The Son of Ice and Fire, Lost in Time Pt.12

Sunspear was burning.

The screams of the dying rose like a chorus of agony, carried on the thick smoke that curled toward the heavens, choking out the midday sun. The salty breeze that once rolled in from the Summer Sea was now thick with the scent of charred wood, scorched flesh, and blood. Below, the streets were engulfed in chaos—men and women fled as Maekar's soldiers pushed through the city, cutting down any resistance. Flames licked at the domed rooftops, devouring the banners of House Martell as if the gods themselves had turned against Dorne.

From above, Neferion roared, shaking the very foundation of the castle as it descended like a winged shadow of death. The beast's black scales gleamed ominously, reflecting the inferno it had unleashed. Its massive wings sent waves of hot air rolling through the city, scattering embers like fireflies in the night.

With a single powerful flap, Neferion landed on the castle near the Solar Tower, the force of its weight shattering stone and sending debris crashing into the courtyards below. The structure trembled under the impact, ancient walls buckling as Maekar dismounted, landing lightly despite the carnage unfolding beneath him.

The sound of steel rang through the air before he had even taken a step.

Spears.

A dozen Martell guards rushed him from the corridors, their orange sashes whipping behind them as they came at him in tight formation—trained warriors, all moving as one.

Maekar’s eyes gleamed as he drew Blackfyre, the blade singing as it left its sheath.

The first man lunged.

A swift step to the side, and Maekar turned his blade, slicing through the shaft of the spear before slashing across the guard’s throat—blood sprayed, warm and thick against the cracked stone floor.

The others hesitated, but only for a moment.

A second Martell warrior struck—a thrust aimed for his ribs.

Maekar twisted, caught the spear mid-strike, yanked the man forward, and drove Blackfyre through his gut, tearing the blade upward through his chest before kicking the body aside.

Then the slaughter began.

They were fast—but he was faster.

Spears snapped beneath the arc of his sword, shields split like kindling, and bodies fell one after another, blood pooling at his feet. A step, a cut, a kill. A step, a cut, a kill.

Within moments, the hall was silent.

All dead.

Maekar barely spared them a glance as he stepped over the corpses, his boots slick with blood.

Then came the real challenge.

A deep, booming voice echoed through the halls.

“You will go no further.”

From the far end of the corridor, Areo Hotah stood waiting—the famed Norvosi giant, captain of the Martell guard, his massive axe resting easily in his calloused hands. His dark eyes burned with fury, but there was no fear—only the quiet determination of a warrior who had spent his life in service.

Maekar smirked.

“You should have run.”

Hotah did not answer. Instead, he moved, faster than a man his size had any right to be, his great axe arcing down with the force to split a man clean in half.

Maekar dodged, twisting to the side, feeling the wind of the blade’s passage as it crashed into the stone floor, sending shards of rock flying.

The Norvosi was strong.

But strength alone would not save him.

Maekar darted forward before the captain could recover, Blackfyre flashing in the firelight.

One. He struck low, forcing Hotah to block.

Two. He pivoted, spinning behind him.

Three. And then he cut.

A clean strike across the back of the knee—armor splitting, flesh parting—the giant staggered, his leg buckling beneath him.

“ARRAAHHHHH!” Hotah roared in pain, trying to swing his axe, but Maekar was already behind him.

One final blow.

Blackfyre whistled through the air—a single, precise slash across the neck.

Areo Hotah’s head rolled before his body even collapsed to the floor.

Blood spattered the walls, pooling beneath the lifeless corpse of Dorne’s greatest warrior.

Maekar didn’t spare him a second glance.

With rage burning in his veins, he turned toward the next set of doors, his voice echoing through the shattered halls—

“DORAN!”

The castle was a slaughterhouse as his men entered.

The air was thick with the stench of blood, smoke, and death. Servants ran, only to be cut down where they stood. Soldiers fought, but they were overwhelmed.

Maekar moved like a storm of steel and fire, Blackfyre a blur in his hands as he carved through the remaining Martell guards.

No one was spared as his men cut down everyone.

A young page sobbed, begging for mercy. A spear impaled him before he could finish. A maid tried to run—a soldier grabbed her by the hair and dragged her, screaming, into the carnage. The hallways were slick with blood, bodies lying broken and torn across the once-pristine stone.

Maekar didn’t look back.

His mind was singular. His goal was clear.

Doran Martell.

He reached the heavy double doors to the Prince’s chambers, kicking them open with brute force. The wood splintered, the locks shattered, and the doors swung wide with a thunderous CRASH.

There he was.

Doran Martell.

The once-proud Prince of Dorne, now a withered husk of a man, sat hunched in his chair, his body frail and thin. His skin was pale, his eyes sunken.

The moment Maekar stepped inside, Doran’s eyes widened in terror.

“Please—”

Maekar crossed the distance in two strides, his gauntleted fist crashing into Doran’s face.

The sickly prince collapsed, his chair tipping over as he slammed onto the cold stone floor, blood dripping from his nose.

He coughed, gasped, struggling to push himself up.

“Have mercy!” Doran begged, his voice weak and trembling.

Maekar stood over him, his breathing heavy, Blackfyre dripping with blood. His rage burned hotter than the dragonfire that consumed the city outside.

Doran tried to crawl away, his hands trembling against the cold stone, his breath coming in frantic gasps.

“Please,” Doran wheezed, his voice cracking. “Have mercy—”

“Any mercy I had died with her.”

Maekar raised Blackfyre high, the massive blade gleaming in the firelight, his mind filled with rage and vengeance.

“No!”

The cry rang out sharp and desperate, cutting through the air like a dagger.

Maekar barely had time to react before a blur of movement rushed in front of him.

Arianne.

She threw herself between them. Her eyes were wide, pleading, her chest rising and falling rapidly

“Please!” she begged, her hands outstretched, her body shielding her father. “Maekar, I beg you!”

Maekar stopped mid-swing, his breath ragged.

“Move.” His voice was low, dangerous.

“Please…” Arianne’s voice trembled.

Maekar shoved her aside, sending her stumbling backward as he stepped forward, raising Blackfyre high, his eyes locked onto Doran’s cowering form.

And then—

A blur of movement.

Arianne lunged forward, desperate, throwing herself between them just as Maekar brought his sword down.

The blade pierced her chest, sinking deep through flesh and bone, stopping just beneath her collarbone.

Maekar felt the impact before he even realized what had happened.

Arianne gasped softly, her lips parting as if to speak, but only a shuddering breath escaped.

Her dark eyes, filled with shock and pain, locked onto his.

Maekar froze, his grip on Blackfyre suddenly weak, his heart hammering against his ribs.

No…

He let go of the sword, his hands trembling as he knelt and held Arianne while she collapsed against him, her weight sagging against his armor.

Doran screamed.

“Arianne!” He tried to reach for her, but his body failed him.

Arianne’s lashes fluttered, her breath ragged against Maekar’s chest. Her fingers curled weakly around his forearm, as if clinging to him—to life.

Then, as though the last of her strength had drained away, her grip loosened.

Her body slumped against him.

====

Maekar woke with a jolt. His breath came fast, his chest rising and falling heavily.

He was in the gardens of the Red Keep, not in the nightmare that was the burning Sunspear. Sitting on a comfortable seat, the scent of fresh roses in the air, the sun warm against his skin.

His hands were not covered in blood.

It was the damned dream again.

He was glad it was not about the others… or about her. Maekar let out a slow breath, running a hand through his silver hair as he rose from his seat. He forced himself to steady his mind.

His gaze flickered across the gardens—and then he saw her.

Rhaenyra Targaryen.

She walked toward him, her silver-blonde hair catching the light of the setting sun, a soft breeze playing with the loose curls cascading down her back.

But it was not her presence alone that caught his attention—it was what she was wearing. The princess was adorned in Essosi fashion: a gown of deep crimson silk, far bolder than the modest dresses of Westerosi nobility. It was form-fitting, accentuating her curves. The fabric clung to her waist before flowing down in a cascade of rich embroidery. The neckline—low, but not scandalous—revealed just enough to be alluring without inviting impropriety.

If she wanted him to notice her, then… he had noticed.

He saw her lips curl into a smile as she spotted him. His own smile answered hers as he began walking toward her, closing the distance between them.

They started their daily walk in the gardens they have been having for a moon—and the dream was forgotten.

The past was forgotten.

Just as he liked it.