In the underground vault, Grand Maester Ibrose fell to his knees, clutching his temples with both hands.
Bloody tears streamed from his clouded old eyes, and blood covered his nose and mouth.
That voice still echoed in their minds, cold and utterly emotionless, yet more terrifying than the roars of the Mad King Aerys.
They were like mortals prying into a god's secrets, mere ants the god could casually crush.
"Enough... please stop!"
Maester Walin was the first to regain a shred of his senses.
He struggled up from the floor and lunged toward the stone table holding the Glass Candle.
The eerie blue flame was still swirling.
At its center, those fathomless eyes watched them with indifference.
Maester Walin had no doubt that, if the other man wished it, that terrifying psychic power could shred all their brains in the next instant, leaving them a pack of drooling idiots.
"We... we meant no offense! Great King in the North!"
Maester Walin's voice grew shrill with sheer terror. Without even wiping the blood from his face, he bowed deeply before the flame, all but prostrating himself.
"We only... only wanted to verify an ancient legend... we didn't know we would disturb you..."
His words were incoherent.
Reason, logic, rigor...
The principles these maesters had followed all their lives had become laughable platitudes in that moment.
Before absolute power, they had only their most primal instinct left-begging for mercy.
The eyes in the flame seemed to flicker.
The psychic pressure that could drive a man mad silently receded.
The screams in the vault gradually subsided, leaving only heavy breathing and stifled groans.
Someone helped Grand Maester Ibrose to his feet.
He looked at the indistinct figure within the flame. Not a trace of scholarly arrogance remained in his eyes, only the