119: The Son of Ice and Fire, Further East

Maekar flew high above the dry lands that ringed the city of Shamyriana, the hot wind hissing in his ears as Neferion’s powerful wings cut through the sky. His sharp eyes scanned the cracked and dusty riverbeds below—the dead veins of a land that once brimmed with life. Then he saw them: dark figures on the move.

Horsemen… or would they be called zorsemen?

About fifty riders, galloping hard over the rocks and dust, kicked up clouds that followed like ghosts. Their long-limbed mounts—striped and lean, half-horse, half-zebra—moved with a unique rhythm.

Jogos Nhai.

Maekar’s jaw clenched. That was the band he’d been hunting for a day. Scouting reports said they’d been testing the outskirts of Shamyriana, striking isolated caravans, probing the city’s defenses. A raid. Not a large one, but dangerous enough to keep the local warriors on edge.

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he counted them—fifty, maybe more. But further north on the horizon, kicking up dust like a storm, was a larger force. It couldn’t be less than a thousand strong.

The wind screamed louder as Neferion dipped lower. For a week now, he’d stayed in the city as he, Melisandre, Leaf, and Mei delved into the archives. The Grand Archives were buried deep beneath the fortress—vast, ancient, and labyrinthine, filled with 8,000 years of history written in dozens of dead tongues.

They had only scratched the surface.

The halls they explored hadn’t been touched in centuries—some not in millennia. Dust choked the corridors, scrolls crumbled at a touch, and the lower levels had to be unearthed like tombs. But the deeper they went, the stranger the findings. They were close—but not close enough.

So when word of a Jogos Nhai band circling nearby came, Maekar didn’t hesitate.

He needed a break from the tedious searching.

He had offered his services to the matriarch, who was more than happy to have her city defended by the Great Hyrkoon himself.

Ahead, the Jogos Nhai riders began to scatter as they spotted the shadow looming above them. Neferion’s massive wingspan darkened the sky, and his roar rolled across the plain like a thunderclap.

“Let’s give them something to remember,” Maekar growled.

He sent a silent command for his dragon to descend, and it obeyed.

With a guttural roar, Neferion dove.

Maekar’s eyes narrowed, wind slicing past him as he focused on the scattering riders below. With a silent command, he reached out with his mind—Neferion responded instantly.

Fire erupted in a blinding torrent from Neferion’s maw, sweeping low across the plains. A curtain of flame carved a blazing scar through the sand, a molten line hundreds of feet long, charring the earth black in seconds. The Jogos Nhai reined in hard, zorses screaming, hooves skidding as the fire hissed and danced before them.

Maekar hadn’t aimed to kill—but fear was his goal, and fear he delivered.

Most broke immediately, wheeling around and fleeing into the wastelands.

But some did not. Whether driven by desperation or sheer madness, a handful turned their zorses and charged, their cries sharp and high-pitched.

Arrows whistled through the air.

Another wordless command—and Neferion answered.

The firestorm that followed was absolute.

A wave of heat crashed outward as Neferion released another blast, incinerating the charging riders mid-gallop. Their cries were lost in the roar of flame. The sand beneath them turned to glass, their bodies vanishing in flashes of smoke and ash.

It was over in moments.

The rest of the Jogos Nhai turned tail, scattering into the horizon like startled deer. Maekar watched them flee, following high above for a short while—just long enough to ensure they didn’t regroup. Then he turned Neferion’s flight back toward the city.

As he flew, the wind above the clouds cooled his face, but his thoughts churned like a storm.

‘All I wanted… was to be king to gain the greatest power in the realm,’ he thought bitterly.

That had been the dream—his dream—ever since he awoke in the body of six-year-old Maekar Targaryen. He had clawed his way to the throne through war, blood, and sacrifice. And he had won.

But this was not the aftermath he’d dreamed of.

Being under siege by the Others and hailed as the savior from this dark force was too much. In the stories of this world, heroes like this did not survive.

Even if he did win… what would be left of Westeros? Of the world? Would it be a frozen graveyard, scattered with the bones of those who had followed him? Would it be ash and silence?

Would Dany survive? Rhaenys? His babe growing in Rhaenys’s womb?

They had begun to haunt his dreams as of late. Somehow, the dam of fear and doubt he had suppressed had burst.

He shook his head, banishing the thoughts.

The city came into view, rising out of the dust like a dream half-remembered: Shamyriana.

Neferion circled low, his wings stirring up a gale of hot wind and grit before touching down on the outskirts of the city. Maekar dismounted quickly.

Marak, the head of the palace guard, was already there, waiting, surrounded by ten warrior women, their spears glinting in the sunlight.

She stepped forward, her voice sharp with excitement. “Great Hyrkoon,” she said, saluting with a fist to her chest. “Word has come from Matriarch Aruna. They have found it. What you seek.”

Maekar’s eyes widened.

He whistled sharply and called for his zorse. Within moments, he and his escort were galloping hard for the city gates, heading for the archives.

=====

Maekar stepped off the great lift, the grinding of chains echoing behind him as it rose back into the darkness. The air in the subterranean chamber was cool and dry, thick with the scent of ancient parchment and dust older than the Seven Kingdoms.

The Grand Archives of Shamyriana spread out before him—massive vaulted chambers hewn deep into the rock, their walls lined with shelves upon shelves of stone tablets, scrolls, and faded manuscripts. The space was illuminated by an ingenious system of hanging lanterns and a network of mirrors that captured and redirected natural light from above, channeling it down into the underground halls. It bathed the archive in a soft, golden radiance, casting delicate reflections along the carved pillars that held the cavern aloft.

He wanted to replicate this lighting technique in Westeros.

In the central hall, beneath a colossal mural of Hyrkoon the Hero carved into obsidian, stood Matriarch Aruna—tall and regal in her ceremonial robes. Beside her was Leaf, still hidden beneath her concealing cloak, hood drawn low to obscure her otherworldly features. Melisandre, serene and veiled in crimson, stood next to Mei. Lyonel, who had accompanied Maekar from the palace, followed close behind.

As Maekar entered, they all bowed.

He wasted no time. “What have you found?”

Leaf spoke first. “We found the name you asked us to look for: Muwatalli.” Her voice echoed slightly in the quiet.

Maekar stepped closer, his attention sharpening.

“There are records of a line of kings who bore the name Muwatalli,” Leaf continued. “One of them rose to prominence just a century or so after the Long Night.”

Aruna picked up the thread, her voice clear and formal. “He united much of this region—tribes, cities, river kingdoms. It was the foundation for what would later become the Patrimony of Hyrkoon.”

Melisandre nodded, her ruby pulsing faintly. “I believe, Your Grace, that the city Eldric spoke of in your vision must be the city these kings ruled from—where he left behind the key.”

Maekar frowned. “And how can we be sure?”

Mei stepped forward, her voice soft but sure as she pointed to a nearby stone slab carved with reliefs. “There are legends. The city held a gift from Hyrkoon himself—a relic said to burn with light. The kings who ruled there swore to protect it, and many others tried and failed to take it by force.”

Maekar moved closer to the carving, his eyes roaming over the etched script and figures—images of war, of a radiant object passed from hand to hand, of a city set ablaze but never conquered.

A grin slowly spread across his face. “Where is this city?” he asked.

Matriarch Aruna stepped forward. “It is the city of Lukka. It was once the seat of the ancient kings—the first line who bore the name Muwatalli. The ruins lie far to the east… past the Great Sand Sea. East of Trader Town.”

She hesitated, lowering her gaze before continuing. “It shames me to admit this, Great Hyrkoon, but much of this knowledge was forgotten by my people.”

Maekar’s brow furrowed. “Trader Town?” he muttered.

Lyonel, who had been lingering just behind him, straightened at the name. “Isn’t that where that general—what’s his name—the one who claims the throne of Yi Ti—is based?”

Maekar turned to him, nodding. “Yes, my friend. General Pol Qo. The ‘Hammer of the Jogos Nhai’—and the self-proclaimed Orange Emperor.”

Aruna spoke again, her tone grave. “We found many scrolls warning people not to travel there. Many who went in search of Lukka never returned. Perhaps that is why we forgot so much of our own history.”

A beat of silence fell over the group.

“So,” Maekar said, “our city lies east of Trader Town. And the city of Lukka itself…”—he looked back at Aruna—“you say people who go there don’t come back?”

Aruna nodded solemnly. “The scrolls call it a cursed place.”

“Or guarded,” Leaf added, her voice quiet but certain beneath her cloak. “Remnants, perhaps. Old protectors who still follow ancient commands.”

Maekar took a deep breath, weighing the possibilities, his mind already mapping risks and routes. His tone sharpened like steel. “Very well,” he said. “We leave at dawn.”

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Willas rode his horse slowly along the winding road to Oldtown, the sky painted in hues of burnt orange and soft violet as the sun dipped low on the horizon. The day’s heat had faded, replaced by a cooler breeze that whispered through the tall grass on either side of the road. In the distance, far past the golden fields and rolling hills, the towers of the Hightower would soon rise into view.

Ahead of him rode the Chantor.

A cloaked figure, large and slow-moving atop a thick-chested gelding, the Chantor rode with the casual air of a man who knew no fear. Willas still did not know his real name, only the title he carried—the Chantor, a priest of a hidden order that worshipped the Others.

Willas’s grip on the reins tightened.

He had seen too much during his stay in Highgarden—his former home, now tainted. Gareth and many of the servants there worshipped this dark god who came to bring icy doom upon them all.

How far did this reach? How many towns, castles, and hearts had this cold doctrine twisted? Willas felt it now—like rot spreading beneath the skin of the realm, invisible but ever-growing. An enemy taking root from within, something that could prove catastrophic to their war efforts.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the heavy grunt of the Chantor bringing his horse to a halt. “We’ll rest here,” the man said, his voice rich and phlegmy. “My back aches.”

Willas muttered, “Of course it does,” under his breath. This was the tenth time they had stopped today. The Chantor’s complaints were a constant litany of groans and aches, always requiring the group to rest. Two guards from Highgarden flanked him dutifully, while four additional cloaked figures—silent acolytes, perhaps—trailed close behind. Willas watched them carefully. They said little. They listened far too well.

Dismounting, Willas moved to a large tree stump near the roadside, worn smooth with time. He dropped onto it and stared into the freshly made fire, the flames licking hungrily at the dry kindling. The warmth was oddly comforting in the growing chill of night. Above him, the stars began to flicker into view, pale points in a darkening sky.

Then, with a creaking of wood and a low groan, the Chantor settled beside him, his bulk pressing the stump slightly. Willas didn’t look at him.

“Beautiful night,” the Chantor said, watching the flames. “You can hear them better, you know… when it’s quiet.”

Willas turned his head slightly. “Hear who?”

The Chantor smiled. “The stars. They sing, Lord Willas. You only need to listen.”

Willas said nothing. His breath caught for the briefest moment.

“You still haven’t told me what this order of yours truly is,” he said. His voice, metallic through the forge-crafted mouthpiece, was calm but firm.

The Chantor’s broad face curled into a slow, measured smile. He didn’t look at Willas, instead watching the fire crackle and spit into the darkening sky. “Let me tell you a tale, Lord Willas,” he said softly.

Willas gave a quiet nod.

The Chantor’s voice took on a storytelling cadence, a strange reverence. “There once was an empire,” he began, “one greater than any you know. It encompassed most of the world—land upon land upon land. It stretched from the Sea That Steams to the Isles of Ice. Its spires scraped the heavens, and from its highest towers, the stars could be touched.”

Willas said nothing, but his curiosity drew him in.

“It was a golden age,” the Chantor went on, eyes distant, “ruled by a line of emperors—descendants of a god on earth.”

The Chantor leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping in pitch, drawing Willas closer by the sheer gravity of his words. “The sixth ruler of this empire had two children. A daughter and a son. The daughter was radiant. Beloved. The priests sang her name in crystal temples. The people adorned themselves in her colors. Her light shone the brightest, chosen by the gods that ruled those lands.”

Willas frowned. “And the son?”

A pause.

The Chantor’s smile turned faintly bitter. “Ah… the son. He was strange. Quiet. He spoke to the night. They said he saw things… things that did not belong in the waking world.”

Willas’s throat felt dry. “What did he see?”

The Chantor turned toward him, the fire’s glow casting deep shadows across his wide, jowled face. His eyes glinted—not with madness, Willas thought, but something worse.

“He saw the truth,” the Chantor whispered, lifting his gaze to the stars that now blanketed the sky. The night seemed impossibly still. “He saw that the gods who rule this world—those they prayed to—were not gods at all. They are spirits. Pale, feeble things that use us for their games, their wars… mere playthings.”

Willas stared. The fire crackled. The woods around them had gone utterly silent.

“The younger son,” the Chantor continued, “opened his soul to the void beyond. And there, he heard the whisper of the Silent God. The True Star. The one who does not burn.”

“The Silent God?” Willas echoed, unease creeping into his tone.

“Yes,” the Chantor breathed. “The One who waits beyond the veil of light. He who brings no heat, yet causes no pain. He who watches without judgment. The cold that soothes. The dark that heals. The truth that frees.”

Willas was beginning to sweat beneath his mask, despite the cold.

“Others called him mad,” the Chantor said, eyes wide. “But in that stillness, he learned the truth: that beyond the veil of flame and flesh… there is peace. Stillness. No suffering. No death. Only the black heart that beats in perfect quiet.”

Willas tried to speak, but no words came. The Chantor was enraptured now, deep in his story.

“But the sister… oh, she feared what he knew. She clung to the gods of flame and stone, of tree and shadow. She called him a heretic. She waged war to silence his dream. She would not allow the world to be freed.”

The Chantor’s voice dropped in sorrow. “So he did what he must. Not in rage—out of grief. He struck her down. And for that… the world turned against him.”

“He was defeated,” the Chantor said softly. “Cast down… but not all was destroyed. Some of them remained—embers of his dream, scattered across the world. Hidden, waiting.

“We are those embers, Lord Willas. The Keepers of the Truth. The dreamers who heard the heartbeat of the True Star—the Silent God.”

He smiled then, broad and serene.

“And now, the cold returns—just as it did before. The long stillness. The age of darkness. And with it… our Lord, born anew.

“But he has been misguided. Led astray by the servants of the sister, who would chain him in fire again.”

Willas sat stiff and silent, barely breathing.

“We must guide him,” the Chantor finished. “We must free him from their lies. So that he may show the world the beauty of the Silent God—the freedom he would grant us.”

He turned to Willas, eyes aglow. “Do you understand now, my lord?”

Willas could only nod slowly.

There was only one thought echoing in his head.

That they were fucked.