The camp had become a slaughterhouse. The thick trunks of the trees surrounding it burned with orange tongues of flame, sending smoke curling over the makeshift barricades, and in every direction the air was full of screaming. Bodies lay piled against the broken palisade wall where the first Lorathi charge had struck, and blood pooled beneath them, seeping into the muddy ground. Men wrestled in the shadows of tents that still fluttered on broken poles, and the sound of steel biting flesh rang out again and again.
Joffrey stumbled through the middle of it, boots slipping in wet soil that stank of blood and piss and the reek of me who shit themselves. His crossbow was clutched tightly in his arms, the string already drawn, the bolt already loaded. He didn't remember doing it. The last man he had killed was a hairy brute in boiled leather who hadn't seen him coming until the bolt punched through his eye socket and sent him reeling, screaming into the fire. That had been seconds ago. Or minutes. Or longer. He couldn't tell. His ears rang from the noise. Someone shouted behind him but he didn't look back. This battle had been a nightmare, he didn't know why he had done this. He had grown too arrogant, his victories in the small skirmishes against the Ibbenese made him believe that he could beat them. Joffrey was scared, he didn't want to be here, but he knew he couldn't run away.
He saw another Ibbenese warrior dragging a screaming Lorathi soldier behind a supply cart and he lifted the crossbow and fired without hesitating. The bolt struck the Ibbenese in the cheek, and his head jerked sideways as he fell limp, dead before he hit the ground. The Lorathi soldier crawled away, coughing blood and shouting something in their guttural tongue, but Joffrey didn't hear it. He was already reloading, his fingers trembling as he slipped the next bolt into place. His arms ached. His shoulder burned from where something had grazed him—an axe, maybe. He hadn't seen who had done it.
There was another figure—huge and broad-shouldered—charging through the smoke. Joffrey tried to aim, but his arms weren't fast enough. The Ibbenese had a mace and brought it down hard, cracking the ground beside Joffrey as he threw himself aside. The blow glanced off his leg, and pain shot up through his thigh as he screamed. He fumbled for a dagger and stabbed wildly at the man's side but was batted away like a child. Then the Ibbenese raised the mace again—and stopped. A spear burst through his neck from behind, and he dropped soundlessly, gurgling as blood poured from his mouth. A Lorathi woman stepped over him and spat.
"We need to move Captain," she said in rough Common, grabbing Joffrey by the collar and hauling him to his feet.
He limped beside her, breathing hard. His hands were shaking, and he couldn't stop blinking. Everything felt unreal. The ground tilted. He tasted bile. All around them, men were fighting, dying, screaming. The fires cast long shadows that danced over the corpses. The Ibbenese were still holding the center of the camp, near the command tent that stood like a warped silhouette against the flames, and the Lorathi were gathering there, pressing in from all sides.
Joffrey spotted another knot of defenders trying to regroup near the northern fire pit. They were killing anyone who got too close. A Lorathi youth ran at them swinging a cleaver and was hacked down before he even raised it. Joffrey raised the crossbow again. He aimed and shot one of the Ibbenese in the thigh. The man dropped. Another turned to see where it had come from, and Joffrey ducked behind a broken table as a spear was hurled at him. It shattered the wood and missed his neck by inches.
He came up again, drew another bolt from the leather pouch at his hip, and loaded it by feel. He fired at the same man. The bolt hit him just below the ribs and buried itself deep. He went down on his knees, clutching at it, and Joffrey limped forward with the others. They surged into the opening. Someone handed him another bolt. He didn't know who. He took it anyway and loaded it. The blood had dried on his fingers and made them stiff.
A horn sounded somewhere ahead. The Ibbenese were falling back, yelling in their native tongue as they pulled away toward the command tent. They were gathering there for a final stand. Joffrey's heart hammered in his chest. His tunic was soaked through with sweat and blood, and his left leg gave out for a moment before he caught himself on a crate.
"They're retreating!" someone shouted.
"No," Joffrey said. "They're digging in."
He didn't realize he had spoken until the soldier next to him looked at him.
"What do we do, then Captain?" the man asked.
Joffrey blinked at him. Then another man turned. And another. Faces stared at him, soot-streaked and bloodied. They were waiting.
He licked his lips. His mouth was dry.
"We press them," he said hoarsely. "They're few now. We press them hard before they dig in deeper."
"But they'll have archers by the tent—"
"We go now," Joffrey said loudly. "You want to wait until they have barricades and boiling oil? Until they cut us down? Don't question me! Charge now!"
He didn't wait for an answer. He lifted the crossbow again, gritting his teeth as he pushed his injured leg forward and climbed over the shattered remains of a tent pole. He heard boots moving with him. A few at first. Then more. Someone banged a shield. A voice shouted in Lorathi. More followed. The Lorathi surged behind him, rallying at last. He couldn't see who led them, but he heard them chant something as they pushed toward the tent.
Arrows rained down. One tore past his ear and another struck a man behind him, dropping him. Joffrey ducked, loaded another bolt, and returned fire. His shot missed. Another arrow grazed his side. It tore through his tunic and burned against his ribs. He gasped but kept moving. They were almost at the command tent when a group of Ibbenese stormed out to meet them. Joffrey aimed and fired—hit one in the chest—but the others closed fast. He fumbled for his dagger, but someone pushed him aside and met the axe meant for his head with a curved blade. They wrestled. Another Ibbenese came at Joffrey and kicked him in the stomach. He fell hard, the wind knocked out of him. His hand scrabbled for the crossbow but it was gone.
The man loomed over him, raising a club. Then a blade came down from behind, splitting the back of the Ibbenese's skull. He collapsed beside Joffrey. The Lorathi woman from before—her face smeared with blood—yanked him up again.
"Keep on your feet Captain," she shouted.
Joffrey didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was raw and his ribs ached each time he drew in breath. The pain in his side pulsed with every step, and his left leg dragged behind him, feeling stiff and useless. But the tent was just ahead now, its flap torn open, and the men guarding it were dying fast. The Lorathi were pressing in hard, their voices hoarse from shouting, and their blades wet from cutting through the last of the resistance. It had all moved so quickly, but nothing about it felt fast. Every second was slow and seemed to last forever, as if the world had narrowed to nothing but blood and steel.
Joffrey gritted his teeth and forced himself forward. A few of the Ibbenese tried to rally near the tent's edge, but they were already too late. The fire had crept up the eastern side of the camp, and the smoke made it hard to see who was fighting who. He heard someone screaming for water. Someone else cried out a name that was never answered.
And then the ground shook under him.
At first he thought it was the heat or exhaustion, but then he saw the wave of reinforcements spilling into the camp from the south, at least thirty of them, maybe more. Their armor was darker, better made than the first wave. They moved in formation, and they didn't hesitate. They drove into the Lorathi flank like a hammer. Men screamed and buckled. One of the Lorathi was split in two where he stood. The line collapsed.
"No—no, no—hold the line!" Joffrey shouted, he could feel a deep fear building within him.
But it didn't matter. The fighting shifted east as the Lorathi struggled to stop themselves from being overrun. He was left behind. The tent loomed in silence now, barely defended. And that was when he saw him.
The Ibbenese leader stepped out through the flap. He wore black plate across his chest and thick leather around his arms, and there was blood dripping from the axe in his hand. His beard was wet and clumped together, and his face was set like stone. He didn't speak. He only looked at Joffrey.
Joffrey froze. He could hear the sound of clashing blades behind him and the dull thud of boots charging into mud, but it all seemed far away now. The man began to walk toward him.
Joffrey drew and raised his sword. It felt heavier than it had ever felt. His fingers cramped around the hilt. The leader came closer, not rushing, not even looking at Joffrey like he was a threat. The first blow came fast. Joffrey barely blocked it, and the shock of it ran down his arms into his spine. His knees buckled. He stepped back, tried to swing, and missed. The man knocked his blade aside with one hand and slammed into him with the other, sending him stumbling backward over a torn banner pole. He tripped, hit the ground, and rolled. His arms screamed in protest as he pushed himself up. The man gave him no time to breathe. Another strike came and this one hit his shoulder. The armor turned the edge, but the weight of it sent him reeling into a collapsed cart. "AHHHH!!!" He screamed.
Wood splintered beneath him. Something sharp cut his back. He coughed and spat. His eyes stung from the smoke, and the taste of iron filled his mouth. He reached for his sword, barely managed to grab it before the next blow came down. He rolled again, the blade of the axe cutting into the cart where his head had been.
He scrambled back onto his feet, gasping. He hated this. He hated that he was here. He hated the Ibbenese for making him bleed, for forcing him to fight. They weren't supposed to fight like this. They were meant to run, to break, to beg. Not to rally. Not to win.
The leader came at him again. Joffrey parried once, then twice, but the third strike slipped past his guard and caught him in the ribs. The mail stopped it from killing him, but not from hurting. He cried out, fell to one knee, and the man kicked him down into the mud. His face hit the ground hard. He didn't move right away. His hands sank into the muck and he felt the cold all the way through his bones. His heart pounded in his ears, louder than the fighting now. He couldn't see the Lorathi anymore. The camp was disappearing in flame and noise behind him, and here he was, face down, helpless, beaten.
He hated that he was weak. He hated that he was always weak. He tried to crawl, but his arms didn't want to listen. The sword had slipped from his grip. He reached for it and missed. His elbow gave out.
Why couldn't he be better? Why couldn't he fight like his uncle Jaime, who was the best swordsman's in the realm? Why couldn't he be like his father, who had shattered kings and trampled the Targaryens into the dirt? Why did everything he touched turn to ash?
He felt the tears before he realized they had come. His vision blurred. His mouth filled with mud. He dragged himself another inch forward, then another, but it felt like crawling through stone.
It had been his idea. All of it. Freeing the men. Taking the fight to the heart of the enemy. Charging their command. He had believed it would be glorious. He had believed it would prove something. That he wasn't just the boy king. That he could lead. That he could matter.
Now men were dying because of him. And he couldn't even stay on his feet.
The blade came closer. He saw the feet of the Ibbenese leader just steps away now. His boots were soaked in blood.
"You are a disappointment," his father's voice said in his mind.
"You're disgusting. An idiot king," Tyrion added with a sneer.
"Joffrey, you're scaring me," Myrcella whispered.
"Joffrey, no. Please, no," said Tommen.
'Maybe I would be better off dead,' Joffrey thought.
The spark dimmed. He looked up and waited for the blade to fall.
But then another memory came.
He remembered the deck was slick with salt and sweat. The sea wind tore at his hair, and the sun was high, but the only thing he saw clearly was Jon's foot slamming into his chest and sending him sprawling onto the planks for the tenth time. His back hit the deck with a hollow thud, and the wooden practice sword clattered from his hand as he lay there, red-faced and panting, his chest rising and falling in quick jerks.
Jon circled once, then stepped back and lowered his sword. "That's ten."
Joffrey pushed himself up on his elbows, glaring at him. "You cheated."
"No," Jon said, his voice flat, "you're just shit."
Joffrey sat up fully, wiped sweat from his brow, and threw the wooden blade across the deck. "You arrogant bast—."
Jon dropped his sword and sat down on a crate in front of him, his face unreadable. "You want to keep talking or do you want to learn something?"
Joffrey opened his mouth to speak, already building another insult, but Jon raised a hand before he could.
"Shut up and listen."
Something in Jon's tone made him stop. Jon leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and looked him square in the eye.
"You want respect. You want power. You want to be seen as a great king."
Joffrey didn't answer. He hated how easily Jon saw through him. Hated how calm he was. How sure of himself he always looked.
"No one is ever born great," Jon said. "And people who spend their lives coasting on their family name or their crown rarely ever become great."
Joffrey looked away. The waves lapped at the hull. The wood creaked.
"Your father was great," Jon said. "For better or worse. He brought down the Targaryens. He shattered Rhaegar on the Trident and ripped the throne from their hands. You don't do that by accident."
Joffrey clenched his jaw. "How do I do it, then? How can I be great?"
Jon rubbed the scruff on his chin and tilted his head slightly. "It's not easy. Especially not for someone like you. You're so set in your ways that changing would be like trying to go through a stone wall with nothing but your fists."
"More like his tongue," Obara muttered from the wheel. Jon snorted. Joffrey scowled.
"But in life," Jon said, "I've found there are moments. Moments where we're given a chance to choose a different path."
Joffrey furrowed his brow. "How will I know if it's one of those moments?"
Jon stood, reached out his hand.
"Trust me. You'll know. All you have to do is seize it."
Joffrey stared up at him, his lips tight. He didn't move at first. He didn't want to need help. Didn't want to admit anything. But after a moment... he took the hand.
The memory shattered like glass.
Joffrey gasped.
The stench of burning meat rushed back into his nose. The taste of ash coated his tongue. The heat of the fire curled around him as the Ibbenese leader raised the axe again.
But Joffrey's eyes were open now.
He reached down, dug his hand into the wet earth, and flung a fistful of mud straight into the man's face. The Ibbenese cursed and staggered back, wiping at his eyes with one thick arm. Joffrey rolled, his fingers finding the sword hilt just beside a mangled corpse. He dragged it from the ground and pushed himself to his feet. He was still in pain. His arms were still shaking. But the fear had quieted. Not vanished but quieted.
The leader regained his vision and roared, swinging the axe in a wide arc that would have taken Joffrey's head off if he had still been standing straight b. Joffrey ducked beneath it and struck forward. The blade scraped along the man's breastplate, doing little more than scoring the armour, but it forced him to step back. Joffrey kept moving. He jabbed again, forcing the man to adjust his footing, and then darted left, circling him. He knew he couldn't overpower him. But he didn't need to win cleanly. He only needed to survive.
The man charged. Joffrey didn't try to meet the blow. He stepped aside and swung low, catching the back of the man's thigh where the armor was thin. The blade cut flesh. The man bellowed in pain. Joffrey tried to press the advantage, but his injured leg slowed him. He stumbled, and the man backhanded him across the jaw. The world spun. Joffrey fell but rolled, using the momentum to put distance between them. He coughed blood into the dirt and pulled himself upright again.
"You die here," the man growled in thick Common.
"Maybe," Joffrey said. "But not by you."
The Ibbenese came at him again. Their blades met. Joffrey felt every strike down to his bones. His arm was going numb. But he kept his feet. He ducked the axe, drove his sword into the man's shoulder, and twisted.
The blade caught bone.
The man howled and kicked him hard in the ribs. Joffrey flew back and landed on his side, gasping. But the sword had stayed in. The leader reached to tear it out, but his fingers were thick and slick with blood. It wouldn't move. Joffrey crawled forward. He grabbed a rock. The man noticed too late.
Joffrey swung it into his knee. Then again. And again. The Ibbenese collapsed onto one leg, swaying.
Joffrey tore the sword from the wound and went to try and end it, but he was shouldered away. He had to do everything he could not to fall over in the slick mud, and in doing so he gave the Ibbenese leader the time he needed to recover. The man charged again, bellowing as he brought the axe over his shoulder for a killing blow. Joffrey didn't backpedal this time. He remembered the way Jon had always beaten him. Every time Joffrey had lunged forward, Jon had stepped to the side, pivoted his body, and used Joffrey's own momentum to expose him.
He mimicked it now.
Joffrey lunged to the left and turned his body with his sword angled high across his shoulder. The leader didn't stop in time. His raised arm came down hard and he brought the full weight of his swing down directly across Joffrey's waiting blade. The steel met flesh and bone. The man's own momentum drove his wrist onto the sword's edge. There was a wet crack and a spray of blood as the blade severed clean through. The Ibbenese roared, stumbling back, his right hand flopping uselessly to the ground, still gripping the axe handle. Blood poured from the stump of his wrist, pulsing in surges. He clutched at it with his other hand, howling through clenched teeth.
Joffrey didn't hesitate.
He surged forward and rammed his sword up through the man's neck. The blade drove in under the chin and out through the base of the skull. The man choked, his mouth falling open, blood bubbling across his teeth. He dropped to his knees, then slumped forward. Joffrey stood over him, breathing hard, sweat and blood running down his face. He stepped behind the corpse, planted a foot on its back, and wrenched the sword free.
Then he grabbed the man's head by the thick, matted hair.
He didn't do it cleanly. It took two swipes to cut through the last of the neck, but when the head finally came loose, Joffrey lifted it high with both hands. Blood still dripped from the base, and the mouth hung open in a frozen gasp.
All around him, the Lorathi paused. The fighting slowed.
Joffrey turned slowly, his chest heaving, and roared.
"Kill them all!"
His voice cracked from the strain, but it carried. It echoed through the camp like a signal flare, and the Lorathi answered with a howl of their own. They surged forward as one, blades raised, screaming as they got their second wind and started to slaughter the Ibbenese.
Joffrey didn't wait for applause. He dropped the head, grabbed his sword, and limped back into the fray.
The Ibbenese, already scattered and leaderless, could not hold. The charge broke their flank, and within minutes, the remaining forces began to flee, some toward the trees, others toward the hills. The Lorathi cut them down where they could, and the rest vanished into the darkness beyond the fires. Blood stained the tents and the supply wagons, and corpses littered the field, but the camp belonged to them now.
The prisoners had taken the heart of the Ibbenese presence on the island. And Joffrey Baratheon had led them.
He stood in the center of the camp long after the fighting had ended, surrounded by fire, blood, and silence. The sword hung limp in his hand, and his body trembled beneath the weight of pain, fatigue, and something else, something harder to name.
Though from the smile on his face it wasn't hard to figure out.
"The island is ours, let's rest for now, tomorrow we secure everything else," Joffrey shouted to everyone who could hear.
"Yes Captain!" They shouted.
That's what they called him. None knew he was the King of the Seven Kingdoms, to them he was just someone who had saved them from the Ibbenese. Joffrey started with barely a dozen men but after visiting all the prison camps and freeing everyone that number swelled into the hundreds. They had now retaken the island and sent the Ibbenese back to their ships. He had done this of his own power, of his own skill.
Joffrey wished his father was here... he hoped he'd made him proud.
___________________________
Below the waves, below the labyrinth in the heart of the island, Jon and the others walked down the steps heading into what could only be described as the void. They had all lit their own torches to increase the amount of light they had going down, yet it seemed as though the torchlight didn't stretch more than a few metres in any direction, as if a veil had been draped over the world around them, swallowing everything that lay beyond reach. The stone beneath their feet was damp and uneven, slick with time and silence, and the air grew colder with every step, as if the weight of the centuries pressed down upon them from all sides.
"This is unnatural... what were the people doing going this deep..." Samaya said softly, her voice dampened by the darkness around them as she turned her head slowly, trying to see into the distance, but finding nothing. There were no walls beyond what the torchlight revealed, no echoes of sound, no sense of scale—only blackness.
Qyburn, who had begun to struggle with the descent, leaned heavily against the wall as he tried to catch his breath, his voice wheezing with age and exertion. "It is hard to know the secrets of such an ancient and advanced civilisation. Even now, I am awed by how much I don't understand."
He paused, his eyes fixed on the steps ahead. "What is the true purpose of the maze? Why build it in the first place?" he asked aloud, as though expecting the shadows to answer.
"Who cares?" Daario said with a dry chuckle as he adjusted his grip on his sword hilt. "Once I escape from this place, I'll come back with the Stormcrows and raid the vaults beneath. It's a goldmine."
Obara rolled her eyes but said nothing, the motion subtle enough that only Samaya saw.
Qyburn frowned at Daario, his thin mouth tightening. "This place must be studied. Its secrets must be preserved. It is not simply a means to fatten your purse."
Daario shrugged. "I didn't become a treasure hunter to study history like you Grey Rats. The only reason I'm here is to get paid. Gold is gold, whether it's ancient or freshly minted."
Their voices rose slightly, clashing against the silence, but Jon ignored them and kept walking, his brow furrowed and his steps steady. His gaze remained fixed ahead, even though there was nothing to see but more darkness, and the low sound of their boots against stone became the only reliable tether to reality.
Obara noticed his silence first. She moved a little closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Snow? Is something wrong?" she asked, her tone more cautious than concerned.
Jon slowed slightly but didn't stop. He turned to glance at her. "I'm fine... I was just thinking," he said, then turned back and continued downward.
"About what?" Samaya asked as she matched his pace, glancing between him and the looming descent ahead.
"The maze. And the Mazemakers themselves," Jon replied.
"Did you figure something out?" Obara asked.
Jon nodded. "This used to be a city. No doubt about it. The symmetry, the layout, even the patterns carved into the stairwell—all of it points to an advanced people living here long before we ever set foot on this island. The architecture is unlike anything I've seen in Westeros or Essos."
He paused briefly, then continued. "The real question is why did they build a nearly impassable labyrinth over their own city?"
Daario and Qyburn had stopped arguing by this point, both of them looking toward Jon now, drawn in by the gravity of his voice.
"To keep people out?" Samaya offered, though her voice wavered slightly as she spoke. "Maybe they had enemies."
"Or to keep something in..." Qyburn said grimly, his eyes glinting behind the reflection of the torchlight.
Jon nodded. "It couldn't have been an enemy from above. Getting an entire army through that labyrinth would take years, and the staircase itself was sealed with some kind of magic. Whatever they were defending against, it wasn't from the surface."
"Yet the city was still destroyed," Qyburn said, his voice quieter now.
"So whatever destroyed it," Obara said, stepping closer, "it was so terrible, so unstoppable, that the Mazemakers built a labyrinth covering half the island just to trap it."
"Yes," Jon replied without hesitation.
"And we're going down there right now," Samaya said as she glanced downward into the void stretching beneath their feet.
"Yes..." Jon repeated.
There was a long pause.
"Fuck..." Daario muttered under his breath, the word echoing slightly before the darkness swallowed it again.
And still, they kept walking. They descended deeper, the steps stretching endlessly into the dark. The air grew heavier with each breath, thick with dust and sowmthing fouler. After a time, they began to notice shapes forming in the walls, etched lines barely visible beyond the flickering torchlight, yet unmistakably deliberate in their making. Geometric patterns, spirals, and symbols unfamiliar to most of them twisted across the stone, and as they continued, the etchings grew more frequent and more chaotic, as if the hand that carved them had begun to lose its mind.
Then they saw the bones.
A small heap rested near the wall to the left of the stair, a collapsed figure long since turned to dust. The skull had rolled a short distance from the ribcage, and one arm remained stretched out toward the wall. Qyburn knelt beside the remains without hesitation, brushing aside debris and taking a closer look while the others paused.
Jon remained standing, his torch raised as he studied the wall directly across from the bones. His gaze lingered on a sequence of markings,m, carved into the stone with something like a knife.
"How did they die?" Obara asked, keeping her voice quiet.
Qyburn narrowed his eyes behind the lens of soot-stained spectacles, gently adjusting the bones with the tip of a small iron probe he had pulled from his sleeve. "Look here," he said, pointing to the breastbone. "The blade entered just beneath the ribcage, angled slightly upward. Clean incision, no sign of struggle, no defensive wounds."
He then adjusted the left hand, positioning it gently to illustrate his point. "And the grip suggests the hilt was still in hand when they fell. The angle of the elbow, the collapse of the upper body—it all fits."
Obara watched carefully. "You're saying they did it themselves?"
"Yes," Qyburn confirmed. "It was a clear suicide."
Samaya let out a short, bitter breath, the sound more scoff than laugh. "They'd rather end their lives than continue going down," she said, shaking her head. "That doesn't bode well for us."
Daario glanced over his shoulder toward Jon, who hadn't moved from where he stood. "You see something, bastard?" he asked.
Jon didn't answer.
He leaned closer to the wall, his torch casting shifting shadows over the markings. His fingers hovered just above the stone, tracing the grooves without touching them, eyes narrowing as he followed the pattern. After a moment, Qyburn stepped beside him, curious.
Jon finally spoke. "It's a warning."
Qyburn looked at him. "What does it say?"
He pointed to a particular section, where the carvings dipped deeper into the stone. "Here... it says his name. Or... I think it does. I'm not sure what the symbol is supposed to mean, but it matches the mark carved into the skull."
He took a breath, then read aloud, slowly translating.
"I walked down these steps knowing I would die... and yet that bravery could not protect me."
No one spoke for several seconds.
Jon moved forward again, his torch catching on a thin pale line drawn onto the wall, not carved but rubbed—like chalk or bone-dust smeared by a desperate hand. He followed it, and the others followed him, saying nothing.
The line continued and soon more words appeared, written in the same language, but this time scrawled with far less care. The first line was neat enough to read.
It stole my torch from me.
Below it, the next line followed, the strokes mjch more frantic.
I can't see.
Then.
I don't know what way is up or down.
And beneath that, each line worse than the last.
I don't know how long I've been here.
I can't escape.
The handwriting became jagged, as if carved in panic or pain.
I see him.
Even when awake, I see him.
The final line came not far after, written lower, near the ground, as if the one who wrote it had collapsed while doing so.
I can only hope death relieves me from this nightmare.
Daario stepped back first, muttering something under his breath before speaking louder. "We should go back. This is madness."
Obara didn't argue. "There's something wrong here. This... this isn't just ruins. It's a tomb."
Jon turned to face them, his expression set. "There's no way back," he said. "The way we came was sealed. We keep moving." They looked at him, and then at one another, but no one said more. Even Daario, for all his bravado, didn't argue further.
So they walked.
The descent continued for what felt like hours. No one spoke again. The only sounds were the shifting of boots on stone, the flicker of flames, and the distant groan of the deep—an ambient pressure, like breath beneath the mountain. The air grew colder, damper, and the weight of the dark became almost physical, like walking through black water. Each of them had long since lost any sense of time or distance. The staircase coiled forever downward, always turning, always deeper.
And then, at last, they reached the final step.
They didn't celebrate when they reached the bottom, none of them said a thing; they didn't feel as if crawlingdeeper into this dark pit was a thing they should be celebrating. Before them stretched a narrow passageway, no wider than a doorway and just tall enough for them to pass in single file. The air that drifted from within was stale and cold, thick with a kind of dampness that clung to the lungs and smelled faintly of rot and something that else. They paused at the threshold, each one taking a slow breath before stepping into the dark gap.
"What do you think is down here?" Daario asked, keeping his voice quiet.
"Nothing," Jon answered plainly. "It's been thousands of years. Whatever they trapped down here will be long dead."
Obara gave a quiet, humourless sound behind him. "When I was a child, my father used to tell me and Tyene and our sisters stories. He said that deep in the earth, below the bones of mountains, there were old nameless things that ate the roots of the world. That's why the deepest mines collapse. He said if we ever dug too far we'd let them free, and they'd crawl up to the surface and we'd all die."
Daario gave a dry chuckle. "Some story to tell your kids."
"They're just stories," Qyburn replied. "They have no basis in history, no record, no text. Folklore passed around by miners and wet nurses."
"I was told a similar story when I was young," Samaya said. "But I was told the world was like an egg, and in the centre, at its yolk, that's where all monsters come from. They throw themselves against the shell, again and again, trying to break free. And when they do, we'll be trapped in an endless night."
Jon stiffened, his mouth tightening as he looked ahead. He didn't answer, but his mind drifted to the vision Brynden Rivers had shown him. He blinked hard and shook his head, forcing the memory away.
"What does the historian think?" Daario said mockingly, nudging Jon's shoulder.
"I think we need to keep moving and get out," Jon said sharply as he stepped forward, not waiting for a reply.
The corridor opened into a vast chamber that took them all by surprise. The torchlight flickered over the chamber it was large and made of black stone that seemed to suck the very light from their torches, but what truly drew their attention was the floor—littered with bones. Hundreds of them. Enough to blanket the entire ground. They stepped carefully, boots crunching over ribs and cracked skulls as they entered fully.
It was clear the room had once been beautiful.
Vaulted ceilings arched high overhead, supported by gold-like girders engraved with curling, symmetrical patterns. There were platforms set into the walls, strange machinery half-buried in stone and dust, and pipes that ran like veins across the ceiling. At the centre of the chamber stood a low pedestal, and upon it, a lever of black stone and dull copper. A plaque had been fixed beside it, written in the runes of the Mazemaker tongue.
Jon approached it slowly. Qyburn had already crouched down among the bones, gently turning a skull in his hands, muttering to himself as he examined the fragments.
Daario didn't hesitate to begin scavenging. He moved from pile to pile, inspecting rusted weapons, strange swords with impossibly thin blades, and what looked like jewellery too warped by time to keep its value. Still, he pocketed anything that glittered.
Samaya and Obara stood behind Jon as he ran his fingers over the inscription. He read in silence for a moment before translating.
"Pull the lever, let the nightmare end," he said. "Pull the lever and let us be swallowed into the sea."
"What do they mean?" Obara asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked around the chamber again.
"I'm not sure," Jon replied.
"We're already below the sea," Samaya said, frowning. "How could it swallow us?"
Jon smirked faintly. "Want to pull it and find out?"
Before either of them could answer, Qyburn called out. "Jon... come see this."
Jon walked over with the others close behind him. Qyburn stood near the far wall, where a set of bones had fallen against what looked like a shattered support beam. He stepped aside and gestured down.
The bones weren't like the others.
The ribcage was too large, too broad. The skull had a vaguely human shape, but the jaw was distended and the eye sockets too wide. One arm was longer than the other, and the fingers had claws instead of nails. The spine was thicker, almost plated, with remnants of what looked like leathered skin turned to ash clinging to parts of the ribs.
"What in seven hells..." Samaya whispered, drawing her sword.
Obara stepped beside her, gripping her dagger and scanning the surrounding corridors that fed into the chamber. "What is this creature," she said, fear etched into her voice.
"Relax," Jon said. "We're the only things alive down here."
He moved past the monstrous remains and stepped deeper into the chamber where another sight caught his eye. At the far end of the hall, on a stone dais carved with intricate symbols, a skeleton of a man sat slumped in a chair. In his arms rested a thick, dust-covered book, its leather cracked but still whole.
"Extraordinary," Qyburn breathed as Jon gently pried the book from the figure's hands.
"It's just a book," Daario said, rolling his eyes.
"Indeed," Qyburn replied, "but the paper is still intact and not turned to dust with time. The Mazemakers were gone thousands of years ago, and yet their knowledge has endured. Not even the Valyrians had such preservation techniques."
Jon opened the book carefully.
"Can you read it?" Qyburn asked, leaning in eagerly.
Jon nodded. "They seem to be journal entries. Each one describes a different expedition. It looks like every year or so, a group of volunteers came to the island... passed through the maze... descended into this place."
"Why would they do that?" Daario asked, more annoyed than intrigued.
Samaya frowned. "Maybe it was a test of courage."
Jon turned a page and continued reading. "All the expeditions failed. Whoever this man was... he was part of the last one." He read further, slower now. "It says... We failed. We reached the central chamber like so many others, but we couldn't pull the lever. Half of us couldn't even see it."
Jon flipped to the final page.
"So many dead for nothing. We failed them. I can only pray this place is lost to time."
He paused. The handwriting changed—shaking, breaking.
"He keeps whispering to me. I see him standing in front of me. But when I look... I don't see a monster. I see my sister. I see my sister... yet I know it's a monster."
Jon's voice grew quieter.
"I tried to pull the lever. I tried. But I failed. I can only hope the King is enough to keep the creature trapped down here."
Jon closed the book gently. "That's it. The rest is scribbles."
"What the fuck was he talking about?" Daario said uneasily.
"The nonsense of a madman," Qyburn said. "Darkness and silence can unravel even the strongest minds."
Jon wasn't sure. He stared at the book a moment longer, then slid it into his satchel. "Let's keep going. We shouldn't dwell in this place."
No one disagreed.
They continued to move down the corridor directly ahead of them. It sloped gently downward, carved with the same geometric symmetry as the chambers before. Eventually they reached it, a massive barred door sealed shut by thick rusted beams. Jon grabbed one side and pulled with both hands but it didn't budge. Samaya stepped beside him, planted her feet, and together they forced the lock free, the metal screeching so loud it echoed for minutes afterward.
They stepped through into another tunnel, narrower now, but far ahead a faint light glimmered like a star in the sky.
They walked toward it without speaking.
The corridor ended at another chamber, this one far more open than any before. Its walls arched high above them, lined with dead braziers and more wall carvings. And at the centre, seated upon a throne carved from the same black stone as the levers and machines, was a man.
Or what remained of one.
He was desiccated, little more than skin and bone fused to the seat, but on his head... was a crown.
The light they'd seen radiated from it.
It shone with a silver glow, each of its spires adorned with gems that shimmered with Ella multitude of colours—red, green, violet, gold, sapphire, and pearl—and each one pulsed faintly. Inside each of the gems seemed to be a star itself, the light contained swirled around in erratic patterns. It was beautiful.
"Is that..." Qyburn whispered, breathless.
Jon stepped forward slowly, his eyes fixed on the object, his heart started to beat fast—nearly out of his chest. "That's the Starlight Crown," he said softly.
And then, just as he took one more step, the crown pulsed brighter. Lightning up the entire chamber with a brilliant silver-blue glow. Being hit by the light felt like all the weight that had been on them till this point was gone, Qyburn felt he could breath again. All of them felt at ease.
*rumble*
Something stirred behind the throne.
(AN: So Jon and the gang have finally found the starlight crown, the artefact of Hugor Hill, the crown forged by the seven divines. What will its abilities be? Who is the man sitting on the throne, what was that tumble? Will Jon have sex? He hasn't had sex in a while, will it be with Samaya!? Obara? A three way? You're goddamn right! Anyway hope you enjoyed the chapter).
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