expressions. Everyone now has a nervous look on their faces. They were often used to the cryptic messages the King would often say. But this was different.

 “Seven hells. Here we go again.” Ser Bronn muttered under his breath.

Grand Maestor Samwell looked deeply troubled. “Do we act, Your Grace?”

King Bran didn’t answer. He simply turned his chair slightly, his voice calm. “Prepare. What is hidden will come to light.”

He wheeled away slowly, leaving a chill in the air.

The council sat in silence for a moment. Then the mood shifted.

Lady Rhaenys slapped her gauntlet on the table. “What in the fuck does that even mean? Shadows? Beyond the realm? We’ve fought ice, fire, and madness, are we supposed to chase ghosts now?”

Lord Edric narrowed his eyes. “If the King has foreseen something, it is not to be dismissed.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ser Bronn said. “You’d throw a book at it and hope it runs away. I’d like to know what we’re actually dealing with before we shit ourselves.”

Lady Nyra leaned forward, her voice quiet but sharp. “If something stirs, we’ll know it soon enough. But panic now and we undo everything we’ve built.”

Lady Brienne looked around, calm but firm. “We should investigate. Quietly. Discreetly.”

“Discreetly?” Ser Davos scoffed. “Half the smallfolk are still rebuilding. If word of ‘shadows’ gets out, we’ll have riots in Flea Bottom.”

“Have faith in our King. His visions have guided us all this long and not once did he fail us. Give him time.” Lord Edric said.

“And if that fails, what then? You’ll light a candle and pray the Seven fart out a miracle?” Ser Bronn mockingly replied.

“OH CHOKE ON YOUR OWN BLOOD, SELLSWORD!” Lord Edric roared back.

“Please maintain yourselves everyone!” Lady Brienne stands up as a wall between Lord Edric and Ser Bronn, who has stood up and walking towards Lord Edric.

The chamber erupts into chaos as everyone shouts and screams at each other.

“So much for peace and quite.” Lady Nyra whispered, laughing.

“ENOUGH!” Lord Tyrion rose, screaming at the top of his lungs. “We are not children shouting in the dark. The King speaks in riddles because his sight spans beyond ours. It’s not for us to panic—but to prepare. Calmly. Together.”

The shouts and screams stop at once. Slowly all the lords and ladies sit down calmly. Decades of guidance has given Tyrion the power the command the presence of an entire room of powerful individuals.

He sat down. “Let’s not waste the fragile peace we’ve bled for on fear. We move forward. Eyes open. Ears open. And if anything stirs beyond, beneath, across or even above the realm, we’ll be ready.”

The tension eased, if only slightly.

“Well, if the so called Seven are there,” Ser Bronn muttered. “Helps us all”

“Now that all this has been cleared off, I now disperse the council meeting”

And with that, each member of the council slowly exits the chamber, with only Tyrion remaining.

“Something beyond the realm…” Tyrion murmured, “What is hidden will come to light. I sure could have used your guidance, old friend.” Tyrion said, while remembering Varys. He glanced at the empty chair across from his, where once a spider spun webs. He then slowly taps the table in a rhythm and finally walks out the chamber.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 – The Silk Phantom and Bastard of Dorne

The moonlight hit just right in the Red Keep.

Nyra Velmont sat alone in her chambers, the former base of operations of Varys, the late Master of Whisperers. The room had been rebuilt after the destruction wrought by Daenerys Targaryen — a chamber nestled beneath the Tower of the Hand, now adorned with scrolls, maps, and curling parchment illuminated by a dim oil-lamp. She has been the Master of Spies for 4 years now, earning her nickname The Ever Knowing Shadow. It was due this influence she had that Lord Tyrion himself recommended her to the King. In her hand, an ink-tipped quill tapped against the desk in rhythmic impatience. She was waiting — for something. Or someone.

Her mind wandered. Back to Braavos. Back to her beginnings.

She was the only daughter of a spice merchant and a herbalist. Her early years had been quiet, almost normal. That peace shattered when her father was killed in a ship fire during a pirate raid. She was eight. Her mother, broken by grief or desperation, disappeared soon after — rumor had it she joined the Red Temple. Nyra never found out the truth.

Alone and unprotected, she scraped by on the streets. She survived by performing in squares and alleys — songs and dances that blended grace with impossible flexibility. She was a spectacle. Her most daring feats involved juggling knives while singing haunting melodies in two tongues. But street fame offered no shield from danger.

One night, as she packed her props in a quiet alley, a drunken man cornered her. His breath stank of rot and lust. He grabbed her, forced her back into the shadows, intent on having his way.

“Please….Stop, let me go I beg of you!” Nyra screamed, begging for her life.

“QUITE YOU LITTLE CUNT!” The man screamed as he slapped Nyra across the face. “Always wondered what a little girl tasted like…” he said as he slowly took off his pants and bent down towards her.

But Nyra always carried a blade in her sleeve. Desperation lent her strength — she slashed his throat open in a single, trembling motion. She watched the life leave his eyes, the blood pooling in the dark.

“Do not be frightened, child. You chose to survive rather than surrender.”

A voice had spoken from behind her.

She turned and saw a woman in a dark cloak, her hood drawn back to reveal eyes as bright as the morning sun.

“Take my hand,” the woman said.

Nyra followed. Down a stone stair. Through a hidden tunnel. Into a massive, torch-lit chamber beneath Braavos — where warriors sparred in silence and scribes translated ancient scripts. The columns were inscribed in forgotten languages, the walls lined with maps and prophecies.

“What is this place?” she had asked, stunned.

“Enter and you shall find out,” the woman said.

The sound of a crow broke her reverie — a sharp, gurgling croak from the window.

Nyra turned at once and rushed to the bird, untying the scroll from its leg. The seal confirmed everything — a silver flame, ringed in frost. It was from the Order. The one she had walked away from... or tried to.

She broke the wax with the edge of her Braavosi blade and unfolded the tight parchment. It was written in a mix of cipher and flowing High Valyrian. Her lips moved as she translated aloud:

“The Veil stirs in silence. Neither fire nor ice, but a void. Beneath the weeping stone, the eye begins to open.”

Nyra’s hand trembled.

The Veil — not a legend, then. Not a memory. It was here. And it had woken. Flashes of the past run through her mind. Stories of a time before man even existed. Stories told to her by her mentor. Hastily, she got up with the scroll and rushed out the door to the Lord Tyrion, with her guards closely behind her. As she approaches the Hands chamber.

“The Hand wishes no one to disturb him as he is in discussion with the master of ships and coin.” The guard posted outside his chamber spoke.

“You care to know how things would turn out if you dared to stop the Master of Spies?” Nyra answered.

All four guards place their hands on the hilts of their swords, while Nyra with the hidden blade in her sleeve.

“Forgive me my Lady” The guardsman spoke as he opened the doors to the chamber.

“Did I no precisely tell you not to let anyone in until…” Lord Tyrion spoke as he turned around with Ser Davos beside him. “Oh, Lady Nyra, a quite bizarre to behold at this time of the night.”

“Well, considering the fact she is the literal definition of the night owl, one can assume she is awake at this time as well.” Ser Davos chuckled.

“Aie, that is certain, none the less.”

“Forgive me Lords for barging in at such a time but I have an urgent ma..” Lady Nyra spoke.

 “A moment Lady Nyra” Lord Tyrion intervened, while he poured a glass of wine for Lady Nyra. “Ser Davos was about to raise a toast to celebrate the chain of successes we have achieved since beginning of this new era.”

“A toast to the new era of peace and stability. May it last long and prosper to the end of times, or till the day my heart gives in to deaths embrace.”

“A fine toast indeed Ser Davos” Lord Tyrion responded as all three raised their cups and sipped the wine.

“As much fun as this is, Lord Tyrion if I may..” Lady Nyra spoke.

“Bloody cunt, that some shit wine!” Ser Bronn shouted ass he swallowed the wine.

“That is Dornish Red, one of the few finest wines across the six kingdoms.” Ser Davos responded.

“That title belongs to the Arbor Gold, made on the coast of an island ruled by House Redwyne” Lord Tyrion spoke.

“Nevertheless, I do find the taste of Red quite well. Although, I do remember a wine I once drank in the north during Stannis’s campaign there.” Ser Davos said.

“Mulled Wine, a bit on the spicier side of things.” Lord Tyrion responded.

Ser Bronn responded, “Aye, that tasted like horse shit. Perhaps some Summerwine from the fields of HighGarden might fix your taste in quality…”

“My LORDS!” screamed Lady Nyra, with a voice that forced the entire room to silence. “As much as I would love to join in on this celebration, there is a much more pressing matter at hand. Lord Tyrion, you need to see this.” As she hands forward the scroll to Lord Tyrion.

He takes it, with the joy in his face turned seriousness, for he know Lady Nyra is not one to exaggerate. He reads the contents of the scroll, with Ser Davos and Ser Bronn beside him, in silence.

“…Beneath the weeping stone, the eye begins to open. What does this mean Lady Nyra?” Lord Tyrion asked.

“I fear the terror that once almost engulfed this land is nothing but a prelude to what is to come. I fear what the King spoke today is closer than we expect it to be.”

The entire chamber is in silence and shock. Lord Tyrion is not one to lose composure in the face of adversity. But upon hearing this, his face falls, a tremble in hands is seen.

“Seven hells, what is to come?” Ser Bronn shouted.

“Chaos…” Lady Nyra replied.

Ser Zayen Martell moved like a shadow through the lower levels of the Red Keep.

Son of the late Prince Doran Martell and a worker in a pleasure house, Zayen’s life was shaped not by privilege, but by exile within his own homeland. Though Dornish culture did not scorn bastards, the memory of his father’s perceived weakness cast a long shadow. His mother, fearful of court whispers and political scorn, kept him far from Sunspear's walls. Zayen bore the Martell name but not its favor — his brown eyes marked him more common than noble in the eyes of many.

He had grown up in the alleys behind silk-draped brothels and market stalls, watching lords ride past while he fought for stale bread with butcher’s boys. His strength came not from title, but from fire — the burning need to prove he was more than forgotten blood.

He would sneak into the palace grounds, mesmerized by the beauty of the place that was his to enjoy by birth right. Other times, he would often find himself in fights with other boys his age or older, sometimes even with soldiers as well. Although his mother would often scold him for his actions, she knew deep down she couldn’t stop him from achieving his dream of recognition. It was during one such adventure into the palace grounds when he was 15 that he witnessed the murder of his father by the Sand Snakes, lead by Ellaria Sand and the fall of House Martell. She then proceeded to order the death of Martell lineage, including all bastards born. While trying to escape the city, he saw his beloved mother be butchered in the streets. Despite wanting to interfere and save her, his mother signaled him not to but to run away.

While on the run, desperate and sad, he is found by Marteyus Qoril , a sword master from Norvos who taught Oberyn Martell. Soon, Zayen was taken in and sheltered by Marteyus for 3 years and trained in combat, showing more promise and talent than Oberyn ever did. He was taught precision, restraint, and fury masked as grace. Zayen returned to Dorne later not as a boy seeking belonging, but as a man forged by rejection.

When news of the Iron Throne’s new king came south, he did not hesitate. He answered the call, joined the newly reformed Kingsguard, and rode north.

And now, as he walks these crypt-cold halls of the Red Keep, he wore the white cloak not to prove himself, but to preserve and protect the peace of the realm.

The air here is cold, quite unnaturally so. What should have been a routine renovation had unearthed something, something never seen before, something…. wrong. The stoneworkers who were clearing the debris near the old dragon pits had struck unfamiliar wall—smooth, dark, untouched by age or flame. Since then, three men had refused to return. One had vanished. The remaining two spoke of chills, murmurs in the stone, and light with no fire.

Tyrion had ordered the area sealed off. But Ser Zayen, the Kingsguard, had been tasked with confirming what exactly they’d disturbed.

He descended with three men—one a knight, one a former mason, and one of the Gold Cloaks Tyrion trusted most. Their torchlight flickered violently as they entered the newly exposed corridor. It led down, not toward the sewers, but beneath the old throne foundations. The tunnel was round, ribbed with smooth stone arches unlike any Westerosi architecture.

“What stone is this?” Zayen asked softly.

The mason squinted. “Not stone from Westeros. Not from Essos either, if I had to guess. It feels... forged. Not carved.”

As they passed into the final chamber, Zayen saw it — a circular vault with no ceiling opening, walls smooth as glass, veined with a strange pale-blue shimmer. In the center was a relief carved into the floor: fire and ice blankeded by a cloud.

He crouched. The relief pulsed beneath his fingers—faintly warm.

Then, a whisper. Not in his ears, but in his mind.

"THE FIRE SLEEPS IN FROST. THE EYE WATCHES. THE SEAL WEAKENS."

He pulled back sharply, breathing hard. The Gold Cloak stepped forward but froze.

“I... I heard it too,” the Gold Cloak muttered.

The knight took a step back, muttering a prayer.

Zayen stood; eyes fixed on the sigil. “Seal this place. Nobody comes in without my word. Not even the Hand.”

“But Ser….” the knight began.

“DO IT,” Zayen snapped.

As they turned to leave, the glow behind them faded — swallowed by the cold.

But just as the last torch passed through the corridor's entrance, the ground trembled.

A sudden quake rippled through the ancient floor beneath their feet. Cracks spread across the sigil in the vault like veins of glass breaking beneath pressure. Zayen spun around just as a jet of stale, ice-cold air burst through a widening fissure at the center of the floor.

The mason, curious despite the fear in his eyes, stepped forward. "It’s opening," he breathed. "It’s…. it’s…"

He never finished.

A whisper echoed in Zayen’s mind again, louder now. Closer.

"This world shall return to nothing."

Then, silence — complete and deafening.

Until Zayen saw it.

A creeping shadow within the fissure — tendrils of smoke and shimmering white heat, slithering toward them. Not smoke. Not fire. Something in between. Something wrong.

Zayen stepped back, hand on his sword. "Run," he said in a voice so low it barely passed his lips.

"Ser, what do you me—?" the Gold Cloak began, but he saw it too.

A surge of darkness surged forward, lit from within by streaks of black and white — something that hissed as it touched stone, a silent roar that melted air.

"RUN!!" Zayen bellowed, grabbing the Gold Cloak by the shoulder and yanking him toward the exit.

The mason screamed as the wave of black flame struck him. It wasn’t fire. It was cold and hot all at once — a contradiction that seared the mind as much as flesh. His cry cut off in a gurgle, and his body was gone in seconds, reduced to dust and bone.

Zayen and the Gold Cloak ran, boots slamming the stone as the tunnel behind them twisted and warped in the advancing heat. Every breath burned.

"Ser…Ser…" the Gold Cloak gasped.

"DO NOT THINK, JUST RUN!" Zayen roared.

Near the entrance, the Gold Cloak stumbled on a chunk of broken stone. Zayen didn’t hesitate. He turned, hauled the man to his feet, and hurled both of them forward.

They leapt through the stone arch as the wave of unnatural flame followed — a serpent of black fire snapping at their heels. The blast slammed into the opening behind them, erupting into the sky like a silent scream. The force hurled them into the dirt, the air sucked from their lungs.

Zayen coughed, rolled to his side, and pulled the Gold Cloak beside him.

“Are you alright, good man?” he gasped.

“Ye… yes, Ser,” the soldier wheezed, face pale and slick with sweat.

Zayen staggered to his feet, brushing dust from his cloak.

And then he froze.

Before him stood Lord Tyrion, Ser Davos, Ser Bronn, Lady Nyra, and Ser Podrick — flanked by a dozen Gold Cloaks with drawn blades, all terrified and shock.

No one spoke.

Everyone stared behind Zayen — where the mouth of the corridor still smoked, and the stone glowed faintly red.

Tyrion took one cautious step forward, his face pale, his usual wit drowned in raw fear. He stared at the burning mark, then at Zayen.

“Seven fucking hells,” Ser Bronn muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “What the hell did you wake up?”