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123: The Son of Ice and Fire, Before the Night pt.1
🕑 Added 2025-05-28 11:58:06 +0000 UTCIt had taken them some time to return to Westeros.
A week of travel on dragon-back. In Shamyriana they left Mei behind. She had begged to come with them, but he had convinced her to stay; if the darkness ever reached the Patrimony, someone would need to fight it there too.
They had then stopped at the kingdom of Ifequevron at Leaf’s request, hoping to find more of her kind, but had found no earth-singers there.
They passed the Dothraki Sea, then the Free Cities, and finally reached the Narrow Sea.
As they neared the shores of home, the first thing Maekar noticed was the cold.
It crept in slowly, like a memory he didn’t want crawling beneath his clothes, threading through his bones. Snowflakes danced across his vision, delicate and fleeting. The sky stretched gray and heavy above them, an iron canopy blotting out the sun. All the color seemed to drain from the world.
“It’s too early,” he muttered.
Beside him, Leaf crouched low against him, her eyes half-closed against the wind. “Yes. Something has changed.”
“Winter,” Lyonel said behind them, his breath misting in the air.
“Yes,” Maekar replied, eyes fixed ahead as the black silhouette of Dragonstone loomed out of the fog. “Winter is here… and early.”
“Do not worry, Your Grace. We have all the keys now. Only one step remains before Lightbringer is found,” Melisandre said, her voice calm and confident.
“Let’s hope so,” Maekar muttered.
Neferion flew past Dragonstone without slowing, his wings slicing through the snow-choked air. The Narrow Sea yawned beneath them gray and roiling but it took little more than an hour before the coast reappeared, and with it the sprawl of King’s Landing in the distance.
The Red Keep sat high on its hill, but the chill dulled even its grandeur. Smoke from thousands of chimneys drifted into the air, mingling with the clouds.
Maekar guided Neferion southward.
They soared over the Mud Gate and the Blackwater Rush, past rooftops caked in thin frost, and toward the vast, now-snowy tangle of the Kingswood.
Below them, the royal army’s encampment sprawled like a second city—rows of tents in neat formation. He circled once, then twice, and brought Neferion down into the clearing the smallfolk had come to call the Dragon’s Nest: a wide hollow carved by fire and wings, now hardened with frost. Trees ringed the space, their branches bare and creaking.
The dragon touched down with a thundering hiss, wings folding in like sails. Snow melted on contact with his scales, rising as steam in the chill.
They dismounted.
Frost crunched beneath Maekar’s boots as he stepped away from Neferion, the dragon curling in on himself, steam still hissing from his nostrils. The cold felt softer here than it had in the sky. Snow flurried gently around them, settling on the blackened earth of the Dragon’s Nest.
He scanned the horizon, expecting to see a welcoming party from the Red Keep already en route. Where was Daenerys? Surely she would have seen their approach; he had thought she would be here with Morghul to greet him.
And Rhaenys… No, she wouldn’t be here. She was too far along too close now.
Where were the dragons, anyway? All three of them he had expected to see them soaring in the skies.
Minutes passed. Nothing stirred from the city.
But then...hooves.
Ten riders emerged from the direction of the royal army camp, galloping in tight formation. As they neared, Maekar recognized their livery: officers of the royal army, armored in steel and dark-red cloaks.
They reined in their mounts with practiced ease, dismounted swiftly, and approached him. As one, they dropped to one knee.
“Your Grace,” they said in unison.
Maekar nodded. “Stand.”
They rose, faces tight with cold and discipline. His eyes flicked over them.
“I saw you from the sky,” he said. “You looked ready to march.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” replied a lean officer with a scar running down his cheek. “The Hand gave the order. Ours is to be the first regiment to move north.”
Maekar’s jaw clenched, though he kept his face neutral. “I see. It seems I have much to catch up on.”
A regiment already marching north meant things at the Wall were escalating faster than he’d expected. He had hoped for more time. But winter had come early—and now, so too had war.
“I want to inspect the encampment,” he said.
The officers exchanged glances before the scarred one stepped forward again. “We’ve brought horses, Your Grace. We can leave now, if you wish.”
Maekar gave a single nod, already turning toward the row of waiting steeds.
Melisandre stepped toward him. “I will remain here,” she said softly, “and await the riders from the Red Keep.”
“I’ll find my own way back to the city,” Leaf said, already walking away.
Maekar didn’t question either of them. He swung into the saddle, Lyonel doing the same beside him.
With a quiet command, they turned their mounts toward the encampment, snow swirling at their heels as they rode into the camp.
====
Maekar, Lyonel, and the officers rode into the encampment at a steady trot.
The camp spread out before them like a city of war. At Maekar’s direction it had been laid out in the style of the Roman encampments—barracks and supply depots positioned with geometric precision, every tent aligned by company, every avenue wide enough for carts. Everything moved with meticulous efficiency.
As he passed, men snapped to attention. They stood in formation wearing half-plate trimmed in red and black, shields slung over their backs, helms tucked beneath their arms. Hedge-knights and smallfolk alike had come in droves; after two-and-a-half years of drilling, they had become a true professional army. They were the King’s Men—the Royal Army.
The officers riding with him were second sons and landless knights he had hand-picked for competence: the best of the best.
Maekar dismounted and walked through the rows of tents, Lyonel a step behind, the officers flanking them in respectful silence. This was not the kind of host Westeros had ever known.
The front-line infantry alone numbered ten thousand in this camp—fifty thousand in total, spread across other mustering grounds in the Heartlands. These men drilled in tight phalanxes, weapons held with parade-ground precision: pikes, halberds, and maces forged for war against flesh and bone… or ice and undead. Their shields were heavy, emblazoned with a burning Targaryen sigil, a seven-pointed star, and a weirwood tree.
Behind them stood the skirmishers and crossbowmen—five thousand here, fifteen thousand across the realm—armed with dragonglass-tipped bolts and wildfire canisters meant to wreak havoc among the Others’ ranks.
Then came the cavalry: five thousand horsemen in the Kingswood alone—light riders for flanking and speed, heavy lancers for brutal charges. Across the Royal Army their mounted strength totaled twenty-five thousand. Their lances were dark-tipped with dragonglass, and their armor was lined to resist flame. They were the answer to the White Walkers’ spider-mounted horrors and other nightmare beasts.
Twenty thousand soldiers occupied the Kingswood camp; ninety thousand stood ready overall. Another twenty thousand—blacksmiths, fisherfolk, farmers—were still in training. In just two and a half years they had built this host, brick by brick, man by man.
None of it would have been possible without the doom on the horizon. The icy terror had united lords and smallfolk alike in fear—and, more than that, in hope. Hope in Maekar.
They believed in him not merely as a king, but as their last, best chance.
This was his army of ice and fire.
Satisfied, Maekar had a makeshift platform raised near the center of the encampment, hastily fashioned from barrels and wagon planks. The wind bit at his cloak as he stepped up, boots thudding on the wood. All around him, twenty thousand soldiers had gathered.
He looked out across them—faces young and old—and raised his voice.
“Look at you,” he said. “What a sight you are. What a force you’ve become the shields that will guard the realms of men, the swords of the living.”
The camp held its breath.
“You stand here not just as soldiers, not merely as bannermen to a crown. You stand as the first line of defense against the end of all things. Winter has come—and with it, the dead.”
He let the words echo.
“The army of the dead rises in the North, cold and merciless, and it does not care who you are or which god you pray to. It will come for your homes, your families, your children—and it will not stop until every fire is out and every voice silenced.”
He stepped forward, his voice rising.
“But it will find us waiting.”
A ripple of steel and breath passed through the crowd.
“You fight not just for land, not just for banners, but for every man, woman, and child who cannot lift a sword. You fight for the future—for the living—for the world.”
His voice thundered now, carrying over the thousands.
“If we fall, then the world falls with us. But if we stand—if we fight—then we tell the darkness it cannot have this world!”
Cries rose, low and growing.
“They will speak of this day. They will speak your names alongside Brandon the Builder, Durran Godsgrief, the Last Hero. They will say you did not falter—they will say you stood!”
A roar erupted from the camp loud, primal, defiant.
“For the living!”
“For the King!”
“For the world!”
Maekar raised Blackfyre to the sky, and the soldiers answered with steel in hand and fire in their hearts.
For a moment, even in the cold, it felt as though the sun had returned.
====
Maekar stepped down from the platform and walked among the men. He spoke with captains and officers, clapped shoulders, and met each man’s gaze. Some bowed, some saluted, others merely stood straighter in his presence—but all listened.
One officer confided that the king’s speech had reinvigorated the host; only moments earlier they had been sunk in solemn silence.
After a time came the sound of hooves.
Fifty riders emerged from the trees, advancing in tight formation, grim and determined. At their head rode Ser Jaime Lannister, a thick fur cloak draped over his shoulders. Beside him was another of the Kingsguard, Ser Robar Royce.
The column halted and dismounted. Jaime and Robar were the first to kneel, swords planted in the earth.
“Your Grace,” Jaime said.
Maekar offered his hand and pulled him to his feet with a smile. “Let’s go home, Jaime.”
Jaime returned a rare, weary grin. “Yes, Your Grace. I trust you found what you were searching for.”
Maekar reached into his cloak and produced a small, round disc of black metal so dark it seemed to drink the light. Strange glyphs coiled across its face.
“I did,” he answered, holding it up for Jaime to see.
They rode out of the Kingswood beneath a grey sky. Maekar led the way; Jaime, Robar, and Lyonel followed close behind. As they travelled, Lyonel spoke steadily, recounting their journey with clipped precision. Jaime listened intently, his golden brow furrowing, eyes widening more than once.
“You killed one of the Emperors of Yi Ti?” Robar repeated, incredulous.
Maekar glanced back long enough to catch their expressions and smiled.
“Yes and we destroyed his palace as well,” Lyonel replied.
“Seven save me, I should have gone,” Robar muttered.
“Trust me, brother,” Lyonel said. “They were the most stressful months of my life; I’ve aged a decade.”
The Dragon Gate loomed ahead, its portcullis already raised in welcome.
They passed beneath the arch as bells began to ring.
The Dragon King returns!
King Maekar!
Chosen of the gods!
Great King!
Shouts swelled through alleys and avenues. Some people wept openly; others dropped to their knees. Children waved scraps of cloth like banners, and old men pressed hands to their hearts. There were cheers, yes, but also pleas cries for protection, for salvation.
Maekar raised a hand in acknowledgment, his expression calm. Months of careful planning the sermons of septons, the tales spun by bards—had forged the image of a king not merely strong, but divinely chosen.
They believed he would save them all.
He rode in silence for a time, letting the city’s sounds wash over him. Then he turned slightly in his saddle.
“Jaime,” he said, “Viserys will give me his report, but tell me anything I should hear now?”
Jaime’s breath misted in the air. “There have been more sightings north of the Wall. A growing number of wights and more of the Others, too.”
Maekar’s face tightened. “I thought we had more time.”
“We all did,” Jaime replied. “But preparations go well. The grand granaries in the Reach are finished; Hightower and Florent have both sent word. Supplies are moving as planned. Your orders are being followed.”
“Good.” Maekar looked ahead at the looming shadow of the Red Keep, its highest windows glowing with candle-light. His eyes narrowed.
“I expected dragons in the sky especially Daenerys and Morghul at the Dragon’s Nest.”
Jaime hesitated. “It’s best if the Hand explains.”
Maekar’s gaze snapped to him. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Jaime said quickly, raising a placating hand. “They’re well just…not permitted out. Prince Viserys’s orders.”
Maekar’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “Why?”
“It’s best the Hand explains,” Jaime repeated. “But…there’s something else.”
Maekar waited, the question plain on his face.
“Your uncle,” Jaime said at last. “Benjen. He’s gone missing.”
Maekar’s breath caught. “When?”
“Three weeks ago. No word since.”
The weight of it struck him like a blow.
He said nothing more.
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
====
They rode into the Red Keep as the sky darkened, the outer gates closing behind them with a heavy groan of iron and stone. The courtyard was crowded—lords, ladies, knights, courtiers, and servants packed shoulder to shoulder beneath the cold dusk sky. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across the cobbles, while snow drifted down in lazy spirals.
Maekar dismounted. All around him, people dropped to their knees.
“Rise,” he said, not slowing his pace. His voice cut through the chill like steel. “All of you. There is no need for ceremony tonight.”
They stood, murmurs rippling through the crowd like a heartbeat of hope.
Near the steps to the Keep, Maekar raised his voice just enough. “We are one step closer to victory,” he declared. “I have found what I sought in the East.”
Cheers rang out, loud and raw, echoing off the stone.
He turned to Viserys, who stood draped in thick black and gold, his silver hair dusted with snow and his eyes weary.
“Welcome back, my king,” Viserys said, forcing a tired grin.
Maekar snorted. “You look like shit, Uncle.”
Viserys gave a dry laugh. “I’ve been ruling a doomed realm in your stead, Nephew.”
Maekar jerked his head toward the doors. “Come. Let’s get inside. I need to thaw myself from this cold.”
“You don’t say,” Viserys muttered, pulling his cloak tighter.
They walked side by side through the great doors of the Red Keep. Warmth hit them like a wave. Braziers lined the halls, the stone glowing golden in the fire-light. Courtiers stepped back to let them pass, bowing low, whispers trailing in their wake.
Maekar lowered his voice. “Where are my queens, Uncle?”
Viserys’s jaw tightened before he answered. “In the Maidenvault for their safety.”
Maekar stopped, eyes narrowing. “You locked them in?”
“Yes,” Viserys replied. “Along with my wife and our child Margaery Tyrell and her son as well.”
“Did something happen? An assassin?”
“No. Nothing like that,” Viserys said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s worse. We’re under attack from within.”
“Lords, even smallfolk, have been swayed by a strange cult—”
“The Church of Starry Wisdom,” Maekar finished, his stomach sinking.
Viserys blinked, startled. “How did you—?”
“I had an unpleasant encounter with them in Yi Ti,” Maekar said, voice grim.
Viserys nodded. “Then you understand. They’ve wormed their way into every city—highborns, merchants…”
“I didn’t tell Daenerys or Rhaenys,” he went on, “but I ordered them confined to the Maidenvault after we uncovered a plot to poison Rhaenys.”
“What?” Maekar hissed, dread coiling in his gut.
“I wouldn’t take the chance,” Viserys said.
“You did well, Uncle. It was the right choice.”
Maekar set off toward the Maidenvault. “Tell me everything you’ve learned—start from the beginning.”
.
.
.
Starpike was a place where a king had died. The seat of House Peake stood on the edge of the Red Mountains that march toward the Reach—a castle steeped in ill omens and darker deeds. King Maekar I had fallen here, slain alongside a Lannister, a Reyne, and a dozen other lords during a rebellion the Peakes themselves had helped ignite.
The house’s history read like a litany of treachery. Unwin Peake, Hand to Aegon III, was said to have murdered Queen Jaehaera in hopes of wedding his own daughter to the king. Forced from office in disgrace, he lost dignity but not ambition, and his descendants kept that same hunger—siding with the Blackfyres in every rising, even sparking the Second Blackfyre Rebellion themselves. When those flames guttered out, they fanned another, backing Aegon VI the Unready in a claim that again ended in ruin. In the aftermath, King Maekar stripped them of titles and lands, leaving them only Starpike, as though he meant the castle itself to stand as their punishment.
Yet even after such losses, old ambitions stirred anew. Deep within Starpike’s cold belly, a clandestine meeting was beginning.
Willas Tyrell moved silently beside the man in gray robes—the High Chantor of the western branch of the Church of Starry Wisdom. They passed down narrow corridors lit by sputtering torches, their footsteps echoing against the chill stone.
“You have proved yourself loyal, my lord,” the Chantor said, his voice smooth and sonorous, like oil poured over rusted steel.
Willas, the metal mask gone from his scarred, burned face, inclined his head. “I have seen the truth, Chantor.”
The High Chantor’s eyes glimmered in the torchlight. “Soon they will all see soon the king himself will see.”
They descended a final stair, and heavy doors groaned open before them. The chamber beyond was broad and vaulted, a war-room lit by dozens of candles. At its center stood a long table covered almost entirely by a detailed map of the Reach.
Willas paused at the table, narrowing his eyes as he traced the red markings etched upon it.
“Before the others arrive,” the Chantor said, his tone almost reverent, “I will explain our plans—and your role in them, Lord Willas.”
Willas said nothing, though his stomach tightened; he kept his gaze on the map.
The Chantor stepped forward, crimson sleeves brushing the table’s edge. “These,” he murmured, tapping points scattered from Oldtown to Goldengrove to Highgarden and beyond, “mark the sites of the king’s grand granaries—fed by the Reach’s bounty and forming the backbone of his defense against the return of our god.”
Willas blinked. “They’re meant to feed the realm. I was there when he revealed his plans.”
“Indeed,” the Chantor said softly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “And we shall burn them.”
Willas stiffened. “Burn them?”
The Chantor turned to him, eyes dark and bottomless. “The people will cry out. Many will perish, and many will find embrace with the Silent God. The king’s path will be made clear.”
Willas drew a breath, but it caught halfway. “That would doom the realm… it is—”
“Necessary,” the Chantor interrupted. “When the cold comes, the king must awaken to his true purpose. He is meant to lead us to our god and rule the paradise our god will create for us.”
Willas stared at the map—millions would die if this happened. His fingers curled into a fist beneath his cloak. “And the Westerlands?” he asked quietly. “You once spoke of plans there.”
The Chantor’s smile thinned. “Do not concern yourself with the West, Lord Willas. That lies in other hands.”
Footsteps echoed beyond the doors.
The chamber filled quickly, whispered greetings exchanged in hushed tones. Willas remained still as the other lords entered and gathered around the table.
He recognized every face: Lord Peake; Lord Blossom of Appleton, once a loyal bannerman to House Tyrell; stern Lord Kidwell; Lord Cobb; Lord Hutchewell; and many more. Most were minor lords—pious men who had once invoked the Seven as a shield. How had they fallen so easily? Swayed by promises of false power, by the call of a god who promised them only death…
The Chantor moved to the head of the chamber and raised his arms.
“Brothers of the Inner Star,” he proclaimed, his voice filling the vault, “our hour approaches. The great lie is dying. The false lights of this world flicker. But we—we shall endure, through flame and void.”
Willas heard little more. The earlier words echoed in his mind: Burn the granaries.
His hand trembled at his side.
He had to send word—somehow—to the Lord Hand, or to the king himself if he had already returned, before it was too late.
Before the Reach burned.
.
.
.
So, the final arc begins here. Fifteen more chapters, and a few epilogue chapters after that, and this fic will come to an end.
