The Son of Ice and Fire: Lost in Time pt.1

The city of Tolos sprawled across the hilly coastline like a forgotten relic of a grander time—a place where the glory of the past still shimmered in every column and archway. The city’s white stone gleamed beneath the golden light of the setting sun, casting long shadows from towering statues that watched over wide marble streets.

On a terrace of a grand mansion perched on a hill near the sea sat Daemon Targaryen. The salty breeze from the ocean below brushed against his face, teasing strands of his silver hair. His sharp gaze swept across the horizon, but his thoughts were far from the picturesque view of the sun-kissed waves.

"Tell me," Daemon asked, his tone betraying his irritation, "this so-called Dragonlord… what do you know of him?"

The man sitting across from him, Theron, one of the prominent lords of Tolos, shifted in his seat. Though his posture remained relaxed, the lazy sprawl of his arms across the chair was a facade. His eyes, a shade darker than the shimmering sea, betrayed a flicker of unease as they darted toward Daemon.

He hesitated before speaking, as though weighing his words carefully.

"It’s true," Theron admitted, sitting up straighter. "The rumors are not mere talk. He is a Dragonlord." His voice was steady, but there was an underlying tension, as if speaking the words made him uncomfortable. "He conquered Slaver’s Bay—well, it's called Dragon’s Bay now."

Daemon’s face twisted into a scowl. “There are no true Dragonlords left, save for my family,” he said, his tone hardening. “We are all that remains of Old Valyria. Perhaps the so-called ‘pure-bloods’ of Volantis would make such claims, but they are nothing more than pretenders to what was lost.”

Theron’s voice dropped to a whisper, as though even mentioning this mysterious conqueror might summon him. “Some say he is an ancient Dragonlord—brought forward through time from the Doom itself by ancient magicks.”

Daemon laughed, the sound sharp and mocking. “An ancient Dragonlord,” he repeated, as if the thought was so absurd it bordered on mockery. He leaned forward, his smirk returning. "You don’t actually believe that nonsense, do you?"

Theron’s face, however, was grave. “He has crushed the Dothraki hordes, laid waste to their khalasars. His empire stretches from Slaver’s Bay—Dragon’s Bay, as they call it now—to Lhazar, and all the way across the Eastern Dothraki Sea. Even the Free Cities feel his shadow. Tolos lives in constant fear that he will soon set his sights here.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. He knew of this empire that had risen in just six years. It made him feel inferior. He hadn't even completed his conquest of the Stepstones yet, and somehow an empire the size of the Seven Kingdoms had risen in that time.

“It is said that he wears Valyrian steel armor, and bears a sword of legend. He is worshipped as a god by the freed slaves who now follow him. Even the followers of the Red God are flocking to him.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his irritation slowly giving way to something more calculating. A sly grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Is that so?” he murmured. Whether this 'Dragonlord' was some charlatan or something more, Daemon had to know.

“Well,” Daemon continued, his voice tinged with amusement and danger, “I’ll be finding out for myself soon enough.”

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Maekar stood by the window of his chambers, high up in the Grand Pyramid of Meereen, his steely gray eyes scanning the city below. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a faint orange glow over the horizon, painting the tops of the city in soft gold.

It had been six years since he had been thrown back in time.

He ran a hand through his now silver hair, another strange side effect of the ritual. His once dark locks were now silver, making him look every bit the dragonlord he claimed to be—except for his eyes. They remained the same stormy gray they had always been.

It all came back to that damn ritual. Melisandre and her Red Priests had meant to summon a power beyond understanding to end the Long Night, and perhaps they had—just not in the way anyone had foreseen.

He had lost everything. His wife, his beloved family, the world they had fought to protect. They had all fallen, one by one, to the Others, as the world descended into darkness.

In the end, when all hope had seemed lost, Melisandre and her fellow priestesses conducted a ritual to summon R'hllor himself to the mortal world to fight the Great Other. The Red God had possessed Maekar’s body, and he remembered little after that. Even now, he recalled only fragments. The endless cold, the terrible shriek of the Great Other, the roars of Nerferion. He had fought something beyond description, something that defied all understanding. And then... there was nothing. No pain, no darkness. Just the quiet hum of a new dawn.

When he came to his senses, he was flying over the Smoking Sea, Lightbringer in his hand, Nerferion’s wings slicing through the sulfurous air. It had taken days to find safe land, and more time to realize he had been thrown nearly 200 years into the past.

At first, the realization had been a shock—an impossibility to grapple with—but Maekar was not a man to be undone by fate. If anything, it only renewed his purpose. The thirst for power still ran deep in his veins. With the strength of Nerferion, and the enhanced might that R’hllor’s presence in his body had given him, he knew there was only one path forward.

He would conquer.

In the six years since his arrival, he had done just that. He had forged an empire. He had conquered Slaver’s Bay, obliterating the chains of slavery and sending shockwaves through Essos. The Dothraki, once a scourge upon the land, had been crushed, their khalasars shattered so thoroughly that they would not rise again for a century.

The men and women he freed had even begun worshiping him. The liberated slaves called him the Great Father of Freedom. Though he cared little for their worship, it served his purposes. Power came in many forms, and if they wanted to worship him, to believe he was some resurrected dragonlord from the ashes of Valyria, then he would let them.

Yet, despite all of this—despite the victories, the vast empire, the power he now wielded—there was an emptiness that lingered. He longed to return to Westeros, to claim the throne that had been lost to him. A throne he had only ruled for a fleeting moment before the Others had come.

"My lord, come back to bed." His thoughts were interrupted by a sultry voice from behind him.

He turned to see two of the many women who served him sprawled across the large bed, their naked bodies pressed together.

The first was a Summer Islander named Aliya, her dark skin and curvaceous figure a sight to behold. Her busty chest and firm, round ass were barely covered by the silk sheets. Her black hair cascaded down her back in loose curls, and her eyes, as dark as night, smoldered with desire.

The second was a Valyrian named Seara, her pale skin and silver-blonde hair a stark contrast to Aliya’s. Her full, pouty lips and piercing blue eyes were captivating. Her ample breasts were on full display, her nipples hard and erect. Her ass was firm and toned, her legs long and shapely.

He walked over to them, his robe loosening.

Seara ran a hand through her tangled hair, her eyes locked onto Maekar's. "My lord," she purred, "we're not done with you yet." She lay on her front, and as he neared, she reached out, grasping his cock and beginning to plant soft, teasing kisses along its length.

Aliya rose to her knees, pressing her soft lips to his chest and face, her touch warm and inviting. "Yes, my lord," she agreed, her voice heavy with lust.

"We can have more fun later," he said, his tone firm but gentle.

Seara looked up at him, her eyes gleaming with eagerness. "Will you call on us tonight as well, my lord?" she asked, her hand still wrapped around him.

"Yes," Maekar replied, his gaze meeting hers.

Aliya's expression turned serious as she looked at him. "Promise you won’t call on any others, especially Dione," she said, a hint of jealousy lacing her words.

Maekar sighed, running a hand through his silver hair. ‘Another reason to leave,’ he thought to himself. Harem politics were exhausting, and he regretted creating one in the first place. He softened his gaze as he looked at Aliya. "Yes, I promise," he said.

He watched them go, thinking about how little there was for him to do these days. He had structured his empire so it could run itself, leaving him more as a figurehead. The people were still fanatically loyal to him, finding comfort in his presence, but it left him bored. His thoughts often drifted to Westeros and the throne he once held, a fleeting reign lost to the past.

Walking toward the large balcony, he sat down in one of the chairs, watching the waking city of Meereen below. The faint hum of life rose from the streets, accompanied by the distant cries of gulls over the bay.

But the peaceful moment was interrupted when one of the Unsullied arrived, standing at attention behind him, his face impassive.

"Speak," Maekar said without turning from the view.

"A dragon, my lord," the Unsullied reported, his voice steady. "It has been spotted flying toward the city."

Maekar’s steely gray eyes narrowed as he slowly turned to face the Unsullied, his brow raised slightly in surprise. "A dragon?" he repeated. "Is there a rider?"

The Unsullied shook his head. "We do not know yet, my lord, but it flies fast toward the city."

Maekar’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face.

"Keep me updated," Maekar commanded, waving a hand dismissively.

As the Unsullied retreated silently, Maekar exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. The sounds of the city faded as he focused inward, seeking the mental connection with his dragon, Neferion.

Through their bond, Maekar could feel the dragon, the heat of its fire burning within. Neferion was soaring over the mountains to the north, his massive wings slicing through the sky like knives. With a simple mental command, Maekar urged his dragon to seek out the intruder. His mind merged with Neferion’s consciousness, and soon he saw the world through the dragon’s eyes.

They flew through clouds and over rugged peaks, the wind roaring in Maekar's ears as they climbed higher, scanning the horizon. Then, there—just beyond the mountain ridges—a shape appeared in the distance, a dark figure cutting through the pale blue sky.

Another dragon.

It was smaller than Neferion, its scales shimmering in the sunlight—black and red, sleek and strong. Maekar felt a jolt of recognition. His dragon flew closer, and through Neferion’s eyes, Maekar could see that it had a rider.

A figure cloaked in black armor, with silver hair whipping in the wind. There was no mistaking the rider’s identity. The dragon was Caraxes, and the rider was Daemon Targaryen—the Rogue Prince.

A slow smile crept across Maekar’s face, his eyes still closed as he remained connected to Neferion.

He pulled his consciousness back from Neferion and opened his eyes.

"Yes..." he whispered to himself, standing and straightening his cloak. "It’s time to leave."

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Daemon Targaryen landed Caraxes just outside the city walls of Meereen. As Caraxes coiled his serpentine neck, his long wings folding at his sides, Daemon slid from the saddle, his eyes drawn to the massive dragon he had seen from the sky.

‘The rumors were true,’ he thought. The dragon that roamed these lands was enormous—larger than Balerion, the Black Dread. Its sheer size was beyond anything he had seen in years. There truly was a dragonrider here, and now he would meet the man who claimed to be an ancient dragonlord.

In the distance, a procession emerged from the gates of Meereen. Daemon waited near Caraxes, one hand resting lightly on the dragon's side. The approaching figures were an impressive sight, their movements precise and orderly, though the towering presence of Caraxes did little to disturb their calm demeanor.

As they drew nearer, Daemon noticed the man at the head of the group—clad in gold from head to toe, his robes shimmering in the early morning light. Behind him followed a squadron of Unsullied, their spears held upright in perfect formation, and behind them came other officials, likely the leaders of the city. But it was the man in gold who commanded Daemon’s attention.

This man strode forward without fear in his eyes, something Daemon rarely saw in those who approached Caraxes. Most men and women shrank back when they stood this close to his dragon. But this man... he walked without hesitation. Confident, or at least skilled at masking fear.

When they were close enough, the man in gold stepped forward and bowed with an air of formality and respect, though not subservience.

"Prince Daemon Targaryen," the man began in a strong, clear voice. "I am Counselor Thoros Ghazeen. I have been sent by the Exalted Archon of Meereen, who rules by the grace of Dragonlord Maekar Belaerys."

Daemon raised an eyebrow. They knew who he was. His interest piqued further at the mention of the name Belaerys—a name from history. One of the forty families of Old Valyria, long thought lost in the Doom. Could it be true? Could this Maekar Belaerys truly be a dragonlord descended from ancient Valyria?

Thoros continued, "The Great One, the Father of Freedom, Dragonlord Maekar Belaerys, has extended an invitation for you to join him as an honored guest."

Thoros bowed once more before straightening, and an official behind him handed him a scroll. The golden-clad counselor unrolled it and, in a formal tone, read aloud the invitation:

To Prince Daemon Targaryen,

Bearer of the blood of Old Valyria, Rider of the dragon Caraxes, and Prince of the Seven Kingdoms,

By the will of the Great Father of Freedom, Dragonlord Maekar Belaerys, ruler of Dragon’s Bay, you are hereby invited to the grand city of Meereen as a guest of honor.

It is the desire of the Dragonlord to meet with you, as one dragonlord to another, to speak of matters of great import.

A feast awaits your arrival, and the hospitality of Meereen shall be at your disposal.

May the flames of Valyria guide you.

Thoros finished reading the scroll and stepped forward, offering the parchment to Daemon with a respectful bow.

Daemon accepted the scroll with a polite nod, his eyes glinting with growing interest. "I accept the invitation," he said, his tone measured, his natural arrogance tempered for the moment by curiosity. He liked how he was addressed as a dragonlord; this Belaerys viewed him as an equal.

He glanced back at Caraxes, who let out a low rumble.

Daemon smirked.

"Lead the way," he said to Thoros, eager to see what awaited him within the city of Meereen—and more eager still to meet the man who had the audacity to claim the title of dragonlord.

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A short first chapter; the next one will be longer, and Maekar will arrive in Westeros in that. I will post chapter 2 on Sunday.