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102: The Son of Ice and Fire, Court Intrigue,Wight Hunting and Dragon Eggs
🕑 Added 2025-01-20 14:20:35 +0000 UTCThe small council chambers were bathed in the warm light of the afternoon. Sunbeams filtered through the stained glass, casting colored patterns on the polished table. Autumn was yielding to winter, and the chill in the air was unmistakable.
Rhaenys sat in the king's seat, a symbol of her authority in Maekar’s absence, presiding over the gathered lords and counselors. The weight of the crown bore down on her as she managed the kingdom’s affairs during Maekar’s northern expedition.
The atmosphere in the chamber was tense. Maekar’s reforms, drastic and ambitious, had disrupted the status quo. The carving up of the Seven Kingdoms, the dissolution of ancient borders, and the creation of a vast bureaucratic structure were proving burdensome to implement. Resistance was rife—among courtiers who saw their influence wane and others simply unwilling to adapt to the demands of the new systems.
“The people are deeply concerned about the increasing presence of these Red Priestesses in the city,” Jon Arryn spoke.
Kevan Lannister leaned forward, his gold-trimmed doublet catching the light. “Have they caused any unrest? Tried to convert the populace to their faith?”
Jon frowned. “No, Lord Kevan, but their mere presence is unsettling. First, there was one—the Red Woman who seems to have some connection to the king. But now more ships arrive from Volantis, each bringing more priests and priestesses of R’hllor.”
Rhaenys leaned back in her seat, her gaze sweeping across the council. “The king has already instructed them to remain discreet and not disturb the people,” she said, her tone measured but firm.
Jon met her gaze. “Your Grace, with all due respect, the situation is escalating. First, it was a handful. Now it feels like a burgeoning enclave. What message does this send to the Faith of the Seven? To the common folk?”
Kevan nodded in agreement. “The Faith is watching, and the High Septon will not ignore this.”
Rhaenys sighed and turned her attention to Viserys, who had grown into his role as Hand of the King despite his initial reluctance. “Uncle,” she said, seeking his support.
Viserys met her gaze. “The king must have his reasons,” he said, his voice steady.
Rhaenys inclined her head. “Indeed, all will be revealed in time.”
Monford Velaryon, the Master of Ships, shifted uneasily. “Your Grace, what business does the king have in the North? Why has he gone to the Wall in times when his presence is needed in the city? This absence is concerning.”
Rhaenys’ expression turned somber. “Lord Velaryon, the king’s journey north is of grave importance. Let us pray to the gods he does not find what he went seeking. For if he does, none of us will like the consequences.”
Her words hung heavy in the air, and the lords exchanged uneasy glances. Their irritation with her cryptic tone was evident, but none dared to press further.
She was growing tired of this. Maekar had promised he would be gone only a moon, yet now it had stretched to nearly two moons. The weight of ruling was heavy, and while she had expected to shoulder some of it, it felt as though Maekar had left her with all of it. Rhaenys exhaled softly, forcing the thoughts from her mind. She knew why Maekar had left. She knew what was coming. She could not blame him.
She was afraid. That was the truth of it—fear of what Maekar would reveal when he returned.
Grand Maester Marwyn’s gravelly voice cut through her thoughts. “The Red Priestesses have been quite enlightening to speak with, Your Grace. They’ve shared knowledge I hadn’t encountered even in my years at the Citadel.”
Jon Arryn shifted in his seat, his expression grim. “That may be, Grand Maester, but my concern lies with the Faith’s reaction. They’ve held their silence for now, but I fear it’s only a matter of time before this boils over.”
Rhaenys allowed herself a faint smile. “Has the High Septon spoken against the presence of the Red Priestesses?”
“No, my queen,” came the reply, not from Arryn but from Robb Stark, standing behind the Master of Laws. His voice was steady, his Northern accent lending a certain gravity to his words.
Her gaze shifted to Robb. “Why do you think that is, Lord Stark?”
Robb stepped forward slightly, his violet eyes meeting hers. “Some lower septons and devout followers have voiced unease about a foreign faith taking root in King’s Landing. That fear hasn’t reached the High Septon yet—or at least, not publicly.”
Jon Arryn nodded in agreement. “It won’t take long for that fear to climb the ladder, Your Grace. The Faith has always been slow to act until it feels threatened, and then it strikes swiftly.”
Rhaenys leaned back in her chair, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. ‘If only they knew,’ she thought. Maekar had dealt with the Faith more directly than any king in recent memory, and in doing so, had ensured their silence. Blackmail was a dangerous tool, especially against the High Septon, but for now, the Faith bent to the Iron Throne’s will.
“There is no need to worry,” Rhaenys said smoothly. “The High Septon remains quiet, and I trust he will continue to do so. As for the lower ranks of the Faith, they will follow their leaders.”
The council murmured their acknowledgment. Rhaenys rose from the king’s seat, signaling the end of the meeting. “Let us reconvene tomorrow to discuss the issues in the western Riverlands.”
The council members began to rise, bowing to her as she moved toward the chamber’s door.
“Lord Stark,” she called, turning her head slightly. “Walk with me.”
Robb nodded, falling into step beside her. Ser Jaime, ever vigilant, followed a few paces behind as they made their way down the corridors of the Red Keep. The afternoon light filtered through the narrow windows, casting streaks of gold and orange on the walls. She glanced at Robb as they walked side by side.
“So,” Rhaenys began, her tone casual but curious, “how are you finding it, working under Lord Arryn?”
Robb’s face softened. “It’s been... enlightening. The man was a mentor to my father, and now to me. He’s everything I’d heard of and more—wise, patient, and exacting when he needs to be.”
Rhaenys smiled. “Good. I hope the old man knows you’re to be his replacement.”
Robb chuckled softly. “He made that very clear when we first met. Lord Arryn said he plans to impart all the wisdom he’s gained over the years to me.”
“I’m glad,” Rhaenys said warmly. “We’ll need men like you, Robb.”
They walked in companionable silence for a moment before Rhaenys spoke again. “And what do you think of the new orders? I know what the council says, and I’ve heard what the king intended, but I want your perspective.”
Robb took a moment to consider. “It’s a mixed stachel,” he admitted. “The good is undeniable. It’s quicker and easier decision-making, it cuts down on inefficiencies, and—most importantly—it lightens the councilors’ burdens. Lord Arryn seems less weary these days.”
Rhaenys nodded thoughtfully, her hands clasped in front of her as they moved past a group of bowing nobles. She returned their gestures with a regal nod, her sharp eyes catching the subtle whispers and glances exchanged as they passed.
Robb’s expression darkened slightly as he glanced at the scheming courtiers and foppish knights. His nose wrinkled in clear disgust.
Rhaenys noticed and smirked. “Why that face, Robb?”
“It’s nothing,” he muttered, looking away quickly.
She raised a brow. “Come now. You’re my husband’s dear cousin—almost a brother, really. You can tell me.”
Robb sighed, running a hand through his black hair. “It’s... well, some of the courtiers have been spreading rumors.”
Rhaenys stopped in her tracks, tilting her head at him with a knowing smile. “Oh, you mean the one where it says you and I are having a sordid affair in our king’s absence?”
Robb’s eyes widened in shock. “They’ve been saying that?”
She laughed lightly, the sound carrying down the hall. “Oh, is that not what you heard?”
From behind them, Jaime muttered a curse, his voice like a low growl. “Let me get my hands on them.”
“No,” Robb said, his voice full of alarm. “No, it’s... it’s about me and Princess Daenerys.”
“Ah,” Rhaenys said, her smile not faltering. “Yes, we’ve been dealing with a certain group of nobles eager to stir up trouble. This sort of nonsense is their favorite pastime.”
Robb’s jaw tightened. “Who are they? Just say the word, and I’ll deal with them.”
Rhaenys waved a hand dismissively. “No, no. It’s handled, Robb. We’ve dealt with their sort before, and we’ll deal with them again. Now,” she said, steering the conversation back, “you mentioned the good parts of the new orders earlier. What about the bad parts?”
Robb took a moment to gather his thoughts. “The resistance is worse than we thought. And there’s a massive resource drain. We don’t have the manpower to fill all the slots in these new orders.”
Rhaenys nodded, her expression calm as they walked into Maegor’s Holdfast. “That was to be expected,” she said, brushing a stray strand of dark hair from her face. “It’s why Maekar is implementing the changes slowly. He knew we’d face resource shortages.”
Robb frowned. “We’d need ten more Citadels to fill them all.”
Rhaenys allowed herself a small smile. “That, Robb, is part of the plan.”
Robb blinked. “What?”
“Shh,” Rhaenys said, putting a finger to her lips as they stopped in front of the Queen’s Ballroom. She motioned for Ser Jaime, who opened a hidden door cleverly concealed in an alcove nearby.
Robb’s eyes narrowed. “What is that?”
Rhaenys stepped inside the dimly lit passageway. “A place to spy,” she said over her shoulder. “My dear aunt is hosting the leader of the faction responsible for those rumors about you, me, and many others.”
Robb’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. “You mean to confront him?”
Rhaenys stopped and turned to face him, her eyes sharp. “No, Robb. I want to see how she handles him.”
Reluctantly, Robb followed as Rhaenys led him through the passage. They stopped at a small opening in the wall, where the stone had been carefully hollowed out to provide a discreet view into the Queen’s Ballroom. The room was well-lit, the long table adorned with fine dishes and glinting silverware.
Inside, Daenerys sat at the head of the table, her silver-gold hair catching the candlelight. She was poised and regal, her eyes focused on the guests before her. Opposite her sat a man with a sharp jawline and piercing eyes—Lord Kingsmont, the apparent leader of the faction. Beside him was a woman who exuded an air of quiet menace, and two younger women who were clearly meant to project an image of innocence and virtue. They all dined, sipping wine and exchanging pleasantries, though the tension in the room was palpable.
“What does this faction want?” Robb asked quietly.
Rhaenys kept her gaze on the scene before them. “Chaos,” she said simply. “They’re Stormlords, understandably bitter about what happened to their beloved kingdom.”
Robb shook his head. “This sounds like a stupid plot.”
Rhaenys smirked. “Many lords in Westeros aren’t exactly prone to brilliance. These idiots think they can convince my dear uncle to usurp Maekar.”
Robb’s brows furrowed as he looked through the opening. “Do they really think Viserys would go along with that?”
“Apparently, yes,” Rhaenys said dryly, her tone thick with derision. “Let’s see how Daenerys handles them.”
“You have beautiful daughters, my lord,” Daenerys said, her tone warm and honeyed as she leaned slightly toward Lord Kingsmont, her silver hair shimmering in the light. Her violet eyes fixed on him, and a soft, almost predatory smile played on her lips.
Lord Kingsmont smiled nervously, his discomfort barely masked. “They are my pride and joy, Your Grace.”
Daenerys’s gaze shifted to one of the young women, her fingers lightly brushing the girl’s cheek. The girl froze under the princess’s touch, her wide eyes betraying her unease. “I’ve been wanting a new handmaiden,” Daenerys said softly. “Would you like to enter my service, Jocelyn?”
Jocelyn hesitated, glancing nervously at her father, who quickly interjected. “It would be an honor, Your Grace, but—”
Daenerys’s tone changed instantly, her warmth evaporating as her voice turned sharp. “Are you rejecting my generous offer, Lord Kingsmont?” she asked, her words slicing through the air like a blade.
Kingsmont stammered, his face pale. “No—no, Your Grace. I would never—”
Lady Kingsmont simply glared at Daenerys.
Daenerys leaned back, her smile returning, though it was no longer kind. “Good,” she said, her voice calm but laced with menace. “Do not worry. Nothing will come to your daughter. She will be quite safe with me.”
The implied threat hung heavy in the air, and Jocelyn’s mother looked as though she might strike Daenerys then and there. Lord Kingsmont nodded quickly; he crumbled under the weight of Daenerys’s gaze. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said. “It would be her honor.”
Rhaenys, watching through the secret opening, smiled as her aunt effortlessly turned the situation in her favor. “A good hostage,” she murmured.
Behind her, Ser Jaime quipped with a dry chuckle, “The princess reminds me of my sister.”
Rhaenys arched a brow and smirked. “Quite the compliment,” she replied, then turned and began walking out of the hidden passage. Robb and Jaime followed closely behind.
Robb’s expression was a mix of admiration and unease. “It looks like you both have everything under control.”
Rhaenys nodded, her smile faint. “Yes, but it would be much easier if your cousin, the king, were here.”
Robb frowned. “I still don’t understand why he left for the Wall.”
Rhaenys’s mind flashed with images of icy horrors, their blue eyes glowing with malevolence. She pushed the thoughts away and met Robb’s gaze. “Let us hope he comes back quickly,” she said, her voice steady but edged with worry.
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.
.
Maekar flew on Neferion, the dragon’s massive wings slicing through the icy air as they soared above an endless expanse of white. The snow stretched on forever, broken only by the faint dots of the freefolk moving in formation far beneath him. He squinted against the biting wind, grateful that Mance Rayder had agreed to his plan. The man had been desperate, but desperation made people practical.
Maekar’s mind churned with possibilities. Mance would lead the freefolk to Hardhome, where Maekar had promised to arrange transport. The logistics were daunting—taking them south of the Wall was not feasible now. Shipping them to Essos had briefly crossed his mind, perhaps to old Andalos, but that would mean depriving Westeros of an extra fighting force when the time came.
‘No,’ he thought. They would need to stay. Perhaps they could man the Wall themselves; there were still many abandoned forts. Once the Northern lords saw the threat of the Others with their own eyes, Maekar was sure their focus would shift from centuries-old grudges to survival.
His thoughts were interrupted as Neferion rumbled low in his throat, drawing Maekar’s gaze downward. His sharp eyes spotted figures moving through the snow—not the freefolk. These were wights, shambling in unnatural jerks, led by a lone Other that glided across the ground with eerie grace.
“Finally,” he thought as he pulled lightly on the reins, guiding Neferion lower. This was his chance to capture a few wights alive—something he desperately needed to convince the lords of Westeros of the coming danger. The large force of wights that had attacked the freefolk camp had been incinerated, leaving him empty-handed. Now, he had another opportunity.
Neferion roared as he descended, his massive form creating a blizzard of snow when he landed with a thundering impact near the freefolk group. Maekar dismounted swiftly, his boots crunching into the frozen ground. He patted Neferion’s flank, calming the restless beast as the freefolk approached cautiously.
The sight of them still gave Maekar pause. His eyes fell on a familiar figure among them—Edmure Tully. The man stood out among the freefolk, Heartsbane slung over his shoulder.
Edmure’s presence here had been a surprise, to say the least. He still called Maekar a usurper, but Maekar was not so thin-skinned as to take offense.
“Did you find any, Dragon King?” Val asked, her voice sharp as she approached Maekar.
“Yes, there,” Maekar replied, pointing toward the distant shapes of the wights the Other and the unnatural mist that followed them.
“What are we waiting for? Burn them!” Edmure said with a smirk, his hand gripping Heartsbane tightly.
Val immediately smacked him on the back of the head. “You fool! We want those wights alive—”
“Alive? They’re already dead,” Edmure interrupted, still smirking.
“Enough!” Maekar interjected, his tone cutting through their bickering. “Let’s just get this over with.”
His gaze shifted to Neferion, who stood restless, claws sinking into the icy ground. Maekar sent a mental command, and the dragon roared as it took to the skies, circling above with fiery menace. The massive dragon unleashed torrents of flame, not to incinerate the wights, but to funnel them toward Maekar and the freefolk. The Other leading them seemed to sense the tactic and guided its minions straight toward them.
Maekar’s mind churned as they approached. “What is this other doing here?” he wondered aloud.
Val, overhearing him, replied, “I’ve always felt like they’re searching for something.”
“Why do you say that?” Maekar asked, narrowing his eyes.
“There are old ruins here,” Val explained, caution in her tone. “Ancient places buried deep in the snow. My clan used to camp near them—until we were attacked.”
“Old ruins...” Maekar repeated, his thoughts racing. Could they be remnants of the old kings? Was Urganash searching for something? He grimaced. If anyone knew, it would be Leaf, though the Earthsinger had been maddeningly cryptic about everything.
The sound of shuffling feet on snow snapped his attention back to the present. The wights drew closer, their grotesque forms illuminated by the flickering glow of Neferion’s flames. The Other leading them stood out sharply, its icy armor glinting as it moved with a horrifying elegance, its ice blade gleaming coldly in the dim light.
Maekar unsheathed Blackfyre with a sharp metallic hiss, the Valyrian steel blade shining in his grip. Beside him, Edmure—despite his missing hand—wielded Heartsbane with determined vigor. Val drew her twin dragonglass daggers, moving with fluid, practiced grace. The other freefolk readied their weapons, a mix of dragonglass-tipped spears and makeshift blades.
“Don’t kill them!” Maekar commanded. “We need to capture some of the wights.”
The freefolk, equipped with ropes and nets, nodded in understanding.
Maekar’s eyes locked onto the Other, its inhuman stare meeting his with unsettling stillness. “I’ll handle that one,” he said, stepping forward.
Edmure glanced at him. “Why not capture the Other too?”
“Because we don’t know what would happen if it crossed the Wall,” Maekar replied grimly. “Let’s not take that chance.”
The Other raised its icy blade, the sound of cold air cracking around it like glass. It pointed toward Maekar and the freefolk, commanding its wights forward.
“There are only ten!” Maekar called out, tightening his grip on Blackfyre.
But then his heart sank as a deep, guttural roar erupted from beyond the Other’s misty aura. A massive silhouette emerged—a giant, its decayed form towering over the battlefield, charging forward with great speed.
“That is not good,” Val muttered, dread creeping into her voice.
“Fucking seven hells, it’s not!” Edmure yelled. “Usurper, use your dragon!”
Maekar shook his head, glancing toward Neferion circling overhead. “We’re too close!”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Edmure cursed, gripping Heartsbane tightly.
The wights descended upon them, their glowing blue eyes piercing the swirling snow. Maekar surged forward, Blackfyre slicing through the first wight with ease. Val darted among the undead, her dragonglass daggers striking with lethal precision. Edmure, wielding Heartsbane one-handed, hacked through the crowd of wights in a flurry of blows.
The Other hung back, its ice blade raised as it orchestrated the attack. Then it gestured toward the giant, pointing at Maekar. The enormous creature bellowed, its gargantuan hands swinging down with the force of a falling tree.
Maekar dodged the first blow, rolling to the side as the giant’s fist slammed into the frozen ground, sending shards of ice flying. “This is bad,” he muttered, narrowly avoiding another swing. The giant’s decayed face loomed above, roaring again, its mouth spewing foul pus that made Maekar gag.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Other stepping closer, its ice sword at the ready. Maekar gritted his teeth and slashed at the giant’s arm, Blackfyre cleaving cleanly through its wrist.
“Damn, this thing is sharp,” Maekar muttered with a grim laugh.
The giant roared, flailing its severed stump wildly. But before Maekar could regroup, the Other struck with its ice sword. Maekar parried, yet the giant’s remaining arm swung in tandem, overwhelming him.
The giant’s fist connected, and Maekar was sent sprawling through the air. He landed hard in the snow, his Valyrian steel armor absorbing much of the impact, but not the pain.
“Fuck,” he groaned as agony lanced through his body. “I’m an idiot,” he muttered, thinking fast.
Through his bond with Neferion, he commanded the dragon to intervene. With a thunderous roar, Neferion dove from the sky, jaws clamping onto the undead giant. His enormous teeth pierced the giant’s rotting flesh, and with a powerful flap of his wings, Neferion lifted the colossal wight before hurling it away. The giant crashed in the distance, limbs twisted and broken.
Maekar managed a laugh despite the pain.
His amusement turned to horror when the Other hurled its icy sword at Neferion. The blade buried itself deep in the dragon’s side, prompting a piercing roar. Neferion faltered in midair, wings struggling to keep him aloft.
A surge of anger, magnified by his bond with Neferion, coursed through Maekar. He charged at the Other, Blackfyre gleaming in hand. The creature raised its arms, but it was too slow. Maekar’s slash cut the Other in half, its icy form shattering into a thousand fragments that scattered across the snow.
Maekar whirled back to Neferion. The dragon roared again but managed to steady himself, the wound less dire than it had first appeared.
“Thank the gods,” Maekar muttered, relief flooding him.
He turned to find Edmure and the freefolk securing the captured wights with ropes and nets. The undead struggled, but they were effectively contained.
Sheathing Blackfyre, Maekar looked up once more at Neferion circling overhead, a dark silhouette against the pale sky. They would have to be more careful in the future.
Leaf’s warning echoed in his mind: Urganash had a dragon of his own—a dragon made of ice.
“Fuck,” Maekar muttered, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon.
.
.
.
It had taken some time, but Maekar had successfully led the freefolk and the captured wights back to their camp. He did not bring the wights with him on Neferion; the risk was too great. Instead, he entrusted Edmure and a group of freefolk to escort the wights to Castle Black. Maekar had already informed the brothers of their arrival, instructing them to prepare for the transport of the undead to Winterfell.
The plan was clear: the wights would serve as undeniable proof of the looming threat. While they were being taken to Winterfell, Maekar would use the opportunity to have his uncle Brandon call upon the lords of the North to gather at Winterfell. They would see the truth with their own eyes, and the North would be the first to prepare for the coming war. Once the North was ready, the wights would be brought south, showing all the lords of Westeros the peril that lay beyond the Wall.
As Neferion descended toward the Wolfswood, the great dragon's wings stirred the trees below, creating a tempest of falling leaves and rustling branches. Maekar guided the dragon to a large clearing he knew well, just outside Winterfell. The moment Neferion’s claws touched the ground, Maekar dismounted, helping Leaf down from his shoulder before turning to assist Lyonel.
Lyonel, ever vigilant, quickly walked a few paces ahead, scanning the dark woods for any sign of danger.
“I’ll scout the area,” he said curtly.
Maekar nodded, his gaze following Lyonel. The tension between them was evident. Leaf, perched lightly on Maekar’s shoulder, broke the silence. “A storm rages inside the son of the storm.”
“Of course he is,” Maekar replied, his tone heavy with guilt. “I told him who his father was.”
“And why does that anger him so?” Leaf asked, her voice curious and probing.
“Because he helped me kill his uncle and cousin,” Maekar said.
“Ah,” Leaf said thoughtfully. “That would indeed be a problem.”
The memory of Lyonel’s reaction still gnawed at Maekar. When he revealed that Robert Baratheon was Lyonel’s father, his friend’s expression had been a mix of shock and betrayal. Maekar had tried to explain why he had not told him sooner, but he knew Lyonel was hurt—even if Lyonel claimed he did not care who his father was.
“Maybe I’m overreacting,” Maekar muttered under his breath as he walked behind Lyonel.
Leaf, ever perceptive, offered a small reassurance. “Perhaps. But anger fades with time, son of ice and fire.”
As they reached the edge of the clearing, Leaf hopped from Maekar’s shoulder and turned to him. “I will meet you in the godswood of Winterfell.”
“You know where that is?”
“Of course,” she said with a small smile. “I hope my kin will have a safe journey.”
“They’re protected by my finest warriors,” Maekar replied.
Leaf nodded, and with a sudden burst of speed, she darted into the trees, her small form disappearing into the shadows.
Maekar caught up to Lyonel, who was peering through the trees. “Riders approaching,” Lyonel said tersely.
Maekar followed his gaze, spotting dust rising on the road. “Our welcoming party,” he said with a smile.
The riders arrived quickly, led by Ser Martyn Cassel. As they reached the clearing, they dismounted, their cloaks billowing in the chilly wind. Then they knelt.
“Welcome, Your Grace.”
“Rise,” Maekar said. He turned to Ser Martyn and smiled. “It’s good to see you, Ser.”
“It’s good to see you as well, Maekar.”
“Let us depart for Winterfell. I need to speak with my uncle urgently.”
They were provided with extra horses and quickly rode toward Winterfell. The journey was brisk, with the ancient castle soon rising into view. As Maekar led the procession through the gates, the people of Wintertown lined the paths, their faces lighting up as they recognized him.
“There he is!” someone called out.
“Our king from the North!” another voice shouted, and soon the crowd erupted into cheers.
Maekar couldn’t help but smile. He raised a hand in greeting, offering a slight wave as the people pressed closer, their cheers growing louder. Despite everything he had experienced beyond the Wall, he was happy to be home. Winterfell would always be his home.
The procession entered Winterfell’s courtyard, where Uncle Brandon Stark, Aunt Catelyn noticeably pregnant, Sansa, and young Cregan awaited them. As he approached, Brandon and the others dropped to one knee in unison—a gesture that made Maekar inwardly cringe, perhaps because they were his family.
“Rise,” he said quickly, stepping forward. Brandon rose first, and Maekar embraced him tightly.
“You should have told us you were coming,” Brandon said, his voice carrying a mix of reproach and joy.
“Well, I was always unpredictable,” Maekar replied with a smirk.
Catelyn gave him a playful glare. “A little warning would have been appreciated. I couldn’t even prepare for a royal visit!”
“I’m not staying long,” Maekar said, his tone softening as he hugged her. “You won’t have to worry about hosting me for long.”
He turned to Sansa next, offering her a hug, then crouched slightly to greet little Cregan, who stared up at him with wide, curious eyes. “Already a man grown,” Maekar said with a smile, ruffling the boy’s hair. Cregan grinned shyly.
As Maekar straightened, his gaze locked on Brandon’s. “Uncle, we must speak.” His voice carried a seriousness that immediately caught Brandon’s attention.
“What’s wrong?” Brandon asked, his brow furrowing.
“It is a matter of great import,” Maekar replied gravely. “We can speak in the godswood, just the two of us.”
Brandon studied him for a moment, his expression shifting from curiosity to concern. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. Follow me.”
Without another word, Brandon led Maekar toward the godswood, leaving behind a confused but silent group in the courtyard. They walked in quiet, the crunch of snow underfoot the only sound accompanying them. The air was still, and the towering trees loomed above. Arriving at the ancient heart tree, Maekar stopped, the white bark and blood-red leaves stark against the dimming light. Brandon stood beside him, his expression curious but calm.
“What is the matter, nephew? I have never seen you this…” he began.
Maekar took a deep breath, the cold air biting at his lungs. “I’m going to say it plainly, Uncle. The Long Night comes again. The winter that approaches will be endless. The dead rise beyond the Wall, and their masters follow.”
Brandon stared at him. Then, to Maekar’s mild surprise, Brandon broke into laughter, a hearty sound that echoed through the godswood. But as Maekar remained silent, his expression unyielding and deadly serious, Brandon’s laughter faltered. He looked into his nephew’s eyes and found no trace of jest.
“Maekar, what… what are you saying?” Brandon’s voice was unsteady, his earlier mirth replaced by unease.
Before Maekar could answer, a soft, melodic voice broke the tension. “He is telling the truth, Wolf Lord.”
Brandon whipped around, eyes darting through the godswood. “Who was that?” he demanded, his hand instinctively moving toward his sword.
“Look up, Uncle,” Maekar said calmly.
Brandon tilted his head back, his gaze landing on the branches of the heart tree. There, perched among the crimson leaves, was a small figure—Leaf. Her nut-brown skin blended with the bark, her golden-green eyes glowing faintly in the shadows.
“What… what is that?” Brandon asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand frozen on the hilt of his sword.
“One of the Children of the Forest,” Maekar said. “Call them Earthsingers...”
“It cannot be,” Brandon murmured, his eyes wide as he stared at Leaf.
Leaf tilted her head, her gaze steady and ancient. “It is, Wolf Lord. We are real, and the doom the son of ice and fire speaks of is real. You must listen.”
Brandon shook his head as though trying to clear it. “I… I don’t understand.”
Leaf’s voice was calm but insistent. “Go, Maekar, and seek the eggs the crow spoke of. I shall explain the coming darkness to the Builder’s scion.”
Maekar hesitated, looking between Leaf and his uncle, whose face was still frozen in shock. Finally, he nodded. “Listen to her, Uncle.”
Without waiting for a response, Maekar turned and left the godswood. Brandon’s gaze followed him for a moment before flicking back to Leaf, who began to climb down from the branches.
====
Maekar made his way into the crypts. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the scent of earth and ancient stone. He moved with a torch held high, its flickering light casting long, wavering shadows along the walls.
“Maekar, wait!” called a young voice from behind him. He turned to see Cregan running toward him, the boy’s face alight with curiosity and mischief.
“What are you doing here, you little scoundrel?” Maekar asked, grinning as he pulled Cregan into a one-armed embrace.
“Why are you here?” Cregan asked, his eyes wide with excitement.
Maekar ruffled the boy’s hair. “Come, I’ll show you,” he said, leading Cregan deeper into the ancient tomb.
The crypts of Winterfell were a labyrinth of tunnels and alcoves, each carved into the stone to house the remains of Stark lords and kings. The torchlight revealed weathered statues standing as silent sentinels over their resting places, their stone faces frozen in eternal solemnity. The faint sound of dripping water echoed from somewhere deeper in the crypt.
As they walked, Maekar’s torchlight played over the dust-covered inscriptions of names and titles. They stopped before one particular statue, carved with meticulous detail—a grand figure with a great stone sword laid across his lap.
“This is Lord Cregan’s tomb,” Maekar said, gesturing toward the statue.
Young Cregan, the namesake of the old lord, stared up at it in awe. “This is Lord Cregan?” he asked, his voice hushed with reverence.
Maekar nodded. “Yes, the Old Man of the North.”
Stepping closer to the statue, Maekar ran his hands along its edges and base, searching for hidden compartments or openings.
Suddenly, a sound echoed through the crypt—a faint, hollow shift of stone against stone. Maekar turned sharply, his eyes falling on young Cregan, who was backing away from the statue with a pale face.
“What was that?” Maekar asked, keeping his voice calm.
“I don’t know,” Cregan said, his voice trembling slightly. “I pulled on the sword, and... something moved behind the statue.”
A smile curled across Maekar’s lips. “Good work, kid.”
He stepped forward, holding the torch higher as he peered behind the statue. There, concealed in the shadow of the great stone figure, was an opening. Maekar crouched and reached into the hidden compartment, his fingers brushing against something solid.
With a grunt, he pulled out a heavy chest, its iron fittings tarnished by age. He set it on the ground, the sound of metal scraping against stone echoing in the crypt.
Cregan’s eyes lit up. “Is it treasure?” he asked, excitement evident in his voice.
Maekar smiled at him. “Yes, Cregan. The most priceless treasure.”
He unlatched the chest and lifted the lid, revealing what he had been searching for—three dragon eggs. Their surfaces shimmered like polished jewels, each one reflecting the torchlight in a mesmerizing dance of colors.
Cregan stared, his jaw dropping in awe. “Dragon eggs...”
Maekar nodded, his gaze fixed on the priceless relics. “Yes. Dragon eggs.”
.
.
Comments
TyrantGod
When will next chapter be released?
Illusiveone
Yes After the war for the dawn Yes next chapter will be viserys POV
TyrantGod
Will MC invent the printing press? Will he marry Dany soon? Will you explain the Dornish coup in the next chapter?
