#gallantry

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The ancient temple, carved into the heart of a colossal cave, breathed silently hundreds of meters below the ground. As the stone stairs—untouched by the erosion of time—spiraled downward alongside forgotten symbols etched into the walls, the air grew cooler and the echoes deepened with every step. The gallery opening at the end of the stairs was grand enough to defy the limits of the human mind; its soaring ceilings were supported by stalactites and masterfully carved arches.

​In one section of the gallery, historical manuscript books stood lined up on stone shelves that had defied the centuries. Yellowed pages, leather bindings, and faded inks whispered of spells written in lost languages, ancient lore, and forbidden teachings. A dim light emanated from crystal lamps and phosphorescent stones embedded in the walls, making the shadows of the texts dance across the surfaces.

​In another section, heavy stone tables were lined up. Upon these tables sat potion vials of ever-changing colors, amulets covered in runic marks, and strange tools crafted from metal and bone. Some objects vibrated faintly, while others emitted a weak energy as if they were alive. Here, spells had been tested, research conducted, and the boundaries of reality pushed time and again.

​The entire gallery evoked the feeling of a place where knowledge and mystery, wisdom and danger were intertwined; a place where only the brave and the knowledgeable could endure for long.

The novice advisor, taking small but swift steps, hurried down the stairs, trying not to raise his voice too much as he called out to the head advisor's right-hand man "Gour-Namm Ejder, Gour-Namm Ejder..."

"Sir, His Majesty Toor-Uk Ejder is here, upstairs."

He took a small revenge in the matter of his riding fur, a tattered bearskin, old and musty-smelling. Stark had offered it to him in an excess of Night’s Watch gallantry, no doubt expecting him to graciously decline. Tyrion had accepted with a smile.

He had brought his warmest clothing with him when they rode out of Winterfell, and soon discovered that it was nowhere near warm enough.

It was cold up here, and growing colder.

The nights were well below freezing now, and when the wind blew it was like a knife cutting right through his warmest woolens.

By now Stark was no doubt regretting his chivalrous impulse. Perhaps he had learned a lesson.