Of Ice and Bronze
Fifth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC
Upon hearing the words 'buried hall', Waymar had imagined something like Thennhold. Perhaps it would be larger, with higher walls and more towers to defend against attack, but he had still expected something built of wood upon fieldstone foundations. He had seen the like in dreams from the Age of Heroes, a thousand keeps rotted away to time before men first built in stone that would outlast the ages. What he beheld instead, under the rock and ice and rubble, was eerily familiar: smooth stone and wide corridors, stately arches of somber grey, some still holding in defiance of time and the ruin of their purpose, tarnished bronze hinges marking what must have once been gates wide enough for a giant to step through.
"This is like...Runestone," the young knight said at last, reluctantly, as though drawing the comparison might invoke an ill fortune upon his his family's keep. With another start, he realized he had not thought 'home' when he considered the keep where he had been born and spent the first ten years of his life.
"Would you be able to recognize the way to the inner parts of the fortress even if we did not excavate?" Lady Drekelis asked.
"Maybe. How...?" His question was answered with a
spell before he had even spoken it.
Waymar had never before considered what it felt like for Stone Swimmers to move through walls, or by what senses they navigated the crushing darkness beyond sight, sound, and touch. All things told, he would have preferred to remain ignorant.
The opening ahead tasted grey and hollow, slowing his steps, but he heard the voice of the serpent mage in his thoughts:
"The blessing of fire shall hold."
Though the young knight would have preferred to hear the reassurance from the priestess who had decided to walk her own way through the shadows rather than tax Lady Drekelys' magic too deeply, he was nothing if not bold. They stepped out as one into some sort of vault. Even half wrecked by the calamity that had destroyed the fortress, there was still enough room to fit Viserys as a dragon in here with room to spare, though the far corner of the room was filled with crushed ice. The air was heavy and lifeless save where they stood by the blessing laid upon them and though they had all been warded against the cold before venturing in, a chill ran down his spine.
"Child of the Old Blood, have you come to free me or feed me to the greedy flames?" a voice called in his mind, it sounded young and afraid and trying not to show it. It sounded like his sister.
"Show yourself and we will see!" the knight called out aloud in the Old Tongue. He could have sworn that nothing wholesome could live here, but he had been wrong about such things before.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the center of the room lightened to reveal an ancient throne, the skeleton of some long dead warrior perched upon it. The scales of bronze upon the corpse's armor looked so fragile they would likely fall away at the merest touch, its eyeless skull and empty ribs sprawled upon the table before it. One hand still clutched a tarnished silver goblet even in death.
Poison, Waymar knew at once.
Before he could think to question the strange certainty, the young knight heard a hiss of warning from behind him and he realized that the light had only been getting brighter while he had been contemplating the long dead warrior. To the left of the throne there now stood a maiden woven of light, silver falling to a cascade of icy blue. Her eyes were not the soul-piercing blue he had expected, but only a few shades darker than Waymar's own light grey. One of her hands rested upon a bronze blade of the same heft as Purity, but brighter by far in the spirit's aura than his own sword's muted light.
"Have you come to free me at last, bold warrior?" She asked again, speaking without voice.
"Few have found me in this place, and many more have found me on the mountain side above, when the moon was right. I pray it is a sign that you shall be the one to break my curse at last."
That sounded like the stuff of ballads and tales, and though he had seen the like under the light of common day these past few years, he had also seen how they could be twisted, how a beautiful mask might hide terrible truths. "Who are you, my lady, and what curse do you speak of?" he pressed, keeping his guard up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Xor, Mereth, and the Herald flicker into existence to his right. He wondered if he could hand off this whole negotiation to the Spectator, but the girl did not even seem to notice them.
"My father was Dovrak Dum, High Magnar of these lands and greatest of the rune-binders," she began, the words conjuring images in the mind like finest bard-song.
"Alas that he was the master of a dying art as the light went out of the world. The Singers grew wary and withdrew to their secret palces, and even the voices of the Gods were all but faded, no matter how much blood was spilled before the pale roots. And so he sought the counsel of darker things that whispered from the heights." She seemed to sigh, though no sound passed her lips.
"To his ruin." One pale land motioned to the corpse, sorrow deeper than words could tell marking her features.
"So he forged a pact with the Power in the North," Waymar prompted. He could see the touch of the Others upon this specter, too. Part of him wondered if he ought not cast lighting at her and be done with it, but he remembered Rina and so still held out some hope, however small.
Even if this is a trap, I might learn something useful, the part of himself that sounded a little like Tyene noted.
"Just so, he was not the first of our rune-carvers to do so in secret, but he was the first of the kings," the specter replied.
"He vowed that were he but given the power to do so, he could forge a blade unmatched, one able to slay even he greatest of their champions. He made a wager against them in truth, that if the blade, this blade," she motioned to the sword before her,
"could slay any champion They might send, then They were to take the sword as payment and leave him the knowledge and the power so gleamed."
"And if the sword and its bearer should fail, then he and his people would be sworn to the Cold Ones," Waymar guessed, though one could hardly even call it that, the temptation was so obvious.
The ice maiden nodded.
"When the hour at last came, my father was old and bent under the weight of crown and sorcery, but when the full truth of his bargain became known none of our warriors would serve as his champion, they abandoned their oaths before they could be wholly bound to the dark. In desperation, he swore that whoever should be his champion would have my hand in marriage, but still none dared to lift the blade. I sought to draw it myself, but They cited the words of my king against me. I could not be champion, for I was already bound to a different part."
That sounded like the sort of bargain the darkest of fey would hold men to, Waymar thought disgusted. "So what did he do?"
"After all others had left the Black Crag, we shared a cup of poison, hoping that we were not yet so bound in our souls as to be shackled in death," came the grim and silent reply.
"Father was theirs in full and they took him to some far off place, but I who was sworn only through later oath and not of my own will, remained here amid the ruins, betrothed of Winter, but not quite wed for a champion might yet arise to take up the challenge and slay Their champion."
"You have called others before, haven't you?" the knight asked, recalling her earlier words.
"Yes, though never by trickery. They knew what they risked before they paid the price," the specter replied, her expression defiant.
"If others have taken up the sword and lost, how is it that you are not wholly bound to our enemy my lady?" Xor interjected, his mind voice like a breath of fresh air in the tomb-touched hall.
"I refused to recognize them as of my people once they had failed," the spirit replied, seemingly struggling to even see the spectator.
"If our enemy was willing to allow such an obvious loophole to stand it was because it suited their purposes to use her as an eternal lure to great warriors passing this way," Riz'Neth's twinned voices spoke as one in his mind and Waymar could not deny the truth of them. Still, that did not mean he could not win regardless, bursting their 'trap' from the inside, freeing the poor girl's soul and claiming that sword all at once. He would be lying to himself if he said the notion as not appealing, but the decision was not his alone.
"What is your name, my lady?" Waymar asked slowly, realizing that he had not even heard as much about the girl herself.
"I do not know, for They have taken the memory from me." The words were scarce a whisper in his mind.
What does Waymar do?
[] Take up the ancient sword to battle a champion of the Others four the soul of the ice maiden
[] Refuse the challenge and allow Mellsiandre to attempt to exorcise the influence of Winter from the hall
[] Write in
OOC: This was a lot longer than I anticipated. I originally wanted to cut off at the reveal of the ghost, but it just flowed better to have the whole thing in one go. Not yet edited. 
