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Lost Artefacts Chapter 35 - It Came From The Deep
🕑 Added 2025-06-23 04:34:14 +0000 UTC
"Hurry up Gendry..." Mya growled as she sat on a boulder just a few metres away from the bridge that Jon had collapsed just hours ago. Only now she sat on the other side having boosted herself across with her fire manipulation. Gendry who wasn't so luckky had to climb across using a rope that Mya had attached to the other side; on a normal day Gendry was not a fan of heights, and now he was hanging over an endless void that he would never emerge from should he fall. It didn't help that the rope was old, and seemed to strain under his weight.
"Leave me be Mya! I'm struggling as it is," he shouted back to her as he moved closer and closer. Gendry hauled himself along the rope hand over hand while his pulse hammered in his ears, and with every breath he felt sweat trickling down his palms so that his grip slipped a little farther than it should have, yet he tightened his fingers and kept moving because there was nothing beneath him but the bottomless black. The line sagged without warning and he lurched, his boots kicking at empty air as loose gravel rattled off the cliff, and Mya's voice cut through the echo with a crack of impatience. "Move faster or you'll fall, you great oaf!"
He clenched his jaw, dragged one arm then the other, and worked up enough momentum to swing toward the far ledge even as the fibres began to groan under his weight. The rope snapped the instant he lunged, and for a heartbeat he was flying, reaching, praying, until his fingers caught a jut of stone. Pain flared through his shoulders, yet he hauled himself up, scraped his knees bloody, and rolled onto solid ground where he lay gasping.
"I am never doing that again," he said between breaths.
"Stop being a baby," Mya answered while she brushed dust from her trousers. "Now come on, I am not letting Snow slip away again."
She turned at once and strode into the tunnel, the glow of her conjured flame guiding her steps. Gendry pushed down his anger, rose stiffly, and followed, his hammer hanging heavy against his back. The passage curled with the same endless twists Jon had taken, and for a while only their footfalls broke the silence between them.
"We would be better off waiting outside," he said after several turns. "There is only one exit. They must come back the way they went in."
Mya shook her head without slowing. "I am not turning aside when we are this close."
"It is not turning aside," Gendry muttered. "It is common sense." He quickened his pace until he was beside her. "We have already lost enough. We—"
"We keep going," she snapped.
Frustration boiled over and he seized her shoulder, yanking her around so that she faced him. "Is revenge all you think about?" he shouted, his voice echoing through the stone. "All our brothers and sisters are dead. Edric is gone."
"Edric was weak," Mya shot back.
"Is that how you measure worth now?" he demanded. "Do you care for none of us?"
"Do not tell me you have turned coward, Gendry." Her tone was venomous. "You wanted revenge as much as I did. Now that it is within reach you quaver?"
He swept an arm at the dark. "I would never have come if I had known it would cost us everything."
Flames flared from her palms and cast jagged shadows across the walls. "After all Father did for you," she spat, grabbing his breastplate.
Gendry knocked her hands away, the heat stinging through his gauntlets. "I loved him," he said, the words spilling out raw. "He treated me as true-born. He treated us all as true-born and he saw us fed and trained. But I will not lie any longer. His death was not some grand injustice. He died in a duel he demanded, driven mad by his hatred for anything Targaryen."
Her nostrils flared and she hissed. "If that is what you believe, why are you here?"
"Because you are my sister." His voice rang against the stone. "I love you. Edric and I both did. We followed you because you are the firstborn, because you were the best at everything, because you inspired us. This has never been for Father. It has always been for you." He lowered his voice, pain threading through every word. "But the woman standing here is not my sister, this woman cares for nothing except vengeance."
Mya's glare cut like steel.
"Everyone is dead," he whispered. "Only we remain. Please, let us leave. This path leads only to death."
Silence swallowed them. Torch-flame danced and the cave breathed colder.
"You are right about one thing," she said at last, her voice flat. "This road does lead to death."
She stepped back, turned, and walked into the dark, her firelight shrinking with each stride. "Go home, Gendry."
The glow vanished around a bend, leaving him alone with the echo of her words. "Mya..." He stood motionless, his hammer forgotten at his side, and felt something inside him break.
...
Mya stormed through the tunnel with her jaw clenched and her flame burning in her palm. The narrow path twisted ahead of her in uneven turns, marked by Jon's and his companions footprints that were marked in the earth. She walked fast, fast and hard, each step taking out the frustration she felt at her brother.
She didn't need Gendry.
She didn't need any of them.
They had all become dead weight, dragging her down with hesitation, with softness, with the fear of consequence. Every time she'd tried to push forward, they'd hesitated. Every time she'd sharpened herself, they'd dulled her edge. Gendry had been the worst—always preaching caution, always begging her to wait or to think or to forgive. And now he was gone. They were all gone.
'Good,' she thought bitterly.
If they couldn't follow, then they weren't meant to be there when justice came.
Robert Baratheon had raised her, trained her, made her stronger than she could've ever dreamed. She had learned to fight with sword and bow, and she had listened to his every word he said, he gave her love like no other had ever done, not even her mother. Jon Snow had then murdered him. He had broken her world. And now he was down here somewhere.
She would find him.
She would kill him.
Mya came to the edge of the stairwell.
It dropped down into a void so dark it looked like the end of the world. The walls around it seemed to stretch down forever. Her flame flickered uncertainly in her hand, and she growled, summoning more heat, more fire. The light blazed up, casting her face in sharp shadows and sending the glow pulsing down the topmost few steps, but even at full strength, the darkness swallowed it only metres below. It was like trying to fight the sea with a single match.
"Damn this place," she muttered.
She tightened her grip on the flame, stepped down onto the first stair, and began the descent. Her footsteps rang hollow on the stone, and the heat from her fire created no warmth. It only kept the black at bay by a thread, she clenched her jaw harder with each step. She would not falter. She would not fail. She didn't care what was waiting in the deep or what her brother thought of her now. This was her path, and she would walk it to the end.
___________________________
"What was that..." Obara said tensely as she reached for the dagger on her belt, her eyes darting toward the shadowed corners of the chamber. She hadn't heard anything clear, just a shift in the air that made her instincts tighten. Daario and Samaya both reacted just as quickly, drawing their blades without a word, eyes sweeping across the chamber for movement. Whatever that sound had been, none of them believed it would be friendly.
Jon moved slowly away from the body on the throne, his eyes narrowed as he stared into the far end of the dark chamber. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, but he didn't draw it yet. He just listened. The silence seemed different now, like something foul lingered in the air just beyond the darkness.
A moment passed before a warm breeze passed across them, brushing across their faces.
"Is that the wind?" Samaya asked, a little unsure as it felt more like the heat of a smithy than the outside.
"Perhaps we're close to an exit," Qyburn said, his voice more eager than it should've been. He stepped forward toward the far end of the room.
Jon reached out and grabbed his shoulder. "Wait."
Qyburn turned, ready to argue, but Jon raised a finger to his lips and shushed him quickly. Jon stood still, his head tilted, listening. The air had stilled again, as if it had never moved at all. The silence returned, even more so than before.
"The wind stopped," Jon said, frowning as he looked ahead again.
Then, just as he spoke, the breeze returned, brushing across their skin.
"That's not the wind," Jon said quietly.
He looked up, eyes wide now, every hair on his arms standing on end.
"It's breathing."
None of them spoke after that.
Daario stepped back slowly. Samaya's fingers tightened on her blade. Obara was already turning toward the dark corners of the chamber, scanning every shape, every sound. Qyburn stood frozen in place. Jon stepped forward slowly, then raised his arm and hurled the torch into the dark. It sailed in an arc, the flame twisting wildly as it tumbled through the air before crashing to the ground with a dull clatter. The torch rolled, spinning across the stone floor until it finally struck something—metal. A massive wall of thick black bars that towered upwards beyond the reach of the light.
"What is that?" Daario asked, his voice far quieter than usual.
Jon didn't answer. He just walked toward it.
He moved slowly, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword again as he approached. When he reached the torch, he knelt and picked it up, then raised it in front of him. He took a step forward, then another, until the light revealed what was behind the bars.
He froze.
His mouth opened but no words came out. He dropped the torch and stumbled back, falling hard onto the stone floor with a grunt. The creature behind the bars was huge, hunched over but still towering in height, its body curled in the back of the cell. It looked vaguely human in shape but was far too large, far too monstrous. Its skin—or what remained of it—was like scorched red stone, split in places with. A massive chain was looped through what looked like its chest. Its arms were as long as tree trunks, fingers ending in blackened claws. Its head was horned, the face shrouded in what looked like a half-melted mask of iron, and even though its body looked long dead, a faint wisp of smoke still curled from its jaw.
"What the seven fucks is that—" Daario shouted as he backed all the way to the wall, his sword half-raised but trembling in his grip.
Samaya started whispering prayers in her mother tongue, her eyes wide as she stared at the shape behind the bars. Her knuckles were white from gripping her blade too hard.
Obara dropped her dagger.
Qyburn stood there with his mouth open, frozen like a statue, his eyes locked on the cell.
Jon scrambled back to his feet and turned around, sprinting toward the throne without looking back.
"We need to get out of here. Now," he said sharply, his voice cutting through the paralysis that held them. "Start looking for another exit!"
None of them argued.
Jon rubbed his forehead and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face as he tried to force air into his lungs. His eyes flicked across the dark chamber, landing once again on the bars in the distance, and the massive corpse—if it was a corpse—coiled just behind them. Despite the charred, unmoving body, it had been breathing. He had felt it. The air had moved with it. 'What the fuck is this,' he thought to himself. Creatures like that weren't supposed to exist. Monsters of that size had died out long before the First Men carved their names into stone. The only things that had survived from the Dawn were dragons, snd they did not look like the abomination he saw before him.
His thoughts started spinning too fast to catch. Questions piled on top of each other, one after the other, until they were nothing more than noise—unfiltered, rapid, choking. The back of his head throbbed, his heartbeat loud in his ears.
Then a hand grabbed his shoulder.
"Jon," Samaya said softly. "There's nothing. We checked everywhere. There's no other way out."
He blinked, trying to clear the fog in his mind. His gaze darted between the walls, the cell, the darkness behind them, the stairs they came from—no. That was blocked by the Ibbenese. They couldn't go back up. His hand dropped to his side as his rapid fire thoughts threatened to swallow him again. "What do we do?" Obara asked, her voice quieter now, as if afraid to disturb whatever was still breathing behind the bars.
Jon swallowed. "We need to... umm... just... shit," he said, his hand gripping the back of his neck. "Give me a minute."
"Come on, bastard—what are we going to do?!" Daario barked, stepping forward with an edge of desperation in his voice.
Samaya's fist flew before anyone could blink.
Daario collapsed with a grunt, clutching his stomach and gasping on the stone floor. "Don't speak to him that way," she hissed, her fists still clenched.
"Leave him, Samaya," Obara said as she grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "He's not worth it."
Daario groaned and rolled onto his side, his face twisted in pain and fury, but he didn't reply. Not right away.
"We need to go back," Jon finally said, his voice steadier now. "There were other tunnels. In the lever room. We didn't try them."
"And what if the mercenaries and that crazy bitch are already there?" Daario growled from the floor.
Jon looked down at him, then back at the group. "Then let's hope they're not."
"Snow," Obara said, turning his attention back toward the throne. "What about the crown?"
Jon's eyes snapped to it.
It still sat atop the dead man's head, untouched and glowing softly, casting pale silver light across the stone. He had come all this way for it—for that. He needed it. The Starlight Crown. The one thing that could help him uncover the truth about the Phoenix Sigil. That was why he was here. So why was he about to leave without it?
He took a breath and walked toward the throne. The crown shimmered brighter as he approached. There was no sound, no movement—only his footsteps echoing in the silence. He reached out slowly, heart pounding, and touched the cold metal.
The moment his fingers brushed the surface, his vision went white. Jon squinted as the blinding white consumed everything around him. He felt a strange sensation in his stomach, like the world had turned sideways, and his balance faltered. He stumbled forward, almost falling, or at least that's what it felt like. There was no floor beneath him, no walls, no ceiling—only endless, shimmering white, so vast and all-consuming that he couldn't tell whether he was standing, falling, or floating.
He spun in place, looking for somethin to ground himself, but there was nothing. No shapes. No shadows. Just light. His breathing started to quicken, and the edges of panic began to creep into his chest. Then a voice echoed behind him, calm and almost amused. "It has been a long time since someone new has made it this far."
Jon turned sharply, but there was no one there. Before he could speak, another voice came from somewhere above, this one speaking in a strange tongue, something ancient, a language he barely recognised. More voices followed. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. All of them speaking at once, overlapping like waves crashing over each other, some whispering, some shouting, all coming from every direction.
Then one voice rose above them all.
"Enough!" it barked. "Give the poor boy a moment."
Jon spun again, his eyes darting through the white. "Who is there?" he shouted. "Show yourself!"
A shape formed in front of him—blurry at first, then clear.
A man appeared, stepping out from the white like he had always been there, only now choosing to be seen. He had long black hair that fell to his shoulders and lightly tanned skin, and though he wasn't particularly old, there was something ancient behind his eyes. On his head sat the Starlight Crown, glowing faintly with that same silvery brilliance.
Jon took a cautious step forward. "Who are you?"
The man tilted his head slightly, looking at Jon with an expression like someone trying to recall the words to a song they hadn't heard in years. Then he chuckled. "It has been so long since I've thought of myself... I almost forgot."
Jon frowned, confusion flashing across his face.
"I believe I was once called... Qarlon," the man said with a nod, as though testing the name on his tomguee.
Jon blinked. "Qarlon? As in Qarlon the Great? The King of all Andals?"
Qarlon's eyes lit up, recognition flickering in them. "Yes! Yes, I had forgotten that. Gods, I named myself that, didn't I?" He laughed again, fuller this time. "Qarlon the Great... what a pompous little title. I was quite fond of myself, wasn't I?"
He waved the thought away and smiled at Jon. "But I digress. My history isn't what matters here. What I want to know is who you are."
Jon hesitated for a second, still unsure what to make of this place, this man. "I'm Jon Snow... or I suppose... Daemon Targaryen."
Qarlon raised an eyebrow. "Targaryen? I didn't think the Valyrians capable of opening their third eye. Quite surprising."
"I think it likely comes from my Stark blood," Jon said carefully.
"Stark and Targaryen blood?" Qarlon gave a long whistle and grinned. "You must be quite the man. Perhaps someday they'll call you Jon the Great, eh?"
Jon didn't respond to the comment. His eyes wandered again, scanning the white void.
"What is this place?" he asked, ignoring the flattery.
Qarlon followed his gaze and gave a small, knowing smile. "This is the world within the crown."
Jon looked at him, puzzled. "The world within the crown?"
"Indeed," Qarlon said, gesturing broadly to the void. "For those with the gift, they're able to perceive this place."
Jon frowned. "I was told the Starlight Crown provided guidance. That it showed the way forward."
Qarlon barked a laugh so sudden and loud it echoed endlessly, bouncing through the endless light. He nearly doubled over, wiping a tear from his eye.
"If only such a magic existed!" he said, still laughing.
Jon's jaw tensed. "Then what is it?" he asked, more forcefully now. "What is this crown for?"
Qarlon straightened up again, the mirth fading slowly from his face. "Do you truly wish to know?" he asked, his voice low now, almost solemn.
Jon nodded. "Yes. I want to know."
Qarlon smiled faintly.
"Then listen carefully..."
The world shifted again.
Jon's stomach twisted as vertigo hit him harder than before—like he was being yanked through water with no air to breathe. Light folded in on itself, and then the white faded, replaced by colour, sound, and form. A great island stretched out beneath him, golden and green and impossibly beautifull. Mountains rose high in the distance, their peaks crowned with mist, and rivers cut through valleys like silver veins. He stood beside Qarlon on a high balcony carved into pale stone, overlooking a city unlike anything Jon had ever seen.
Wide streets ran in intricate curves across the island's heart, all leading toward a towering palace of white and gold. The buildings shimmered in the sunlight, their towers arched and curved like waves frozen in time. Fountains poured crystal water into gleaming pools. Boats drifted along the rivers, their sails billowing softly, guided by men in robes of deep blue and green. Jon had never seen such a beautiful place. Be leaned forward, bracing himself against the railing as nausea washed over him.
"To tell you the truth of the crown," Qarlon said calmly, "I need to show you how it was made."
Jon glanced around, still catching his breath. "In the texts I've read... it was said the crown was forged by the Seven themselves and gifted to the Andals."
Qarlon snorted. "A charming lie. But a lie all the same." He looked down upon the island, his expression softening. "In truth, the artifact you call the Starlight Crown was not forged by Andals. It never even saw a city other than the one it was born in."
Jon frowned, frustration prickling at the back of his neck. "What do you mean?"
Qarlon folded his arms and exhaled slowly. "The tales of the Starlight Crown are stories told by conquerors to give themselves mythic lineage. No Andal ever wore it. None but me. And even I wore it only here. It never left this island since its creation."
"You're speaking in riddles," Jon snapped, the sharp edge of confusion rising in his voice. "Tell me everything. From the beginning."
Qarlon grinned and raised a brow. "Very well. But know this, once you know the truth, you'll be placed in a position you'll find very difficult to step away from."
"I've gotten this far," Jon said. "I can handle it."
"So be it."
They began to drift forward, gliding silently over the city streets. Jon could see the people now—tall, graceful men and women, many of them standing between eight and nine feet tall, with broad shoulders and flowing hair. Their garments were fine, adorned with sea-pearls and etched with symbols Jon couldn't read, and their skin glowed faintly with a silverish sheen. They looked like gods pretending to be men.
"There's no maze," Jon said, noting it aloud as he looked down at the city.
Qarlon nodded. "It is our people that call them the Mazemakers—those who speak from ignorance. But back then, before they built the labyrinths... they called themselves the Riverkin."
Jon's eyes widened. "They were the last descendants of the River Queens..." he said, in a quiet voice, feeling stunned. It confirmed what he had only theorised before.
"Smart," Qarlon said with a smirk, wagging a finger at him. "After the fall of the Empire of the Dawn... and the collapse of the Fisher Queens' dominion... it was the Riverkin who rose. They were the true masters of craft, the last light of the old world. Others—like the Rhoynar and Ghiscari had Kingdoms but they were still in their infancy. For a time... this place, Lorassyon, was the heart of it all."
Jon looked again at the people. Their size, their symmetry, their pure beauty that was unmatched even by the Valyrians. "Why are they so tall?"
Qarlon rubbed his chin. "Good question. Even they weren't sure. The common belief was that divine blood ran in their veins. That it made them better."
"I've read transcripts that claim they were the result of interbreeding between men and giants," Jon said.
Qarlon burst out laughing. "Amusing! But unlikely. The Riverkin were sea-farers. Giants are creatures of earth. They wouldn't have crossed the sea if you begged them."
They drifted toward the palace, its white spires twisting high into the sky like columns of frozen moonlight. Gold and glass adorned the arches, and water poured gently from hidden fountains. The palace gates opened before them, and they passed inside, untouched by the guards, invisible to the world around them. In the throne room, beneath a dome of starlit crystal, a man sat on a high seat—his robes sapphire blue, his head bent in thought.
"This is King Amor Ahai," Qarlon said, his tone growing darker. "And it is with him this tragic tale begins."
They floated quietly as the scene unfolded. The king sat tall and regal, his features noble, handsome even amongst the beauty that surrounded him. Yet something beneath his eyes betrayed weariness. A messenger entered, bowing low as he knelt before the throne. Another stepped forward with a scroll, offering it to the king on a carved obsidian tray. King Amor unrolled the scroll, his gaze scanning its contents. Slowly, his face darkened. His grip tightened. Then, with a snarl, he stood and barked something to his advisors. The room burst into movement. Scribes ran. Ministers shouted. The king's voice rose above them all, booming with rage.
"He just learned," Qarlon explained, "that the Prince of Rhoyne has discovered a crown—one adorned with pearls and sea gems, drawn from the ocean itself. A crown that grants him command over the tides. And worse still, the prince sent this message himself, bragging about it."
Jon watched the fury on the king's face as he barked out his orders.
"It is here the story begins," Qarlon said. "King Amor has just ordered the mines to be dug deeper—to the very heart of the world. He wants materials fit not for a man, but for a god."
"I'm guessing he succeeded," Jon muttered.
"You'd be right," Qarlon said with a bitter smile.
They were yanked downward again—this time deep beneath the city, into a vast cavern of glowing crystal and black rock. Miners moved like ants beneath the immense ceiling, their picks striking stone as torches flickered along the walls. "There," Qarlon pointed. "That's where they found them—seven gems, each glowing with a power even now we don't fully understand. But even still the gems were merely power, with no way to draw on them they were as useless as any other gemstone."
Jon turned his head as the miners uncovered something else. A faint glow pulsed from beneath the rock—metal, bright as silver, gleaming like moonlight. "This is what they used to craft the base of the crown," Qarlon said. "Unmatched in strength. In beauty, there had never been a metal discovered like it nor do I believe will be discovered ever again. I call it soul ore. But thousands of years ago, they called it mythril."
"Why soul ore?" Jon asked.
Qarlon grinned, but gave no answer.
The world shifted again. They now stood in a massive forge, half palace, half temple. Fires roared in all directions, and master-smiths hammered glowing metal while robed mages chanted over it. Sigils burned into the air and vanished. "King Amor gathered the best from every land," Qarlon said. "And together, after years of toil... they made it."
Before them, the crown was raised high. Its light filled the room, dancing across every face in a Kaleidoscope of colours; never had anyone in this world seen such beauty. King Amor stepped forward and took it. He placed it on his head.
Power surged through the chamber.
He laughed—a full-bodied laugh that echoed like thunder in a storm.
Jon took a step back. "What's wrong with him?"
"Power," Qarlon said simply. "Man's oldest folly. It is here he makes the greatest mistake of his reign... perhaps the greatest mistake any man has ever made."
The king threw out his arms. "More!" he shouted.
Qarlon looked at Jon with something close to sadness. "He ordered the mines to dig deeper. Not just here—but in every Riverkin city across the world. He wanted more ore. More gems. More power."
Jon watched as the vision expanded—cities being hollowed, tunnels carved deep beneath the seas and mountains, men vanishing into the earth.
"This," Qarlon said solemnly, "is where the world changed."
Qarlon led him deeper still.
They descended past the grand palaces and shining streets, past the forges and halls, past even the roots of the mountains that kept Lorassyon from slipping into the sea. Down into the old tunnels. Into the dark. Into the places light had never touched. "These shafts were never meant to be dug so deep," Qarlon said quietly, his voice grave. "But Amor demanded it. He needed more. So they obeyed."
Jon watched as the vision changed again—stone corridors lit only by flickering lanterns, thousands of Riverkin miners bent over pickaxes, their breaths shallow, their bodies soaked in sweat. The air was thick with dust. Men coughed up blood. Some collapsed and were dragged away. Others didn't get back up. "More and more were forced into the mines," Qarlon continued. "They went deeper than any had before. They dug so far that they choked on the air, so far they forgot the colour of the sun. Dozens died every day. But still they dug."
The scene shifted again.
A moment of silence.
Then a sound—a shout. A cry of joy. Jon saw miners rush to one side of a chamber, their lanterns glowing against something in the stone. A smooth vein of silver-blue shimmered in the rock. It pulsed faintly. "They found it," Qarlon said. "More Mythril. Not just scraps but enough to make something greater than a crown."
Jon watched as master forgers were brought down into the mines. The metal was carried like sacred treasure, protected by guards in robes of sea-green and silver. The scene changed again, and now they were in another forge—greater than the last. Hammers rang like thunder against the metal. Flames surged.
And then the sword was revealed.
It was long and beautiful, silver like moonlight, but it glowed faintly with a cool blue aura. It cut through stone like silk. Jon had never seen anything like it. "With Mythril they forged a sword," Qarlon said. "A blade without equal. Sharper than valyrian steel, harder than black stone, more perfect than anything ever made by man. It had no name... because it did not need one."
King Amor stood at the centre of the forge hall, raising the blade high in triumph. Its light kissed the ceiling. The Riverkin roared with joy.
"But the king was not satisfied," Qarlon said, his tone hardening. "Not even that was enough." The vision rippled, and they were pulled again through the deep, far beneath even the lowest of the old shafts.
"And so they dug further. To adorn the blade with a gem worthy of its power."
Jon saw it before Qarlon could speak again a chamber that was vast and silent, deep beneath the roots of the earth. At its centre sat something... impossible. A gem. Or at least, that was the only word Jon could think of. It was the size of a man's eye, glowing with colours that could not exist, burning gold and red and orange. It pulsed like a heart. Within it... the sun seemed trapped.
"They called it the Heart of the World," Qarlon said. "And with it, they gave the sword a soul."
Jon watched as the Heart was placed into the hilt of the blade. The room shook. The blade itself changed—the blue glow now mingled with gold, as though fire and ice now bled together through the steel. It was no longer just a weapon. It was something... divine.
"It seems things are going well for the king," Jon muttered, though unease gnawed at the edges of his voice.
"If only such things lasted," Qarlon replied softly.
The vision darkened.
They went back to the deep—the chamber where the Heart had been found. The walls there seemed to breathe. Jon felt it before he heard it, the low tremor. Then came the roar. It tore through the earth like a scream from the centre of the world. Men dropped their tools. Some ran. Others stood frozen in place. A few screamed. Jon's own skin prickled as he turned.
From the far shadows came something massive.
It was a creature of flame and ash, its body twisted and skeletal, its flesh a furnace of blackened bone wrapped in molten fire. Wings of burning sinew stretched wide, though they did not flap. Its face was skull-like, hollow-eyed and fanged, and a mane of fire flowed behind it like a river of embers. Horns curled upward from its brow. Every step it took cracked the stone.
"It came from the deep," Qarlon said quietly. "Not from this world. From somewhere else. Somewhere beneath our own a realm of torment and shadow. It had no name, no reason, no mercy."
Jon couldn't speak. He stared at the beast. It looked exactly like the one they had seen in the cage.
"It slaughtered thousands," Qarlon said. "When it awoke, it tore through the mines. No spell or steel could stop it. It feasted on everything. It devoured everyone it came across. And it rose out of the mines."
Jon watched in horror as the creature burst from the earth like a volcano, shattering buildings with a single swipe of its massive claws. It tore through the city with fire and shadow, ripping towers from their roots and hurling them into the sea. Men and women were turned to ash in moments. The city that had once stood proud as a monument to the empires of old was reduced to ruin in less than a day.
"And it was then," Qarlon continued, "that Amor realised what he had done. What his greed had unleashed."
The king stood alone on the shattered steps of the ruined palace, dust and ash swirling around his feet. His crown sat heavy upon his brow, a fading symbol of a kingdom now in ruin. In his hand, he gripped his blade tightly, the last thing he had left to hold. Above him, the fire-beast towered, its massive wings stretching out to blot the sky, its chest glowing with heat, its jaws opening wide with a roar that shook the earth.
"He stood against the creature himself," Qarlon said. "No army left. No council. No gods. Just a man, and his sword."
Jon watched the battle unfold as if time itself had lost meaning. Weeks passed, yet it felt like only minutes. The king stood alone, fighting through the wreckage of his shattered kingdom. Behind him, towers burned and crumbled. Above, lightning tore through the blackened sky. His armor melted away, seared from his flesh by the heat. His body was broken, scorched and bleeding. But still, he fought
"And in a stroke of luck," Qarlon said softly, "he struck the creature's heart."
"But that wasn't the end of it..." Qarlon said as he watched the two bodies fall into the dark. "The king died... but the creature... no, the creature did not die."
Jon turned to him sharply. "It didn't die? He struck it in the heart. And they both fell from such a great height."
Qarlon looked at him with a heavy heart. "That thing... it is not of this world, Jon. It never was. In the history of our people, there are lines, connections, threads that bind the First Men to the Andals, the Valyrians to the Rhoynar, even the Ifequevron to the children of the forest. But that—" he said, pointing down into the pit below, "—that monster does not share our history. It does not share our world. It comes from beneath it. It is more akin to a demon than any beast."
Jon's brows drew together. "Do you mean..." he paused, the thought solidifying as he spoke, "it came from the Hollow Earth?"
Qarlon raised a brow in genuine surprise. "I'm impressed. Few living souls know that term. But yes, you're right. That creature comes from the world beneath our own. A place far older than any kingdom. A place of nightmares... where the sun has never shone."
The scene shifted again, a ripple through reality. Qarlon brought Jon to the broken remnants of the Riverkin people—those who had survived the destruction. He showed them building—no longer cities, but walls. Mazes. Layer after layer, passage after passage. Their proud capital was sunk into the earth, hidden beneath stone and sea.
"They became the Mazemakers out of desperation," Qarlon said. "They were no longer crafting for beauty or to show the world their mastery. They were building prisons. Because they had made two fatal mistakes."
Jon watched it unfold. "They assumed the creature was dead," he said.
Qarlon nodded. "Yes. That was the first."
The image shifted again. Jon saw the monster lying deep in the pit, still glowing faintly with coals beneath its skin. Not dead, only dormant.
"The second," Qarlon said grimly, "was believing the creature was a mindless beast. It was not. It is intelligent. Brilliant, even. It doesn't just breathe fire and slaughter; it thinks, it schemes. Like us its third eye is open. Even broken and bleeding in the dark, it manipulated the Riverkin. It whispered. It twisted minds. It planned its eventual return."
Jon's jaw tightened. "My companions... they spoke of a man named Donnell. Each of them had memories of him. I met him too. I—I don't know how, but I made him disappear."
Qarlon hummed, intrigued. "Then you are more powerful than I suspected. To fight the creature's influence, even briefly, is no small thing. Even now so many centuries later the creatures mind hasn't weakened and continues to grow stronger."
Jon's eyes narrowed. "So you're saying it's still alive."
"Yes," Qarlon said without hesitation. "It never died. The Mazemakers learned too late. Even as they built the prison, even as they planned their trap, it was already shaping their end. They constructed a chamber beneath the maze. One that, when triggered, would flood the entire complex. A last resort—a way to kill it permanently."
"The lever," Jon said.
Qarlon nodded. "A failsafe. Once pulled, the entire maze collapses, and the ocean takes everything. A beautiful piece of architecture. Terrifying, but elegant, but the creature was not a fool, any who tried to pull the lever he would pour his all into manipulating; some to the point where they would kill the others who tried as well."
Jon looked back toward the white void. "Then how does the crown fit into all of this?"
Qarlon smiled, and the world shifted again.
Jon found himself back at the pit's edge. The beast still slumbered far below, unmoving but far from gone.
"After the king fell, it was his grandson who understood what needed to be done, he knew that pulling the lever would not work that the creatures mind was too powerful. So he donned the crown of his grandfather and took the throne built above the prison. To bind the creature in place, theough the use of his third eye"
Jon glanced at him. "The crown has such power?"
Qarlon tilted his head. "Not power in the way you think. It holds no spells. But it enhances the wearer. It sharpens them. It makes them the best version of who they already are. Stronger. Wiser. Braver. The king's grandson wasn't just sitting a throne—he was becoming a sentry unlike any other."
He paused, his tone darkening.
"But the crown came with a cost. A cruel, unintended one."
He gestured toward the crown again. "That's why I call it soul ore. When someone dons the crown... their soul doesn't pass on. It remains within it. Trapped. Every mind that wore it still lingers."
Jon's eyes widened. "The voices I heard before..."
"Yes," Qarlon said softly. "They were the voices of everyone who ever wore the crown."
Jon looked away. "You must all be insane."
Qarlon laughed a short, dry sound. "Only half of us, I'd wager."
Jon turned back to him. "And what about you? How do you fit into all of this?"
"I was the last to find it. The first in over two thousand years to survive the maze and reach the throne. I was arrogant. I thought I could claim its power... but the whispers twisted everything. I very nearly pulled the lever myself but in the end I was not strong enough; the crown curbs the worse of the beasts manipulations but even then I was not a powerful enough greenseer to resist him."
He lowered his gaze. "But I only saw the truth only in my final breath. So I took the crown and sat the throne, like the others before me."
Jon nodded slowly. "That was... quite the sacrifice."
Qarlon's smile was bitter. "If only I had done it sooner. Before thousands of my people died."
The void returned again, endless white all around them.
"Listen to me, Jon," Qarlon said, stepping close. "I told you that knowing the truth would place a burden on your shoulders. That moment has arrived."
Jon said nothing, just watched him.
"Despite all our efforts, the creature has been growing stronger over the centuries. Its influence spreads. Soon—very soon—it will awaken."
He raised a hand and held up two fingers.
"You have only two choices."
Jon's breath caught.
"You can don the Crown of Infinity," Qarlon said. "You'll take my place, sit the throne, and keep the creature bound. Your strength might even let you put it to sleep permanently. But you will never leave. Your soul will join ours. And you will never be free, you will suffer with us for eternity."
Jon stared at the crown in silence.
"The second choice," Qarlon continued, his voice gentler, "is to pull the lever. Flood the city; you seem to be strong enough to do it. Destroy the creature. End it, once and for all. But you and your companions will be swallowed by the sea. None of you will survive."
A heavy silence followed. No more words. Just those two options.
"Those are the only choices you have," Qarlon said. "But know this, regardless of what you choose the crown cannot leave this chamber, if it does the creature will reawaken and if that happens. The seven help us..."
Then he blinked and turned, his face tightening. "I suggest you choose quickly."
The void twisted violently, Jon was pulled like water swirling down a drain and the white vanished. Jon gasped as he came to, the world slamming back into place around him. The crown still sat in his hand. The throne room echoed with shouts and crashing stone.
He looked up.
Across the chamber, Mya was there her flames bursting from her fists as she fought Samaya and Obara. Daario was on the floor, blood on his cheek, trying to drag himself up. Qyburn screamed something, but Jon couldn't hear the words over the noise.Jon stood up, dazed and breathless.
"What the fuck is happening..." he muttered.
(AN: So we are coming close to the end. What will happen? What choice will Jon make? Will he sacrifice his friends and himself to kill the beast or will he don the crown and stand watch. Who knows. Oh wait I do. Anyway I hope you enjoyed the chapter.)
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