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117: The Son of Ice and Fire, Hyrkoon the Hero pt.3
🕑 Added 2025-04-05 21:05:45 +0000 UTC“Oh great Hyrkoon, I beg of you to lift us from this curse—let our lands be lush once more, let the rivers return,” said the kneeling woman, her voice trembling with emotion.
She was tall and broad-shouldered, her skin sun-kissed, her hair braided with beads of iron and bone. Maekar had been told she was a general—or as close as one could be—in the armies of the city, a leader of ten thousand spears.
He sat upon a carved basalt throne in the heart of the temple, surrounded by the red-robed priestesses of R’hllor. Flickering firelight danced across the chamber, casting shadows that made the walls seem alive. Melisandre stood to his right, regal and composed, her ruby necklace glowing faintly. Lyonel stood to his left, silent, looking more like a statue than a man.
Mei, the high priestess of the temple, stood at the base of the dais, near the kneeling warrior. She kept her head bowed reverently, eyes fixed on the floor.
Maekar turned to Lyonel briefly, then to Melisandre, who offered him the same serene, knowing smile she always wore during these performances.
He spoke the same words he’d given to a dozen others this week. “Your prayers will be answered. When the great darkness returns, I will rise to face it. And when it is defeated, your lands shall bloom once more. The rivers shall flow again, and your people will prosper.”
The woman pressed her forehead to the stone and murmured a blessing in her own tongue before she was led away by acolytes.
As she vanished into the shadows, Maekar leaned slightly toward Melisandre. “It’s been a week,” he said quietly. “And the Great Fathers remain silent.”
Melisandre’s smile didn’t fade. “Your influence grows each day, my king. The city belongs to you in spirit. The Great Fathers cannot ignore it much longer.”
Then, as if summoned by her words, the great temple doors creaked open once more.
Ten women marched into the chamber, their footsteps echoing in unison. Unlike the warrior-woman from earlier, these women wore ceremonial garments: sashes of red and gold wrapped around their waists, but otherwise bare-chested in the city’s traditional style. Each had a black tattoo of the rising sun over her heart—the mark of the palace guard.
Melisandre’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “It looks like the time has come.”
Maekar rose slowly, letting the anticipation linger for a breath. “Finally,” he murmured.
The lead woman stepped forward and knelt. She was tall, commanding in presence, her braided hair cascading down her back. “Great Hyrkoon,” she began, her voice strong and sure. “I am Marak, Captain of the Palace Guard. I bring an invitation from the Great Fathers. They apologize for their delay; they were… verifying your greatness,” she said to his surprise in High Valyrian.
She bowed low, the rest of the women mirroring her.
Maekar suppressed a grin. “I understand. The sooner I meet them, the better.”
He stepped down from the dais, Lyonel falling into step beside him.
“Great Hyrkoon,” Mei said softly, her voice almost chiding, “why the hurry? The Great Fathers should come to you, not you to them.”
Marak, the tall captain of the palace guard, bowed her head, clearly uncomfortable. “We advised them so, Great One,” she said. “I and the Great Matriarch both. But… they insisted.”
Maekar raised a hand, silencing her with calm finality. “It does not matter. I am only happy to meet them—wherever they feel most confident.”
Mei exchanged a look with Marak, both women clearly humbled, then Mei whispered, “Such grace… such humility. The stories do not do you justice.”
“Truly,” Marak added, her voice tinged with reverence. “As it was written.”
“You speak Valyrian?” asked Maekar.
Marak nodded. “It is the language of trade, Great Hyrkoon.”
Maekar gave a faint smile, hiding the dry amusement in his thoughts. “Lead the way,” he said to Marak.
They did not wait long before leaving the temple. As the great doors opened, a wave of noise crashed over them—hundreds, perhaps thousands, of voices raised in adoration.
“Hyrkoon!”
“Hyrkoon!”
The name echoed through the streets like thunder. The people lined the road outside the temple, hands outstretched, faces beaming, some weeping openly at the sight of him.
“It won’t be long before the other cities hear of your presence, Great One,” said Marak.
Maekar glanced sideways at Lyonel, who raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, and I won’t be around for that long,’ Maekar thought.
The road toward the palace was lined with warriors in ceremonial armor—bare-chested women with iron-ringed nipples, spears gleaming, and curved blades slung across their backs. They kept the crowd at bay with stern glares and firm stances, their discipline evident.
They quickly mounted several zorses waiting for them and began the ride to the palace. The road sloped upward, winding through ancient arches and colonnades carved into the living rock.
At last, they arrived.
The palace of the Great Fathers was not a towering fortress, but a sprawling, tiered complex carved directly into the mountainside. Intricate reliefs adorned its sandstone façade—depictions of Hyrkoon, the founding of the Patrimony, and battles from forgotten centuries. Statues of tall, robed men lined the entrance, each with obsidian eyes that seemed to follow Maekar as he approached.
But what truly caught his attention was the water.
Fountains burbled along the steps, trickling through carefully channeled aqueducts into reflecting pools carved from polished stone. The air smelled clean, cool, and faintly floral, a sharp contrast to the dry heat beyond the palace walls.
“I didn’t expect to see this much water,” Maekar muttered, more to himself.
They entered the palace. As he passed through the corridors, all those present—warriors, male servants, and eunuchs clad in plain white silks—fell to one knee or bowed deeply. Some pressed their foreheads to the marble floors. No word was spoken—only reverent silence followed him.
Lyonel and the others trailed behind until they reached the foot of a great arched entrance, towering and gilded, its surface carved with ancient depictions of Hyrkoon’s supposed deeds. Twin zorse statues flanked the doors, their eyes set with red stones that glimmered in the torchlight.
At the threshold stood a woman.
She was tall, dusky-skinned, bare-chested like all the women of this land, adorned with ceremonial ornaments—rings of silver and bronze on her arms and waist, and a high collar of pearls and lapis that framed her stern, regal face. Her black hair was braided with gold and reached her waist.
Marak bowed her head. “Great Hyrkoon, may I present Great Matriarch Aruna.”
Aruna dipped her head slowly, a formal motion heavy with symbolism. “Long have we waited for your return, Great Hyrkoon,” she said, her voice rich and steady, like the tolling of a temple bell.
Maekar inclined his head and bowed with grace, hand across his chest. “Great Matriarch,” he said. “It is my honor.”
Aruna’s eyes narrowed. “The Great Fathers await you,” she said. “But they have requested you enter alone.”
Lyonel stiffened slightly, stepping closer, concern on his face. “Your Grace—”
Maekar laid a reassuring hand on his Kingsguard’s shoulder and gave him a wink. “Don’t worry, Lyonel. I’ll be fine.”
He turned to Aruna with a grin. “Let’s not waste any more time.”
She stepped aside. With a deep creak, the great doors began to open. The mechanisms groaned as the slabs of ancient stone parted to reveal the inner sanctum. Maekar stepped through, and the doors boomed shut behind him.
The great hall within was vast and echoing, its ceiling lost in shadow. Seven immense thrones loomed at the far end, raised upon a dais of gold. On each throne sat one of the Great Fathers—lords of the city, descendants of the patriarchs who claimed divine right from Hyrkoon himself.
They were… unimpressive. All of them were fat, pampered men draped in silks of deep violet, indigo, and red, each adorned with gold chains and sapphire rings. Their faces were powdered, their hair oiled and curled, their eyelids heavy with boredom or arrogance. There was no strength here.
Yet what truly caught Maekar’s eye were the shadows just behind them—men with short, curved blades at their hips. Hidden poorly, as if meant to be unnoticed… but noticed all the same.
Maekar smirked. ‘So that’s how it is.’
He walked forward slowly, boots echoing off the marble as he crossed the length of the hall.
The man on the central throne—whose stomach spilled over his lap like dough—lifted a jeweled goblet with stubby fingers, a ring on every one of them, and offered Maekar a wide, oily smile.
“Welcome, Great Hyrkoon!” he boomed in a wheezing, nasal voice that echoed too loudly in the vaulted chamber. “Oh, it warms my heart to lay eyes upon your… divine magnificence.”
The others, equally rotund and over-decorated, joined in quickly.
“Yes, yes! We are most honored!”
“You must allow us to host you properly! A suite of your own here in the palace!
“Silken robes, golden cushions, the finest concubines—male or female, as is your taste!”
“One cannot truly be Hyrkoon without fine cuisine! You’ll find our kitchens most… expansive.”
Maekar offered them a pleasant smile, though his eyes remained sharp. He could see the men in the shadows now—eyes darting, grips tightening on hidden weapons, bodies tensed as if waiting for a signal.
He raised a hand mid-laugh and cut them off smoothly. “I thought,” he said casually, his voice low but laced with steel, “only women were allowed to carry weapons in your city… Great Fathers.”
The room chilled.
The Great Fathers froze, eyes flicking toward the armed men behind them.
“Yes, of course,” one said, suddenly very still. “It has been that way… since the Time of Great Darkness.”
“Indeed,” another muttered, wiping sweat from his brow, “our customs are sacred.”
Maekar took a step forward, the torchlight catching the golden robes he wore.
“Well,” he said softly, “why don’t we drop the act?”
The atmosphere shattered like thin ice. Gone were the simpering smiles. The eyes of the Great Fathers narrowed, jowls twitching as they leaned forward, malice radiating from their thrones.
“Come forth!” one snarled, pointing with a pudgy hand.
From the shadows behind the thrones stepped a dozen armed men—eunuchs, blades drawn. They looked unsure, as if reluctant to do it.
The central father stood with great effort. “You charlatan,” he spat. “Every generation, some fool shows up with fire and stories, claiming to be Hyrkoon returned. We’ve seen it all before. You’re no different.”
“Yes,” hissed another, his fat lips curling in disgust. “Come to steal what is ours. To rouse the people and take the city. We rule by blood and law.”
Maekar chuckled and gave a mocking smile.
“It must be quite a life,” he said casually, glancing between the bloated figures on their gilded seats.
“Your ancestors must’ve been clever men—built quite the system, didn’t they?”
He stepped slowly, deliberately, letting his words twist the knife. “All the food you could ever eat. All the women you could ever fuck. A city that worships you, calls you divine. Most men would kill to live like this.”
One of the Great Fathers, draped in violet silks, grinned wide through crooked teeth. “It is our right!” he spat. “Our seed is the strongest. Our blood is Hyrkoon’s blood. The gods chose us to rule.”
Another slammed a pudgy fist on the armrest. “You come here with tricks, thinking you can take what’s ours?”
Maekar chuckled darkly. “I’m not here to take anything. I’m here to warn you—I could dismantle your little operation in days. No armies needed. Just a word… and your whole city turns on you.”
The Great Fathers burst into shouts of fury.
“Kill him!” roared the central one, veins bulging beneath folds of flesh. “Protect your fathers! Kill him!”
Maekar sighed as the men rushed from behind the thrones, blades drawn. “Finally,” he muttered.
Blackfyre sang as it left its sheath, flames licking up the length of the blade—Melisandre had done that.
Maekar met the first man with a brutal slash—Blackfyre cleaving through flesh and bone like butter. He pivoted, ducked beneath a clumsy swing, and drove the burning blade through the man’s chest, fire bursting from his back.
They kept coming—poorly trained, poorly armed. Maekar didn’t even have to worry about wearing armor.
A blade scraped his shoulder—nothing more than a scratch. Another lunged; Maekar parried and kicked him back into another before cutting them both down in a single arc.
One by one, they fell. The stink of burning flesh filled the throne room. The Great Fathers cowered on their thrones, eyes wide with horror.
The last man stumbled toward him, fear in his eyes. Maekar stepped forward and drove Blackfyre through his stomach without a word, then yanked it free with a spray of blood.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Maekar turned to the seven thrones, his robes stained with blood, smoke rising from his sword.
“Well,” he said, breathing only slightly heavier, “that was that.”
One of the Great Fathers whimpered, “How…”
Maekar laughed, wiping blood from his cheek. “You must barely leave this palace, huh? Your strategy was what—‘he’s one man, and we have many’? Pathetic.”
He sheathed Blackfyre and walked up to the center of the room.
“I’d love nothing more than to rip you from power. I have a dragon out there waiting—”
“No dragon can get to us in this palace,” one of them said arrogantly.
“It’s funny. One of my ancestor’s foes once said the same thing, but he proved to him that fire does melt stone. Are you willing to take that chance?”
“I… I…” the father on the central throne muttered in fear.
“But I won’t,” Maekar continued. “Not because you deserve all this, but because I don’t have time to fix the mess it’ll cause. Stability is what I need right now. And you”—he jabbed a finger at them—“you keep things stable here.”
They said nothing, eyes still wide with terror.
“I have only one demand,” Maekar said coldly. “Access to the Grand Archives. When I get what I came for, I’ll leave.”
The Great Fathers looked at one another, lips trembling. Finally, the central one gave a tiny nod. “You… may use the Archives. We will not interfere.”
“Good,” Maekar said, turning away. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He paused at the threshold of the throne room and glanced back over his shoulder.
“Oh, and I’ll be staying in the palace while I’m here. You lot might want to make yourselves scarce. Take a walk. Lose some weight or something.”
With that, Maekar walked out.
====
Matriarch Aruna led Maekar and his retinue through the palace. The corridors narrowed as they approached the Grand Archives.
As they walked, Aruna glanced at Maekar and asked softly, “Did the Great Fathers have any wisdom to share, Great One?”
Maekar smirked. “They’ll be leaving the palace,” he said. “A holy mission to undertake.”
Aruna stopped mid-step, eyes widening. “They are… departing? Of course, of course! They are bound to follow your will, Great Hyrkoon. It is their sacred duty.”
She bowed, more deeply than before, and continued leading them with brisk purpose. Pride swelled in her voice as they approached a set of tall bronze doors carved with the sigil of Hyrkoon—his flaming sword raised high, flanked by the sun and moon.
“These are the gates of the Grand Archives,” Aruna said solemnly, before stepping aside and pressing a hand to a lever built into the wall.
To Maekar’s surprise, the floor beneath them gave a soft groan—then began to descend.
He raised an eyebrow, looking around as stone columns slid upward, revealing a shaft plunging deep into the rock below the mountain. The lift moved slowly, accompanied by the groan of ancient chains and the hiss of air being pulled through vents.
“Well,” Lyonel muttered behind him, “didn’t expect that.”
Maekar just folded his arms. “Neither did I.”
They passed level after level—some brightly lit, others barely illuminated, their shadows hiding strange statues and towering shelves stuffed with scrolls, tomes, and tablets of every kind. Ropes dangled, pulleys squeaked, and figures in long robes shuffled along narrow walkways, lost in study.
At last, the lift came to a stop with a final clunk, and the doors creaked open.
What lay beyond took Maekar’s breath away.
A vast cavern spread out before them, transformed into a grand library of unfathomable scale. Columns rose like trees, shelves stretched to the ceiling, and bridges arched across chasms of ink and parchment—everything illuminated by thousands of lanterns and natural light from outside using some ancient technique.
“By the Seven…” Lyonel muttered in awe.
Maekar stepped forward, scanning the dizzying rows.
“Fuck,” he muttered, hands on his hips. “We’re going to be here a while.”
.
.
.
Viserys looked down at the parchment in his hands, the inked words blurring as he read the numbers again and again. More disappearances—thirty in the last two weeks. His jaw tightened.
“This can’t be normal,” he said, glancing up at Robb Stark, who stood with arms folded and a grim look on his face.
“Not even before Maekar took over as Lord Commander,” Robb replied. He hesitated.
Viserys narrowed his eyes. “What is it? What did you find?”
Robb’s mouth thinned. “It’s better if you see it for yourself, my lord Hand.”
It had been restless nights for Viserys ever since these disappearances began escalating. Apparently, they’d started over a year ago, slow and scattered. But now they had come to the Crown’s attention—because the numbers were rising too fast to ignore.
Without another word, the two men left the Red Keep. Robb led the way, and Viserys followed, the cool night air biting against his skin as they descended from the heights of the castle into the underbelly of King’s Landing.
They arrived at the bustling docks, where Robb guided him to a quieter section of the port.
“Here,” Robb said, stopping in front of a dilapidated shack nestled between two abandoned warehouses. The boards were warped, the door half-rotten. Viserys frowned but entered without protest.
Inside, the air was thick with the stench of blood.
He stopped short.
An altar stood at the far end of the room, its surface drenched in dried gore. Atop it was a twisted idol, crudely carved yet unmistakably wrong. It bore a humanoid form, but its limbs were stretched, its proportions inhuman.
Viserys took a slow step forward, horror freezing his thoughts.
“What… in the good name of the gods is this?”
Robb’s voice was low. “I believe, my lord Hand… this is the blood of those who’ve gone missing.”
Viserys didn’t respond. His throat was dry, his stomach twisting. He stared at the idol, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
What if this was tied to the cult in the Reach and Westerlands? What if it had spread here in the city?
He tore his gaze from the blood-stained altar.
He hoped Willas would find something in the Reach. But if this was how things were happening here, Viserys suspected that he and Robb would uncover the truth before Willas ever did.
