The dreamscape shifted and they found themselves standing on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a vast, shimmering city. The sky was lit with hues of gold and silver, and in the distance, Maekar could see towering spires and massive palaces that glittered under the radiant sky—grand structures unlike anything he had ever seen before.
"This..." Brynden began, his voice carrying a rare sense of awe, "...is Asshai, once the capital of the Great Empire of the Dawn."
Maekar stared, captivated by the beauty and sheer scale of the city that stretched before them. He had read of Asshai, of its dark, blackened stones and strange sorceries—a place cloaked in shadows and mystery. But this—this was a world of light and splendor, a place that felt alive and powerful.
Brynden began to explain, his voice even as he continued, "The reason why the First Men were driven to Westeros is tied to this—the expansion of the Great Empire, the first and most powerful of human civilizations. Its rule stretched across the continent of Essos and even had outposts as far as Westeros. The Hightower is built upon one of these outposts, remnants of their lost influence."
Maekar was barely listening; he was entranced by the grandeur of the city before him, the glimmering streets, and the towers that seemed to pierce the heavens.
Suddenly, they were walking through the ancient streets of Asshai. The streets were lined with people dressed in rich, ornate garments—robes adorned with symbols that Maekar could not quite comprehend, their fabrics shining under the light of the day.
Brynden gestured towards the people walking by, their faces serene. "At its height, this empire was a utopia of magic and splendor. They believed themselves to be descendants of the stars, ruled by their God-Emperors, each dynasty more powerful than the last."
"So, what happened?" Maekar asked, tearing his gaze from the people to look at Brynden.
"The same force that threatens us all now," Brynden said grimly, his eye narrowing. "The Great Other."
The street blurred, fading away, and the scene shifted again. Now they stood in a vast chamber, its high, arched ceilings stretching above them. The walls were covered in intricate carvings—depictions of celestial bodies. At the center of the room stood a group of robed figures—sorcerers, their faces obscured in shadow, their voices a low, resonant chant.
"As the empire prospered, so too did the ambitions of its people," Brynden said, his tone filled with a dark inevitability. "But ambition, as you know, can be easily corrupted. The Great Other began whispering to those within the empire—promising them untold power in exchange for their loyalty."
Maekar watched as the sorcerers in the chamber raised their hands, conducting rituals, their bodies moving with a rhythm that was almost unnatural. He could feel the dark energy in the room—something vile, something hungry.
"The sorcerers were lured by promises of immortality and power," Brynden continued. "They betrayed their empire—they lured the Empress's own kin into their schemes, corrupting her brother until he was nothing more than a vessel for the Great Other. He became the instrument of its dark will."
The scene changed again, showing a man, The Empress's brother, who named himself the Bloodstone Emperor; he had sharp features and eyes that glowed an eerie blue. He wore a crown, leading an army, his face twisted into something almost inhuman. The once glorious city of Asshai was now being engulfed in shadows—its streets filled with chaos, its people turning on one another.
"The Great Other's influence spread like a disease... This marked the beginning of the Long Night in the East."
"So where is our savior?" Maekar asked, as he already knew what was going to happen.
"There," Brynden said, motioning forward.
Maekar watched a group of men kneeling before an altar, their heads bowed, their hands clasped together, their voices murmuring prayers in desperation.
"As all hope seemed lost," Brynden began, "a small group of uncorrupted mages, desperate to save their people, turned to the only force powerful enough to oppose the Great Other—R'hllor, the Lord of Light. They made a pact with the god of fire and light, offering their very souls in exchange for the power to create a weapon that could drive back the darkness."
Maekar could hear the rhythmic clanging of a hammer striking an anvil. The noise grew louder, echoing through the chamber until he found himself in a different place—a small, dimly lit forge.
He saw a lone figure bathed in a warm orange glow, the only light in the room coming from the molten steel being hammered into shape. Sweat dripped from the man's brow as he worked tirelessly, his muscles straining with each powerful strike.
"Azor Ahai," Brynden said. "He was the leader of the mages who turned to R'hllor for salvation."
Maekar watched the scene, his eyes fixed on the man—Azor—who was forging the sword. His hands moved with precision, and yet there was a heaviness in his every movement, a sense of tragedy that seemed to fill the air. It was as if the very task of creating this weapon tore at the man's soul.
"R'hllor told him that only a blade forged in fire and tempered by a great sacrifice could stand against the darkness. Azor knew that the price for this weapon would be steep—a cost that few could bear. The god warned him that only by giving up the one thing he loved most could Lightbringer be complete."
Maekar watched as Azor paused his work, his eyes filled with sorrow as he gazed upon the blade—unfinished, waiting for something more.
"That price," Brynden continued, "was the life of the one he loved most—his wife, Nissa Nissa."
Maekar knew what was coming, and yet he couldn't look away. He watched as Azor stood before a woman—Nissa Nissa, her hair a radiant silver-gold, her eyes a deep, haunting violet. Maekar's heart lurched unexpectedly.
She reminded him of someone.
Nissa Nissa looked up at Azor, her eyes full of love and understanding. Without a word, she nodded, as if accepting her fate. Maekar could see tears shining in Azor's eyes as he raised the blade.
With a scream, Azor plunged the sword into Nissa Nissa's heart. Her screams echoed, merging with the sound of the steel as it was tempered in her life's essence. A radiant light burst forth, blinding Maekar momentarily. The sword, once dark and lifeless, began to glow, the flames of R'hllor dancing along its blade.
====
"With Lightbringer finally forged, Azor Ahai set out to face the Bloodstone Emperor, the champion of the Great Other, wielding the sword that had cost him everything," Brynden continued.
The scene shifted once more. Maekar watched as Azor Ahai, his face haggard, led an army of men against the forces of darkness. The battle was chaotic, but Lightbringer blazed with a fire so intense that it set the very air alight, driving back the dark forces. The Bloodstone Emperor loomed before him.
Azor Ahai moved with purpose, striking down his enemy, the flames of Lightbringer burning through the Bloodstone Emperor until nothing but ash remained.
"Azor Ahai defeated the Bloodstone Emperor, but he paid the ultimate price," Brynden said, his tone grave.
Maekar saw Azor collapse, the toll of the battle and his own sacrifice finally overwhelming him. The mages who had followed him stepped forward, lifting the sword from his lifeless hand.
"Wait, he died?" Maekar asked, a sense of confusion and frustration rising in him. "What about the war in Westeros? Brandon and the others?"
Brynden nodded for him to continue watching. The dreamscape shifted again. Maekar watched as the mages gathered around an altar, beseeching R'hllor for guidance. Their faces were etched with exhaustion, their robes tattered from battle.
"R'hllor gave them a vision—a vision of a new champion," Brynden said. "They needed to find a man who held both ice and fire within his veins—the son of ice and fire."
Maekar's eyes widened in surprise. "Who?" he asked.
The dreamscape shifted once more, and they found themselves back in the North, standing in the snow-covered lands alongside Brandon the Builder and Eldric.
"Him," Brynden said, nodding towards the young man. "Eldric, Brandon's nephew."
Brynden explained, "Eldric was the son of ice and fire. Brandon's sister had fallen in love with a man from the East—a merchant from the lands of the Lands of Always Summer, a land of shepherds who lived near fiery mountains."
"Oh," Maekar said, realization dawning upon him.
Maekar watched as the mages approached Eldric, presenting him with Lightbringer. The young man took the blade, its flames reflecting in his eyes. He watched as Eldric led the remaining forces of men against the Others, wielding Lightbringer, pushing them back to the Lands of Always Winter, sealing them away beyond the Wall that his uncle was already beginning to construct.
"With the Others defeated here in Westeros, Eldric left," Brynden continued. "He left with the mages, vowing to continue their fight, to hunt down the champions of the Great Other who still remained."
The dreamscape blurred, showing Eldric traveling to distant lands, his face older.
"After that, Eldric became known by many names—Yin Tar, Neferion, Hyrkoon," Brynden explained, the figures of history overlapping with one another, "and finally, the story of Azor Ahai merged with his own. He became the legend—the man who pushed back the Great Other, who wielded Lightbringer."
They returned to the familiar desolate, mist-covered island with the ancient weirwood tree looming above them.
"Do you understand your importance now?" Brynden asked, his voice unyielding. He stepped closer, the shadows shifting around them. "You are the son of ice and fire, Maekar."
Maekar remained silent, his mind spinning. The images of Azor Ahai forging Lightbringer, the screams of Nissa Nissa as the blade plunged into her heart—it all swirled through his head like a storm. Was that the price he would have to pay? Would he need to sacrifice someone he loved?
"After the tourney, you need to take the throne. Time is running out," Brynden said.
But Maekar was not listening.
Brynden called his name again, louder this time. "Maekar."
"Yes, yes," Maekar finally answered, shaking himself from the haunting thoughts. "Take the throne... I understand."
"My father still lives, Brynden. He is the king, so taking the throne as you say is not possible right now," he added.
"Kings die," Brynden said, his voice carrying an icy chill.
Maekar stepped forward, his eyes sharp as he met Brynden's gaze. "What are you planning, old man?" he asked, his voice low, but his question held a dangerous edge.
Brynden did not flinch, nor did his expression change. "You need not worry about that. Just make sure that when it happens, you end the war as quickly as possible. The real battle is yet to come."
"Brynden," he called as the dream began to end, "Brynden!"
.
.
.
With a start, Maekar opened his eyes, his chest rising and falling heavily, his heart still pounding.
His gaze traveled to his side, where Cersei lay pressed against him, her warm body nestled close, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders, her arm draped possessively over his chest.
For a moment, Maekar simply lay there, staring at the ceiling.
"Damn Brynden," he muttered under his breath.
The old man had done it—he was making him regret even waking up in this world. Images of the Long Night played in his mind.
'What the fuck am I going to do?' he whispered to himself.
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