The Giant Near WinterFell
Alan awakened upon a throne suspended within a hall of impossible scale. The seat itself rose so high above the floor that clouds drifted lazily beneath it, forming and dissolving like pale ghosts trapped in the stone. The air was thin and cold, carrying a silence so deep it felt ancient, so ancient it felt like the mountain that entombed this place was built around it.
Every surface of the vast hall, from its pillars, its floors, even the underside of the throne’s great walkway, was etched with images. Not decorations, but scars. Entire histories had been carved directly into the stone: armies colliding, cities burning, gods and beasts locked in combat so violent the stone itself seemed to remember the impact.
From what Alan could piece together, a war had taken place here thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of years ago. Two races had clashed on a scale beyond comprehension. One was ultimately defeated and exiled to a realm of eternal winter, condemned to an unending, frozen existence. The victors fared no better. Their global empire, once dominant enough to challenge the world itself, faded into obscurity, remembered only as fragmented legends and half-forgotten myths whispered by later civilizations.
Yet Alan felt no true connection to these events. He was not of this world.
He was alone within the colossal castle. Far above, the ceiling was barely visible, swallowed by shadow and distance, and from time to time, the mountain itself reminded him of its presence. Massive chunks of stone, larger than a commercial jet, would break free and plunge into the abyss below the throne’s walkway, vanishing soundlessly into depths that refused to echo.
There were no guards. No servants. No signs of life. Only the throne.
(This is a fan-fic about AGOT btw)
