122: The Son of Ice and Fire, I Don’t Have Time for This

“I saw the two priestesses in your company,” Aerion said, his voice calm and unhurried as he sank into one of the ornate chairs in the chamber. The silk cushions barely creased beneath his weight.

He gestured politely. “Would you care to sit, King Maekar, so we might speak plainly?”

Maekar remained standing, arms crossed, eyes like iron. “I’ll stand. Say what you’ve come to say.”

Aerion inclined his head slightly. “Of course.” He leaned back, fingers interlaced over his lap. “They must have already filled your ears, haven’t they? Azor Ahai returned, Hyrkoon reborn, the Flame That Does Not Die—isn’t that what that priestess called you in the throne room?” He smirked.

Maekar shrugged. “Something like that.”

Aerion chuckled quietly, the sound more like breath passing over a blade. “But names are only cloth over bone. They warm the soul, perhaps, but they hide the shape of the truth.”

Maekar stared at him, frowning. ‘The fuck is this guy on about?’

“You’ve been lied to, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms,” Aerion said.

“Have I now?” Maekar’s tone was dry—bored, even.

Aerion’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, yes. You’ve been told you’re the chosen of fire, meant to hold back the cold—the dark—that you are a bulwark against the Great Other. But what if I told you the darkness is not a curse but a season, a turning, a necessity, and that you—you—are not its enemy?”

Maekar’s eyes narrowed.

Aerion rose slowly, circling the room like a tutor before a pupil. “This world rots, King. It is a festering garden of stagnant gods and dying myths. The fire you wield is a false flame. The Great Other—the cold, the stillness—is not evil; it is nature reclaiming the world. The old must die for the new to rise.”

“The Dreaming King understood this,” Aerion went on. “You know him as the Bloodstone Emperor. Lies have blackened his name, distorted the truth. He wasn’t a tyrant—he was a seer, a man who opened his soul to the Silent God and saw what needed to come.”

Maekar folded his arms tighter. “The same emperor who killed his sister and plunged the world into the Long Night? That one?”

“She tried to stop him,” Aerion said. “She feared his truth. The gods—the false ones—feared what he knew, so they made him a monster. But he was a herald.

“And you, Maekar Targaryen—you have a purpose, a glorious purpose: to be his vessel. Through you, the Dreaming King will rise once more and fulfill the promise he made to the Great Other.”

Maekar blinked slowly. ‘The fuck…?’ was all he could think.

“You remember him, don’t you?” Aerion said, voice low and almost reverent. He paced slowly across the chamber, hands clasped behind his back. “Not in words, but in your marrow, in your dreams, in the spaces between your breaths.”

Maekar remained still, watching him, arms crossed.

“He too walked in light once—spoke to false gods, sought purpose in flames and stars,” Aerion continued, his tone growing more intense. “But he saw past it, tore away the veils, and in the dark he found the truth—the Silent One, waiting.”

Aerion’s eyes flicked up, sharp and almost glowing in the lamplight. “You hear them whispering, don’t you? At night? It calls to you. And you listen.”

‘No, I don’t,’ Maekar thought, incredulous. A flicker of amusement touched him despite the tension. 

‘Is he giving me the dark‑side‑of‑the‑Force speech? Is that what’s happening here?’ A small smile began to form at the corners of his lips.

“There is no death where He dwells,” Aerion went on, oblivious. “No fear. No end. No time. Just… peace. He would grant you the truth—the real truth. Not the illusion of crowns or thrones, but a throne beyond decay—”

He stepped closer, his eyes glittering, his voice rising with feverish intensity. 

“a throne of night.”

“That’s it,” Maekar said suddenly.

Aerion’s expression faltered. “What?”

“That’s it. I’ve heard enough,” Maekar said, brushing dust from his sleeve. “Look, I’m just going to leave. I really don’t have time for this… cult speech, end‑of‑the‑world pitch, throne‑of‑darkness bullshit.”

Aerion’s calm cracked like glass. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

Maekar’s gaze narrowed.

“You will not leave this city, King,” Aerion said, voice lower now, dangerous. “You are… too important. You may stay here…gently and learn what you truly are. Or”—he spread his hands slowly—“we can make it less gentle.”

Smugness seeped into his tone. “You may believe the Church of Starry Wisdom powerless in your lands, King Maekar. But you are wrong. We are everywhere. Even in your cities. Even in your own castle.”

Maekar stood silent, impassive—though inside, gears were turning.

“You have two queens, do you not?” Aerion asked, voice soft, insinuating.

Still, Maekar did not react. Yet a new thought drifted like smoke: ‘How the hell did this bastard coordinate such a far‑reaching web of church members?’ Instinct pointed toward magic—perhaps something like the black candles of the Valyrian sorcerers. The Golden Empire was ancient; they might wield something similar.

‘When I return,’ Maekar thought coldly, ‘we may need a cleansing. A purge. An inquisition.’

Across from him, Aerion was beginning to crack. The mask of calm had slipped, revealing strain—the look of a man who expected fear and reverence but met only cool detachment.

Unhurried, Maekar walked to the table and poured himself tea. The quiet clink of porcelain rang loudly in the chamber. He lifted the cup, took a sip, then glanced over the rim at Aerion.

“You know I have a dragon, yes?” he asked, almost conversational.

Aerion stiffened, then recovered. “Oh yes—your dragon. But he is far from you now, isn’t he? Useless in this moment.”

Maekar set the cup down gently.

“So you won’t let me leave?”

Aerion smiled faintly. “No.”

Maekar gave a half‑shrug. “Oh well.”

Aerion stepped forward, lifting a hand in mock generosity. “Your companions can go, if they wish. They may even take that trinket you came for. But you will—”

“Look out!” Maekar barked, eyes widening in alarm as he pointed behind Aerion.

The man turned instinctively.

That was all Maekar needed.

In one fluid motion, Blackfyre sang from its sheath—a blur of shadow and steel. The Valyrian blade cut through air and flesh in a single stroke, so fast it whistled.

Aerion’s head thudded to the floor, rolling once before stopping face‑up, his features frozen in disbelief. His body followed a heartbeat later, folding like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Fucking idiot,” Maekar muttered, already turning.

He strode to the threshold, Blackfyre still in hand, and flung the heavy doors wide.

Lyonel stood just outside, eyes alert, one hand on his sword. “Your Grace—?” His gaze flicked past Maekar into the chamber and fixed on Aerion’s headless corpse sprawled across the carpet. The color drained from his face.

Only then did Maekar notice the guards—Aerion’s guards—posted in the corridor. Four of them, clad in polished crimson lamellar, polearms at the ready. Their eyes snapped from the corpse to the sword in Maekar’s grip.

He offered a crooked smile. “He, uh… slipped?”

One guard stepped forward, knuckles whitening on his haft. Another drew breath to raise the alarm—

“Oh, what the hell,” Maekar muttered, and rammed Blackfyre through the nearest man’s chest in a single brutal thrust.

The corridor erupted in violence.

Lyonel roared, drawing steel and sliding to Maekar’s flank as the remaining three lunged. Polearms jabbed, blades swept. In the narrow hall the long weapons were awkward, yet their reach and coordination made them deadly.

Maekar and Lyonel fought back‑to‑back. Maekar moved like fire made flesh, Blackfyre carving through armor and bone with cruel grace. A polearm grazed his side—then its wielder shrieked as Lyonel drove a short sword into his neck.

Another guard swung his halberd low; Lyonel vaulted the sweep and brought his blade down in a crushing arc on the man’s helm.

A fourth lunged for Maekar’s chest—Blackfyre flashed, shearing the arm clean at the elbow. Blood spattered the stone. The man had time for one scream before Lyonel cut him down from behind.

Shouts echoed farther along the passage—four more guards, sprinting toward the carnage.

“No time,” Maekar growled.

Together the king and his sworn sword charged. Maekar ducked a thrust and stabbed upward, Blackfyre bursting from a guard’s back. Lyonel caught two polearms on his cross‑guard, pivoted, and smashed his pommel into another’s face before finishing him with a vicious thrust to the gut.

Moments later they stood panting, crimson‑splashed, amid a heap of corpses.

Footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor, followed by a swirl of red robes.

Melisandre. Leaf. Mei.

“Your Grace!” Melisandre called.

“We heard shouting!” Leaf said, green eyes wide, dagger drawn.

“What happened?” Mei asked, staring at the blood‑slick stones.

Maekar kept moving, ushering them forward. “I’ve got the key. The whole city’s under the Church’s control—we have to leave. Now.”

Lyonel wiped blood from his cheek. “What’s the plan?”

Maekar’s gaze fixed on the passage ahead. “We make for the courtyard.”

“We must be silent, then,” Mei whispered, glancing over her shoulder. “If we move quietly, perhaps—”

“Fuck that,” Maekar snapped, tightening his grip on Blackfyre. “No time for subtlety with what I have planned.”

Without another word he broke into a run, the others scrambling after him.

Guards poured from side passages—two, then three—blades drawn, shouting in high, clipped YiTish.

Maekar didn’t slow.

With a roar he sprang at the first three. Blackfyre flashed: the nearest guard’s head struck the floor before his knees buckled. Maekar landed, twisted, and buried the blade in the second man’s gut, wrenching it free in a scarlet spray. The third raised a spear—Maekar hurled a belt‑dagger, catching him square in the eye.

All three fell in a single breath.

Lyonel skidded to a halt beside the bodies, staring in open amazement. “That was… impressive.”

Maekar smirked, panting. “Try to keep up.”

“You’re not in full armor, Your Grace,” Lyonel growled. “Don’t be reckless.”

“Why don’t we make a game of it?” Maekar said, stepping over a corpse. “Whoever racks up the most kills gets first pour when we get back.”

“This isn’t a tavern brawl,” Lyonel muttered. “Better you stay behind me—”

“You’re no fun,” Maekar quipped. “Come on! How often do we escape the Emperor of Yi Ti’s palace after killing his most important adviser—who also happens to belong to some shadow‑worshipping, millennia‑old cult?”

There was a moment of silence, then Lyonel laughed.

Leaf did not. “Eyes ahead,” she barked, already sprinting.

They rounded a columned hall and met ten more guards—these in a tight spear wall, formation perfect.

Melisandre and Mei raised their hands, chanting.

Tongues of fire coiled from the lanterns overhead and crashed down in a sudden inferno. The guards screamed, blinded, as flames engulfed them.

Leaf lifted her arms; green light pulsed at her fingertips. The vines braided into the stonework writhed to life, snaring ankles, throats, wrists—pinning the burning men in place. Their screams died quickly.

“Remind me never to cross any of you,” Lyonel muttered.

“Keep moving,” Leaf said, already ahead.

Down another corridor more foes fell to Maekar and Lyonel, until Maekar’s tunic was soaked in blood—none of it his own.

At last they burst into a wide gallery with high windows; torchlight flickered in a courtyard beyond.

Between them and freedom stood a solid wall.

“Fuck,” Maekar hissed, skidding to a stop. “Wrong gods‑damned wing.”

“Then go back,” Mei urged. They turned—and froze.

At the far end of the hall torches flared and steel flashed. Dozens of guards advanced, crimson armor gleaming in the firelight. At their head, draped in golden‑orange silks and a breastplate etched with intricate carvings, strode Pol Qo, the self‑styled Orange Emperor.

“You have a plan, yes, Your Grace?” Lyonel asked.

Maekar didn’t answer.

Pol Qo halted a dozen paces away, arms folded.

“This,” Mei translated as he spoke, “is how you repay my hospitality?”

Maekar didn’t blink. “Your adviser tried to take me prisoner—or maybe that was your plan all along.”

Pol Qo’s smirk widened. “It was.” He turned to the gathered guards and courtiers. “And it seems he failed.”

“Let us go,” Maekar warned. “It doesn’t have to get worse than this.”

Pol Qo laughed. “What will you do, hmm? Summon your dragon? It’s far from the city, is it not? Will you magically call it?”

Maekar’s mouth curved. “Yes. I can.”

The smile slipped from Pol Qo’s face. “What?”

A thunder‑crack split the air. The floor shivered. Screams rose elsewhere in the palace—high, panicked, genuine terror. Then came the roar: deep, guttural.

Neferion.

Pol Qo’s eyes went wide as he grasped the truth.

“CALL OFF YOUR DRAGON!” he bellowed, drawing his curved blade and charging, fury overtaking fear.

Maekar met him—steel on steel.

Pol Qo screamed words as he fought, but without Mei to translate, Maekar understood none of it.

“I don’t understand what the fuck you’re saying!” Maekar shouted as he fought back against the Emperor’s furious strikes.

Their swords clashed with a screech of metal. Pol Qo was strong, deceptively quick, his blade a blur. But Maekar was quicker. Blackfyre danced through the Emperor’s guard as if it knew the air.

A cut to the arm.

Another to the side.

Pol Qo roared and pressed on—desperate now, no less vicious.

Behind them the guards hesitated; fear crept into their faces. The western king fought their emperor alone—and held his own.

A barked order. Spears leveled.

Lyonel stepped in front of Melisandre, blade flashing, parrying the first thrust.

Before the next ranks could close….

CRASH.

The wall behind them exploded into dust and broken stone.

Something impossibly vast filled the breach: black scales, jaws as wide as a gatehouse, emerald eyes blazing.

Steam hissed from flaring nostrils.

Neferion had found him.

Screams rang out. Half the guards dropped their weapons.

Pol Qo turned—and saw the dragon looming, its breath making his silks ripple.

Terror rooted him.

Maekar struck.

Blackfyre whistled; the Emperor’s head flew free, bouncing across the marble, still frozen in disbelief.

Silence crashed down.

Neferion rumbled—a low, smoky growl that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“Well, now there are two,” Maekar murmured, glancing from the corpse to the stunned guards beneath the dragon’s shadow.

No one moved.

“Move!” Lyonel barked, shoving Leaf and Mei toward the ladder to the saddle. Melisandre followed, robes swirling. One by one they climbed; Neferion lowered his head to boost them. Maekar was last.

He paused, surveying the ruined palace and the trembling men who had served their now‑headless emperor, then swung into the saddle.

“Dracarys,” he whispered.

Neferion roared. A pillar of green‑gold flame engulfed the palace’s eastern wing. Walls cracked, windows burst, and fire blossomed across ancient stone.

The dragon vaulted skyward, wings snapping open; the concussion of his ascent hurled dust, flame, and rubble across the courtyard.

They rose into the night.

Below, Trader Town burned. Smoke coiled in black columns above the rooftops. The palace’s eastern wing collapsed, swallowed by fire and falling stone.

Melisandre watched the ruin, eyes cold. “We should burn the whole city—cleanse it.”

Maekar shook his head. “Our fight isn’t here. We came for what we needed. Now we return.”

Lyonel, clinging behind him, groaned. “You’re not dragging me on another worldly adventure, Your Grace. Next time, take Ser Jaime.”

Leaf’s voice carried on the wind. “Agreed. I’d rather be back in Westeros helping some other way.”

Maekar laughed deep and genuine as Neferion climbed toward the stars.

They had the final key.

Lightbringer awaited, wherever its resting place lay.

.

.

.

Viserys sat at the head of the long, polished table in the throne room, where the midday sun poured colored light through the great stained‑glass windows.

To his left, Daenerys frowned over the report he had just finished explaining—everything he had learned about the cult that worshipped the Others and was spreading through the kingdoms. To his right, Rhaenys—very pregnant now—leaned back in her chair, one hand resting protectively on her rounded belly.

“I’ve also received a raven from the Hightower,” Viserys said, his voice low. “Willas Tyrell is missing.”

Daenerys looked up sharply. “Missing?”

“That is what Lord Leyton wrote,” Viserys confirmed. “Willas vanished during his investigation. I believe the cult may be involved.”

“I think we should keep this a secret—especially from Marga—”

“No,” Daenerys murmured, horror rising in her voice. “Margaery deserves to know.”

“She will,” Rhaenys interjected, calm but firm. “But not yet. He could still return.”

“We can’t lie to her,” Daenerys insisted. “He’s her brother.”

“And what if it’s nothing?” Rhaenys replied. “What if he returns tomorrow? Better we wait.”

Viserys nodded. “Rhaenys is right, Daenerys. We must be cautious.”

Daenerys exhaled in frustration. “What are you going to do, then? These cultists—this Church of Starry Wisdom—are everywhere, according to you.”

“I’ve already begun rooting them out,” Viserys said. “Basil—Maekar’s hidden hand—is leading the effort. He’s uncovered several hideouts in the city; all will be purged.”

Daenerys folded her arms. “Our king said he’d be gone a month. It’s already past that.”

“He’ll return when his task is finished,” Viserys answered tightly. “In the meantime, we must protect what we have. You two”—he looked from Daenerys to Rhaenys—“are the most important targets they could aim for.”

“What are you saying?” Rhaenys asked, eyes narrowing.

“I intend to confine you both to the Maidenvault,” Viserys said. “You, Allyria, Rhaella, Margaery, and little Maekar—until the city is purged.”

“You what?” Daenerys snapped.

“I am the Hand. It’s for your safety.”

“We are queens of the Seven Kingdoms,” Rhaenys said coldly. “You would lock us away like fragile ornaments?”

“Then, as your brother and your uncle,” Viserys said, voice softening, “I beg you. Please.”

Before either could answer, the heavy doors swung open.

Maester Marwyn strode in, a scroll bound with white ribbon in his hand, his face grave. “My lord Hand, my queens,” he said, his voice echoing in the stillness. “A raven from the Citadel.”

He held up the scroll. “A white raven has come.”

Viserys rose; his eyes widened.

Marwyn bowed his head. “Winter is here.”