127: The Son of Ice and Fire, Before the Night pt.5

“My queen,” Willas said, catching up to her as she walked through the stone corridors of Highgarden. The sound of his boots echoed beside her lighter steps.

He held out a rolled scroll, sealed with dark wax.

“The Chantor’s confession,” he said quietly.

Daenerys took it without looking at him.

“Bring him outside,” she said, her voice cool. “Put him with the others.”

Willas bowed and turned away.

Daenerys kept walking, her fingers tightening around the scroll. Her footsteps were swift and relentless, crunching faintly as she stepped into the open air beyond the old keep, where the gardens had long since turned to frost and snow.

She had failed.

Maekar had entrusted her with this mission to safeguard the granaries, the lifeblood of the realm in this Long Night and she had failed. One of the major granaries had burned before she could arrive. Tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, would suffer for it.

How many would starve and die because of her failure?

Her silver‑blonde hair, unbound, whipped in the wind as she crossed the courtyard. Snow fell lightly around her, coating Highgarden’s once‑glorious towers with a bitter, silent white. Knights and servants lined the path, bowing as she passed, but she did not meet their eyes. Her thoughts were elsewhere—with the people she’d failed, with Maekar.

With herself.

She mounted a horse, reached the great gate, and passed through without a word.

And there he was.

Morghul.

He stood in the snowy field beyond, black‑and‑red wings folded like a cloak around him, his snout rising as she approached. His eyes met hers—intelligent, sharp, warm with familiarity now. They were bonded in fire. Battle had done that. She had flown him through flame and death, and something had changed between them. She no longer feared riding into war.

But even that triumph was dulled by the taste of failure.

Daenerys reached up and placed a hand against Morghul’s jaw. He rumbled softly beneath her touch.

She turned then, hearing the shuffling of chains and the groans of pain and cold.

The prisoners had been brought out.

Men and women, some still in scorched armor or rags, knelt in rows in the snow—shackled members of the Church of Starry Wisdom, or those who had aided them. They had sworn themselves to destruction, to the silence of death.

She stood before them, her red‑and‑black armor gleaming faintly under the falling snow, her crimson cape flaring in the wind.

Cowards—that was what Maekar had called them. But to Daenerys they were something worse.

Traitors. Monsters in human skin. People who had chosen to doom the world just to save their own miserable lives.

And she knew what to do.

It did not take long for Willas Tyrell to return, flanked by guards. Between them, shuffling in chains, was the Chantor. His robes were tattered, blood‑streaked, and heavy with melting snow. Yet he kept his head high despite the cold and the ropes that bound his wrists. His expression was unreadable, his silence more defiant than fearful.

“Put him with the rest,” Daenerys commanded, her voice cold as the frost underfoot.

Willas hesitated for a heartbeat before obeying. He gave her a quick look, one of concern, or perhaps disapproval then handed the Chantor off to the guards, who shoved him to his knees beside the others.

A dozen traitors knelt in the snow now men and women, young and old. Some were nobles; others, commoners, servants, even a septa. All had given themselves over to the Church of Starry Wisdom. All had worked, directly or indirectly, to destroy the granaries, the realm’s lifeline through the Long Night.

Daenerys stepped forward and raised her hand.

“Morghul,” she called.

The ground trembled as the dragon moved. Guards and soldiers stepped back quickly, making way for him.

Morghul approached slowly, his wings dragging faintly across the ground. Steam rose from his nostrils like a forge. He stopped beside Daenerys and dipped his head, awaiting her command.

Willas’s voice broke the silence. “My queen…is this truly necessary? Some of them are—” He stopped himself.

Daenerys did not look at him. “They are traitors,” she said, her gaze locked on the kneeling figures. “Traitors to the realm. Traitors to mankind. Ask yourself, Willas should we imprison them? Feed them while our own people starve because of what they did?”

She turned, eyes sharp. “They destroyed one of the granaries. Hundreds of thousands may go hungry this winter because of that, perhaps more. Should we spare them, knowing what they were willing to sacrifice for their false god?”

Willas said nothing. He looked down, his face pale.

Daenerys faced the prisoners again. Some wept. Others mumbled prayers. A few trembled violently, pleading for mercy through cracked lips. But the Chantor remained silent, staring at her with cold certainty, his lips set in grim confidence.

“Do you have any last words?” she asked.

The Chantor lifted his chin. “The cold is eternal. You cannot stop it. No one can.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. “Oh,” she said softly, stepping back. “But there is a way to stop the cold.”

She raised her hand toward Morghul.

“Let me show you.”

Her voice was a whisper, yet it rang like steel.

“Dracarys.”

Flame erupted.

A torrent of fire poured from Morghul’s maw, engulfing the row of kneeling prisoners in a single sweeping blast. Screams pierced the air—sharp, agonized, cut short as skin peeled, bones blackened, and snow hissed into vapor. One woman tried to crawl away, her clothes ablaze—Morghul’s flame found her again. The Chantor, burning last, stared into the fire with a twisted smile until even his skull cracked and collapsed into ash.

When it ended, nothing remained but charred flesh, twisted iron chains, and a patch of melted earth steaming in the snow.

Daenerys did not flinch. She watched until the last spark faded.

Beside her, Willas swallowed, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. He did not speak.

Daenerys turned away. “I will leave before noon,” she said calmly, brushing soot from her red‑and‑black cloak.

Willas nodded slowly.

He said nothing else.

.

.

.

“She is beautiful,” Maekar said softly. He cradled his daughter with great gentleness. Her tiny face was serene, her breaths shallow and steady, her skin pale and tinged with red. She had grey eyes like his, and what truly set her apart was her thick silver‑gold hair, already curling faintly at the ends.

From the bed, Rhaenys gave him a tired but radiant smile. Her skin was still pallid, her body still recovering even after four days.

They had named her Gael, a choice more Rhaenys’s than his.

Maekar studied the baby again. So small in his arms, and yet he could already feel the weight she added to his soul. Thousands of lives depended on him already, and now one more. One he could not fail.

According to the faith, a child born with a full crown of hair was considered blessed. In King’s Landing the story had already spread beyond the Red Keep that she bore the mark of the gods’ favor.

So they celebrated. Even in a city buried in snow, with death at the gates, bells rang and candles burned in every window. Some drank, some prayed; others simply smiled for the first time in weeks.

“You’re still thinking about the name,” Rhaenys observed.

He gave a faint nod. “Gael… The other Gael her story didn’t end well.”

“Well, it’s just a name, Maekar.”

Silence fell for a moment. He bent to kiss his daughter’s forehead, then carefully passed her to Rhaenys. She held Gael close, and the babe nestled against her chest with a tiny, sleepy sigh.

“No word from Daenerys?” she asked.

“She will be back soon,” Maekar said, straightening.

“No ravens? Nothing from Highgarden?”

“Not yet,” he admitted. “The birds are slower now; the winds are crueler. It takes time.”

Rhaenys nodded but said nothing. Her eyes never left Gael.

Maekar lingered a moment longer, then turned. “I need to go. I’ll return later.”

“We’ll be here,” Rhaenys said, smiling faintly.

Outside, Lyonel waited with a guarded look.

“Come,” Maekar said as they started down the corridor. The air in the Red Keep had grown colder with each passing week. Fires burned day and night, yet the stone still seemed to remember the chill.

He spoke to no one as they passed knights, stewards, and maids who bowed deeply but dared not speak.

The kingdom was moving. As soon as renewed activity of the dead came from the Wall, the entire realm would mobilize, not just the royal army—which was already on its way north.

Everything was proceeding well in his opinion.

Everything…except the sword.

Lightbringer.

He needed it, not merely to drive the Others back but to destroy them utterly. Yet the blade still eluded him.

He arrived at Marwyn’s quarters and pushed open the heavy oak doors. Chaos greeted him: scrolls piled like crumbling towers, parchments strewn across tables and floors, tomes lying open with notes scrawled in several inks. The air smelled of old paper, melted wax, and something faintly alchemical.

Maekar stepped over a tangle of vellum that lay dangerously close to a brazier’s flames.

“Marwyn,” he called.

A nervous acolyte in a soot‑stained robe looked up from sorting tablets and hurried over. “This way, Your Grace. He’s at the back.”

Maekar followed, weaving through the labyrinth of knowledge until he found Grand Maester Marwyn, hunched like a crow over a yellowed animal skin so worn it seemed ready to dissolve at a breath.

“Marwyn,” Maekar said again.

The old mage grunted. “Your Grace,” he muttered without looking up, furiously scribbling with a quill that had seen better years.

“You said you had something for me,” Maekar reminded him, stepping closer.

“Yes,” Marwyn rasped, still writing. “Yes, indeed I do.” He tapped a spot on the hide with the back of his hand, eyes wide and glassy with sleepless excitement. “This was found among the oldest records in the Citadel’s Black Vault five thousand years old, perhaps more.”

Maekar gave a low whistle.

“One of the oldest surviving maps unless you count the fragments you found in the depths of the Hightower,” Marwyn said.

“I’ve found it. I know where Zarnoq is.” he added.

Maekar froze. The name had haunted him ever since Eldric uttered it during his vision in the black depths of the Hightower, the resting place of Lightbringer.

His own theories had placed the sword somewhere among the ruins of Sarnor; it made sense. Zarnoq, Sarnor the names sounded alike.

“So?” Maekar asked in a hush. “Which city in Sarnor, then?”

Marwyn chuckled, an ugly sound like a saw cutting wet bone. “None of them.”

Maekar’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“It’s not in Sarnor, Your Grace,” Marwyn said, rising with joints that popped. He tapped a faded mark on the ancient hide. “It’s not even close.”

“Then where?” Maekar demanded, heart pounding.

Marwyn grinned beneath his tangled beard. “Andalos.”

Maekar blinked. “Andalos? That Andalos?”

“The very same.”

“Though it has nothing to do with the Andals,” Marwyn added. “This predates them by thousands of years. It comes from the Cymmeri.”

“The Cymmeri?” Maekar repeated, narrowing his eyes.

Marwyn nodded. “A people lost to time long before the Rhoynar, long before the Andals. Some say they were the first to work steel. The Rhoynar learned from them, and the Rhoynar, in turn, taught the Andals centuries later.

“I found records of a city near the upper Rhoyne in northern Andalos, not far from where the rivers twist into the highlands. The name isn’t exact, but it’s close.

“The Andals when they arrived centuries later believed the city held a blade belonging to the Warrior himself: a sword of light, of divine flame.”

Maekar chuckled. “Seven save us. I think we may have actually found it.”

Marwyn grinned. “Well, I found it,” he muttered.

Maekar laughed and clapped the old maester on the back. “Fine all glory to Grand Maester Marwyn.”

Marwyn pressed on, excitement gleaming in his eyes. “There’s more. A Cymmeri princess is said to have married Huzhor Amai, the father of the Sarnori people. That’s how those lands were brought into his fief. The sword is mentioned in the legend a sword of light. It all connects, your grace. Azor Ahai, the Warrior, Lightbringer—it’s the same story told in different tongues.”

“But no exact location?” Maekar asked, brow furrowing.

Marwyn shook his head. “No. But with this much, I’m sure you can find it now. Use your abilities—you know where to look.”

Yes, yes, I could, Maekar thought.

“Well, Marwyn,” he said, striding toward the exit, “I think it’s time you focused your efforts on the Heart of Winter.”

Marwyn did not look up from his notes. “I already have,” he said quietly. “And I don’t like what I’m learning.”

Maekar did not pause. One thing at a time, he told himself. First the sword. Then the rest.

========

Maekar stepped quietly into the godswood. The heart‑tree stood tall and silent at the center of the grove, its red leaves whispering in the wind. Before it sat Leaf, cross‑legged in the snow, as still as part of the tree itself.

“I need your help again,” Maekar said as he approached. “Like before.”

Leaf opened her golden eyes and offered the barest nod. Without a word she extended her hand. Maekar took it, then seated himself across from her; snow drifted onto his shoulders as he closed his eyes. Leaf laid her small palm against his brow.

“Breathe,” she whispered, “and see.”

The world fell away.

Wind howled past him—and then, silence.

Maekar stood on a rocky shoreline, wind lashing his hair and cloak, waves crashing against jagged black rocks. Mist rolled in from the sea, and gulls cried overhead.

“Andalos,” he whispered.

“Let’s go further back,” he muttered, concentrating.

The scene warped and reshaped itself, and when it settled again Maekar found himself amid chaos.

He was in a village—or what remained of one—while it was being slaughtered. Smoke curled through the air; the ground was slick with ash and gore. Warriors in heavy bronze and boiled leather hacked and stabbed their way through the unarmed. They were First Men, without doubt—Maekar recognized the banners among them: the flayed man of House Bolton, the roaring giant of House Umber.

They showed no mercy. A boy of no more than ten was run down by a spear. A woman clutching a newborn was dragged screaming into a hut, which the raiders then set ablaze. Men were cut down from behind as they fled. It was not a battle; it was mindless slaughter.

“Gods,” Maekar breathed.

Then he saw him.

Riding at the head of the carnage, sword already dripping red, was a tall, gaunt man with long black hair and eyes like pale steel. His face was unmistakable.

Theon Stark—the Hungry Wolf.

Maekar had read of Theon’s raids on Andalos, how he had led great hosts across the sea for revenge against the Andals.

“Kill them all!” Theon roared, his voice cold and savage.

A woman stumbled in front of him, hands raised, begging for mercy. Theon did not slow. His sword came down, cleaving her from shoulder to hip.

Maekar staggered back instinctively, though he could do nothing—only a ghost watching a horror long past.

He tried to move on; the world around him blurred once more into the mists of time. Leaf’s cool hand still rested gently on his brow, grounding him as he reached deeper through the threads of history.

The roar of war faded. When he opened his eyes he found himself on the edge of a grassy rise, overlooking a gathering of men and women. Their faces were hardened by toil and sun, their eyes wary yet curious. At their center stood a tall, fervent man, gesturing skyward with both hands.

“They have spoken to me,” he cried. “The gods have spoken! The land we seek lies across the sea. We cannot stay here—this land is doomed. To the west—there we shall build anew. There we shall be whole again!”

Whispers rippled through the crowd. Some nodded; others folded their arms, unconvinced.

Maekar narrowed his focus and pulled harder at the thread of time.

The world lurched.

Now the wind was colder, sharper. He stood on the crest of a stony ridge ringed by jagged peaks. A mountain valley spread beneath him, and in the distance, tucked in a hollow, lay a small settlement.

Maekar turned—and his breath caught.

Not ten paces ahead stood Eldric Shadowchaser. The man was older now, his hair streaked with grey. In his hand he held Lightbringer.

Eldric knelt before a solitary grave, head bowed in silence, lips murmuring words Maekar could not hear.

Maekar lifted his gaze to the surrounding peaks. One, two, three…seven mountains in all. He counted again.

The Seven Mounts—the very place where, according to the old tales, Hugor Hill was crowned by the gods themselves.

So this is where Eldric spent his final years, Maekar realized. This is where Lightbringer is.

He watched Eldric rise and walk toward the distant settlement. It looked like a forgotten village, but Maekar sped time forward.

The village changed, grew, fell, burned, was rebuilt. Generations passed in seconds. Even the land itself seemed to shift. Then…

Pain.

A splitting agony thundered through his skull.

“Gh—AH!” Maekar cried, clutching his head as the vision shattered.

He staggered, nearly falling, but Leaf caught his arm and hissed, “You pushed too far.”

“I know,” Maekar groaned, wincing through the pain. “But I know where to go now.”

He forced himself upright, the ache still throbbing behind his eyes, yet a new clarity burned through the fog.

The Seven Mounts would be his next destination…the resting place of Lightbringer.