121: The Son of Ice and Fire, That is not a Town

“Well, we’re here,” Maekar said, arms crossed as he stood atop the dry, wind‑swept ridge. In the distance—spread out like a golden sprawl stitched with stone—stood Trader Town.

Beside him stood Lyonel, in his white Kingsguard armor, ever watchful. Melisandre’s crimson robes fluttered slightly in the breeze. Mei stood to the left, her eyes locked on the horizon. Leaf, half‑hidden beneath her cloak, crouched at Maekar’s feet, observing quietly.

Below, the city stretched far wider than any of them had expected—walls like polished bone wrapped around it, tiered districts rising like steps carved from the land itself. The architecture was much like that of East Asia from his previous life, and yet alien as well: vast domes, curved bridges, tiered towers, and pointed gates shaped like dragons’ jaws and silk fans. It pulsed with life even from a distance, flags fluttering, caravans moving like ants through the gates.

“This is a trader city?” Maekar muttered. “Not a fucking town at all.”

Lyonel nodded slowly. “Yes, they really need to change the name. I expected a glorified crossroads, not… this.”

Mei bowed her head in embarrassment. “A thousand pardons, great Hyrkoon. I should have clarified. It has been called Trader Town for millennia, but… yes, it is a city in all but name.”

Maekar waved a hand. “No need for that. I just expected something else, that’s all—not your fault.”

“It is the seat of an emperor, my king. What did you expect?” Melisandre said softly, her red eyes scanning the horizon.

“He claims to be one,” Maekar replied.

Leaf suddenly raised a hand and pointed. “Look.”

A cloud of dust rose from the road below. Dozens of riders on horseback were closing in fast. Their banners flapped orange and crimson in the wind, and the sun gleamed off their curved sabers and bronze helms.

Maekar sighed. “Great. They must’ve seen Neferion.”

Lyonel stepped closer. “Your Grace, we must—”

“Wait,” Mei interrupted. “We should stand our ground. If we flee, they’ll see us as enemies. But if we meet them—speak with them—it may be our only way into the city, and perhaps to meet the Orange Emperor himself.”

Maekar considered her words, then gave a small nod. “All right.”

He looked to the sky and gave a mental nudge to Neferion. The dragon understood at once—climbing higher, slipping behind the clouds, waiting.

As the riders drew near, their formation tightened. The leader—a tall, broad‑shouldered man in segmented armor of lacquered orange and black—dismounted. He strode forward with the measured grace of a practiced warrior and spoke sharply in YiTish.

Mei translated calmly, “He says: the Orange Emperor commands the rider of the dragon to come before him.”

Maekar raised an eyebrow, then glanced at Mei. “Tell him I accept.”

=====

The gates of Trader Town creaked open as Maekar and his company were led through. The air changed at once—dust gave way to smoke and spice, the quiet plains replaced by a storm of sound, scent, and color.

Trader Town was chaos incarnate.

The narrow streets twisted like veins through the city’s stone heart. Stone buildings leaned against one another as though drunk on the weight of time, their walls faded by sun and smoke. Above them rose towers—some painted in brilliant reds and blues, others chipped and half‑collapsed—like grasping fingers trying to claw the sky.

The scents were dizzying: spiced lamb, fried insects, honeyed dates, dung, sweat, and incense all fought for dominance in the air. The shouting of hawkers filled the streets—some crying out in YiTish, others in Valyrian, Summer Tongue, Qartheen, even Westerosi.

Men from Leng in green silks bartered with Jogos Nhai. Pale men from the Shadow exchanged silver with copper‑skinned traders from Sothoryos. An old Volantene woman read fortunes in the blood of snakes. Children darted between legs with hands far too quick to be innocent.

Lyonel tugged his horse closer to Maekar and muttered, “This city’s larger than King’s Landing…”

Maekar chuckled, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “Then you must see Yin, the capital. I’ve heard you can fit a hundred King’s Landings inside it.”

Lyonel blinked, staring. “Gods…”

As they pressed deeper, the roads widened. The crowd thinned as they entered what was clearly the richer part of the city. Here, the chaos dulled—though only slightly. Instead of hawkers, there were teahouses, gambling dens, perfumeries.

And then came the palace.

It loomed ahead, a fortress‑palace of carved stone and golden domes that must once have been grand. But that was long ago.

Now, one wing lay in ruin, its collapsed walls swallowed by creeping vines. The newer construction alongside it was brash and excessive—turrets plated with copper, balconies painted orange and red, glass mosaics showing scenes of battle, dragons, and great emperors.

It was opulent. It was grotesque.

And it was undeniably the seat of a man who claimed to be an emperor.

Arriving at the palace, they were led inside, guards multiplying around them three‑fold.

Lyonel leaned in. “I don’t like this.”

Maekar didn’t glance at him. “Let’s see where this goes. And remember: Neferion is above us. One thought from me, and this whole place turns to ash.”

“Us too, Your Grace—we’ll be ash as well.”

They were escorted deeper, along a long corridor whose tiled floors gleamed like wet stone and whose walls were carved with bas‑reliefs of past victories.

At the end stood a pair of massive lacquered doors. Gold inlays traced dragons and clouds in spirals, the doorknobs carved into open‑mouthed lions. When the guards pushed them open, a low hum of drums greeted the newcomers, along with the whisper of silk and the rustle of dozens of bodies rising to attention.

They had entered the throne room.

The chamber was vast, its ceiling vaulted high and painted with constellations in shimmering lapis and pearl. Red pillars thick as tree trunks held it aloft, carved with spirals of fire and flowering lotuses. Golden dragons curled around their tops, jeweled eyes watching the visitors.

An elevated dais lay at the far end, behind rows of kneeling courtiers. Silk‑robed scribes, eunuch attendants in layered garb of gold and blue, and helmeted guards knelt on either side of a jade path that led to the throne itself.

And there sat the Orange Emperor.

General Pol Qo was not what Maekar expected. The man was broad‑chested and powerful, sitting with casual ease atop a towering throne of carved black wood inlaid with amber and coral. His robes were layers of orange and crimson silk, stitched with gold thread that shimmered like flame. His face was strong and square‑jawed, weathered by a lifetime of battle. His black hair was coiled into ceremonial rings atop his head, and a golden circlet—shaped like a blazing sun—crowned his brow.

His eyes locked onto Maekar’s—sharp, calculating.

A long, charged silence settled as the two rulers stared at one another. Neither looked away.

Then, with the crack of a golden staff, a herald stepped forward, his voice booming in the high YiTish tongue. The rhythmic cadence echoed across the grand chamber.

Mei leaned close to Maekar, whispering as the litany began.

“He announces His August Eminence,” she translated, “High General of the Fifteenth Army, Bearer of the Orange Sun, True Son of the God‑on‑Earth, First of His Line…”

Maekar blinked as it continued.

“…Hammer of the Jogos Nhai, Lord of Trader’s Rise, Guardian of the Broken Gate, Flame of the Southern Sands, Voice of the Heavenly Will…”

Maekar muttered, “That’s some title.”

At last the herald’s voice faded. The courtiers bowed.

Silence returned—until Maekar noticed Melisandre whisper something to Mei.

Mei stepped forward, her red robes swirling like smoke. She glanced at Maekar, then raised her chin and spoke in flawless YiTish, her voice ringing with a priestess’s authority.

“Behold Maekar of House Targaryen—King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the Dragon King,The Last Dragonlord, Azor Ahai Returned, the Flame That Does Not Die, Hyrkoon Reborn, He Who Rides the World’s Flame, Friend to Flame, Foe to Shadow, the Son of Ice and Fire.”

A murmur rippled across the room—surprise, confusion, awe. Several attendants bent to whisper. A few YiTish generals glanced sideways with curiosity.

Maekar turned to Lyonel, eyebrow raised. “I don’t know what she said, but I’m pretty sure it was longer than that guy’s.”

“Agreed, Your Grace,” Lyonel said, smirking.

Mei spoke swiftly in YiTish; the Orange Emperor gave a curt nod.

Maekar leaned toward her. “What did you say?”

“I will act as translator, Great Hyrkoon,” Mei whispered. “He agrees.”

Maekar stepped forward, chin high. “It is an honor to meet the great Orange Emperor.”

Pol Qo’s face was granite. He answered in a deep, gruff voice that rumbled through the chamber. Mei translated:

“He says, ‘And you—the barbarian king from the West. Are you the one who rides the dragon?’”

“Yes,” Maekar replied.

Pol Qo frowned, confusion flickering across his face. He spoke again, slower.

“‘How is this possible? The silver‑haired barbarians were slain generations ago; only they could tame those beasts.’”

Maekar smirked. “I’m one of those silver‑haired men. I just take after my mother, that’s all.”

Pol Qo grunted, voice turning cold. “‘Your kind were our ancient enemies. You brought fire and death to the Golden Empire.’”

“That’s in the past. I haven’t come to conquer. I’m here for another matter entirely.”

Pol Qo’s eyes narrowed. In a thunderous voice he declared—Mei hesitated before translating:

“‘It does not matter why you have come. Now you will serve me.’”

Maekar blinked. “What?”

Pol Qo stood, fists clenched. “‘I am the Son of Heaven. I was chosen to rule the world. With your dragon, I will unite all Yi Ti. You will be the fire that cleanses the dusk and carries us into a new dawn.’”

“I thought you had a truce,” Maekar said.

Pol Qo laughed bitterly. “‘Truce? They sign peace with ink in one hand and sharpen blades with the other. They are weak. I would burn them and give our people unity and so we may face the rising tide of demons.’”

“Well,” Maekar replied, “I’m not fighting for you.”

“You dare refuse me?” Pol Qo thundered, stepping down from his throne. “Then I will take your dragon from over your corpse.”

Maekar’s voice went ice‑cold. “Try me… General.”

Mei flinched, clearly dreading the translation, but she complied. The words hit like a slap.

Pol Qo’s face flushed; his hand twitched toward his sword—when an unassuming man stepped forward.

He was bald, silver hair at his temples, with the look of someone half‑Valyrian, half‑YiTish. He whispered into the emperor’s ear.

Pol Qo froze.

Slowly, the storm left his expression, though his glare remained.

“Perhaps,” Mei translated carefully, “‘we both spoke out of turn… King of Barbarians.’”

Pol Qo drew a breath. “‘You are my guest. Stay in the palace. We shall speak again—tomorrow.’”

Maekar dipped his head. “Very well. We’ll speak then.”

A wave of the emperor’s hand summoned attendants. Guards and servants came forward, and Mei gestured for Maekar and his companions to follow.

As they were led toward the guest quarters, Maekar whispered to Melisandre, “Well… that went well.”

Mei said nothing, but her knuckles were white.

Lyonel snorted beside him, eyeing the guards with one hand resting near his sword belt. “Your Grace, we’re being marched to ‘guest chambers’ under armed escort. We’re not guests—we’re prisoners. I wouldn’t call it went that well.”

Melisandre, walking a few steps behind them, spoke low and calm. “We may have more pressing concerns than gilded cells.”

“Oh?” Maekar asked, raising an eyebrow.

It was Mei who answered first, her voice barely above a whisper. “The man who advised the Emperor—the one who whispered into his ear. I recognized his markings. I believe he belongs to the Church of Starry Wisdom.”

Leaf, her small figure cloaked and hooded, spoke for the first time. Her voice was strained and tense. “I felt it too—that presence. I have only sensed such a presence beyond the wall when the others were near.”

Maekar exhaled slowly. “Well. That’s not good.”

Melisandre’s voice sharpened with urgency. “We must leave—now. Summon Neferion, my king. Let them see the fire you wield. Burn this nest of shadows if you must—this city is not clean. The taint of the Church is everywhere.”

Maekar shot her a glare. “Calm yourself. We’re not setting an entire city ablaze.”

Just then the procession stopped. Maekar and Lyonel were guided into one chamber, while the rest of their company was escorted to another, deeper in the wing.

Their room was … excessive.

The chamber was massive. Richly woven rugs of orange and gold stretched across the floor. Cushions of silk and velvet lay scattered beside low marble tables. A fountain bubbled quietly in the corner, its waters perfumed with citrus and spice. Moonlight filtered through lattice‑carved windows in strange geometric patterns. Braziers cast a soft amber glow, bathing the walls in honeyed light.

Maekar looked around and whispered dryly, “If this is where they keep prisoners, I’d love to see the Emperor’s own room.”

Lyonel sat heavily on one of the cushions, glancing warily at the door. “What do we do now?”

Maekar walked to a small table by the fountain where a porcelain tea set waited. Steam rose from a copper kettle resting in a carved brazier. “Well,” he said, picking up the pot, “first, we drink some tea.”

He poured with calm precision despite the unease pressing on them both, handed a cup to Lyonel, and sat cross‑legged on a cushion.

“Then,” Maekar said, eyes narrowing as he watched the swirling steam, “we figure out our next move.”

======

Three hours later

Maekar lay stretched across the silken bed, one arm folded behind his head, eyes fixed lazily on the ornate ceiling. Golden embroidery above depicted dragons soaring over fields of wheat—imperial grandeur etched in thread.

Lyonel paced. Again.

Boots thudded on the inlaid stone floor, his hand never straying far from his sword hilt. Shadows danced along the walls as lanterns flickered, casting restless shapes.

“Will you stop?” Maekar muttered. “You’re making me dizzy.”

Lyonel turned sharply. “I don’t know why you’re so calm about this.”

Maekar let out a low sigh. “Because there’s no reason to panic—yet. If this ‘emperor’ refuses to release us tomorrow, I’ll call Neferion down.”

Lyonel shook his head but kept pacing—until he froze.

The heavy doors creaked open.

Both men turned toward the sound.

A man stepped through—the same figure Maekar had seen whispering to the Orange Emperor in the throne room.

He bowed with courtly precision. “It is an honor to meet the King of the Sunset Kingdoms,” he said in smooth, High Valyrian.

‘Great—he can speak Valyrian,’ Maekar thought, pleased.

Maekar rose slowly from the bed. “I thank you for your intervention in the throne room,” he replied in Valyrian.

The man waved a hand lightly. “Oh, think nothing of it. His Eminence has been under much strain of late. I imagine, as a fellow monarch, you understand the burdens of ruling.”

Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

The man smiled. “I am Marquess Aerion Vazerys.”

Maekar blinked. “How—”

“Yes,” Aerion said, still smiling. “Surprising, isn’t it? I am descended from the envoys once sent from the Valyrian Freehold to Yi Ti. After the Doom, we never returned. Our blood mixed with the blood of the East.”

“That … makes sense,” Maekar said, studying him.

There was a pause. Then Aerion stepped forward. “If I may, King Maekar, I wish to speak with you—alone—on matters of great importance.”

Maekar’s brows rose. “Alone?”

Aerion nodded. “Yes. The topic is delicate; it concerns the great change to come.”

Lyonel was instantly at Maekar’s side. “I stay.”

Aerion turned to him with serene patience. “I assure you, Ser, your king has nothing to fear from me.”

Maekar held Lyonel’s gaze for a moment, then nodded. “Wait outside.”

Lyonel frowned deeply but obeyed, stepping from the chamber with one last look over his shoulder.

Now they were alone.

Aerion strode to the center of the room, hands folded behind his back. “I trust your accommodations have been comfortable?”

Maekar crossed his arms. “Get to the point, Marquess. I’m not a patient man.”

Aerion’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Of course.” He reached into the folds of his robe.

Maekar’s eyes widened.

From the robe, Aerion drew a small object—round, black, engraved with radiant golden lines.

Maekar stepped forward, stunned. “That … that’s—”

Aerion nodded. “Yes. I believe you’ve come seeking this.”

He held it out toward Maekar, and for a heartbeat the chamber fell utterly still.

Maekar stared at it—there it was: the final key.

“You may have it, great king,” Aerion said softly. “My only request is that you hear what I have to say.”

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.

Snow lashed across Edmure’s face like knives, each gust more vicious than the last. He trudged through knee‑deep drifts, eyes narrowed against the white squall that swallowed the world. Around him moved a dozen others—brothers of the Night’s Watch in black cloaks and free folk in mismatched furs. They were supposed to be allies now. Supposed to be.

Tormund Giantsbane walked behind him, a hulking shadow in the storm, his wild red beard already stiff with frost. The free folk refused to be called wildlings anymore. We are free folk, they always said, with a snarl and a pride that wouldn’t melt even in dragonfire.

They were out in the storm to find the missing—Benjen Stark, Val, nearly thirty others: rangers, spearwives, and scouts who had vanished without a word days ago.

“We need to go back!” Edmure shouted, his voice barely carrying over the howling wind. “We can’t see anything out here!”

“I’m not going back without Val,” Tormund growled.

“It’s a death sentence to keep going in this storm!”

“Then die, you one‑armed fucker—keep walking!” Tormund roared.

Edmure gritted his teeth and took another step—when something seized his leg.

He yelped, stumbling back, sword flashing in reflex. The brothers of the Watch turned, weapons raised—then Edmure froze mid‑swing, blinking at the pale figure half‑buried in the snow.

White furs. Golden hair, tangled with ice.

“Val!” Edmure cried.

The others rushed in. Tormund dropped to his knees, clawing at the snow with bare hands. Together they dug her out: limbs stiff, lips blue, eyes fluttering half‑open. She looked barely alive.

They carried her to shelter, wedging themselves beneath the roots of a snow‑caked outcrop. Inside, the wind dulled, though the cold still bit deep. Someone wrapped a cloak around Val, and a fire was coaxed to life, its feeble flames flickering on her face.

Tormund leaned in, voice rough with worry. “What happened?”

Val’s voice was a whisper. “Attacked. Spiders… Others. Others.”

“Save your strength,” Edmure said, but her hand clamped on his sleeve with surprising force.

“Stark…” she choked. “He—”

“Dead?” Tormund asked, voice low.

Val shook her head, breath rattling in her chest. “No… they took him. They took Stark.”

“Fuck,” Edmure muttered.

The fire cracked.

No one spoke.

Outside, the storm screamed.

And something else screamed with it.

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