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116: The Son of Ice and Fire, Hyrkoon the Hero pt.2
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 18:34:04 +0000 UTC“Stop staring, Lyonel,” Maekar muttered under his breath as they walked through the bustling street.
Lyonel blinked and quickly turned away from the group of tall, bare-chested warrior women who had just passed them, their spears glinting in the firelight. “I still say it’s stupid,” Lyonel muttered. “No armor. Just… skin.”
Maekar gave him a sideways glance. “And yet, they’ve repelled every Jogos Nhai horde that’s ever come near these walls. Even Yi Ti couldn’t conquer this city.” He looked ahead, voice tinged with amusement. “Might be that we’re the ones doing it wrong.”
The two continued walking through the city, their path weaving toward the central bazaar. Night had fallen, but it hadn’t dulled the city's pulse. The bazaar was alive, bathed in the warm flicker of torches and hanging lanterns. Colored silks fluttered in the breeze, stalls stretched endlessly in both directions, and the air was thick with the scent of spiced meats, roasted nuts, and perfumes too sweet for comfort.
Music floated in the air, played on strange stringed instruments Maekar didn’t recognize, and people from a hundred lands moved shoulder to shoulder: dark-skinned merchants from Sothoryos, veiled traders from Slaver’s Bay, scholars robed in Yi Tish gold, Dothraki, and a few silver-haired men and women from the Free Cities.
Maekar’s sharp eyes caught crates stamped with marks from Westeros—some even bearing the lion of Lannisport and the hightower of Oldtown. He also saw wares with sigils and scripts he didn’t recognize—strange loops and whorls from lands farther east than even Asshai.
They passed a stall selling lacquered masks from Yi Ti, another stacked high with preserved sea creatures from Leng. A Shopkeeper was shouting about dreamwine aged in black lotus barrels, and another boasted enchanted spices that whispered to you in your sleep. He could only make out parts of it, as most of it was in the local language with a bit of Ghiscari mixed in.
Finally, they paused before a wide stall draped in silks, its tables glittering with jewelry that shimmered like starlight: necklaces, bangles, and rings—filigree so delicate it looked like spiderwebs spun from gold.
Maekar leaned closer, inspecting a delicate bracelet laced with crimson gems. Something for Daenerys and Rhaenys. The craftsmanship was exquisite.
The Shopkeeper, a short, rotund man with oily black curls, greeted him in a rapid string of syllables Maekar didn’t recognize, then switched to another tongue, and another. Finally, he landed on Low Valyrian. “Ah! My lord! Yes! You have a good eye! Best in the world—straight from lands beyond the Saffron Strait! From the land of a million temples. From the land of Jambu”
Maekar’s attention snapped back. “Beyond the Saffron Strait?” he asked, brows furrowing. “No one in my lands knows what lies beyond it. Do you?”
The Shopkeeper’s eyes glittered. “Ah, I do! I’ve traded with men who’ve been there, oh yes. A land of jungles and temples and cities carved into mountains. Ruled by tiger-men, a land where there are a hundred castes dividing men.”
Maekar studied the jewelry again. It was heavier than Westerosi work but beautifully intricate, each piece wound with minute details—flames, animals, blossoms, and coiling script. It reminded him of Indian jewelry from his old life back on Earth.
“From a caste of artisans,” the Shopkeeper whispered, sensing his interest. “They say they are born with gold in their blood.”
Maekar picked out two of the finest necklaces from the Shopkeeper’s glittering collection—one of entwined gold serpents with tiny rubies for eyes, and another shaped like a crescent moon dripping with sapphire tears. He handed over some precious gems he had brought with him, along with as much gold as he could spare after a bit of haggling. The Shopkeeper bowed deeply, hands pressed together, his smile so wide it nearly split his face.
“A gift fit for the wife of a man as wealthy as you,” he said, wrapping the pieces in delicate red cloth. “Your lady-love will be most pleased.”
“Loves,” Maekar corrected.
The shopkeeper laughed. “A lucky man you are to hold the love of two women.”
Maekar nodded and slipped the bundle into his cloak. “Tell me,” he said casually after some thought, “have you heard anything from Yi Ti? I heard rumors of civil war there.”
The Shopkeeper’s eyes sparkled with gossip-ready glee. “Oh, yes, yes—Yi Ti was a bed of chaos for the last few years. The Azure Emperor, Bu Gai, sits in Yin, but his power is like a ghost’s breath. They say his tax collectors are laughed out of towns. Every governor thinks himself a prince now. A hundred princedoms exist, all dreaming of being emperor.”
Maekar arched a brow. “And the other two claimants I heard about?”
“Ah, yes.” The Shopkeeper leaned in, lowering his voice. “In Carcosa, on the Hidden Sea—where stars drown in the water—an exiled sorcerer-lord claims he is the 69th Yellow Emperor, returned from shadow and flame. The people there bow to his madness. And finally, there is General Pol Qo,” the Shopkeeper said with a shrug. “A military man, fierce and proud. He’s crowned himself the first of the Orange Emperors and rules from Trader Town, they say. Commands an army of sellswords, eunuchs, and tiger-banners.”
Maekar narrowed his eyes. “So three emperors?”
“Oh no, my lord,” the Shopkeeper grinned. “Three that we know of.”
Maekar tilted his head. “You said it was in chaos. Has the fighting stopped?”
The Shopkeeper’s smile faded just slightly, replaced by something more cautious. “That’s the strangest part. When the war was at its zenith, suddenly a truce was formed between them all.”
“Why?”
The Shopkeeper shrugged and glanced around, as if afraid to speak too loudly. “Something stirs in the Grey Waste. Armies have been sent to the Five Forts. Massive garrisons. Even the Yellow Priesthood is calling for unity.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “They say… demons rise again. That the sky burns black over the mountains. Some whisper that the old night returns.”
Maekar’s spine stiffened. His eyes flicked to the dark horizon. So it wasn’t just Westeros…
But before he could speak, the Shopkeeper laughed and waved a hand. “Ah, but those are tall tales, my lord! Spiced wine stories for fearful men. I am glad the war stopped. War is only good for braver traders; I am not that brave…”
Maekar gave a slow nod. “Thank you.” He turned, Lyonel falling into step beside him.
They walked in silence for a moment, the noise of the bazaar buzzing around them like insects. Then Lyonel asked quietly, “What do you think is happening in the Five Forts, my king?”
Maekar didn’t answer right away. His eyes were far away.
“What do you think?” he finally said, voice low.
Lyonel frowned, lips tight.
After walking in silence for a while, Lyonel paused and pointed. “What kind of horse is that?”
Maekar blinked, dragged back from grim thoughts, and turned to see a pen where tall, striped beasts snorted and paced. They looked like horses—but their coats were streaked black and white, and their builds were powerful and muscular.
Maekar smiled. “That, Lyonel, is a zorse. The Jogos Nhai ride them.”
Lyonel blinked. “Zorse?”
“Come,” Maekar said, grinning as he stepped toward the pen. “Let’s see if we can ride one.”
And with that, they disappeared into the colorful, fire-lit chaos of the bazaar, the night still young.
=====
The next day, with Melisandre still absent, Maekar rose early and decided to make use of the time. He, Lyonel, and Leaf mounted the zorses they had acquired the night before—Leaf rode with him, as she was too small to ride. They left the sandstone walls of Shamyriana behind, riding out into the dry lands beyond. The desert wind cut across their path like a blade, swirling dust in small eddies around their feet.
Though barren, the landscape was not empty.
They passed the crumbling ruins of old towns—columns half-buried in sand, arches worn away by time, and weatherworn statues whose faces had been erased by centuries of desert wind. The road curved around the remains of a great fort, its once-imposing gates now little more than broken teeth, while faded banners—long since tattered—clung stubbornly to rusted spears atop its towers.
In the far distance stretched the endless golden waves of the Great Sand Sea. The sun reflected off it like metal, blinding and surreal. It was hard to imagine that this had once been a fertile cradle of rivers and lakes, kingdoms so rich they were the envy of empires.
Leaf was even able to find weirwood roots in an old, dried riverbed—indicating that the Old Gods had once held sway here eons ago.
Before returning to the city, they visited Neferion, who lounged in a secluded canyon, basking in the day’s heat. As night fell, they returned to Shamyriana.
The temple fires had been lit, and the sound of drums echoed through the city streets as Maekar dismounted at the inn where they were staying.
Sitting in the large room they rented, they found Melisandre—cloaked in red—already waiting. Beside her stood another woman, tall and slender, with features of someone from Yi Ti: almond eyes gleaming like polished obsidian and long black hair that shimmered under the torchlight. Her crimson robes, though of a different style, marked her as a priestess of R’hllor.
Both women bowed before him.
“I have returned, my king,” Melisandre said, her voice rich with satisfaction. “Allow me to present Mei, High Flamebearer of the Temple of Eternal Dawn.”
Maekar rose, eyebrows lifting in silent question.
Mei stepped forward, reverence shining in her eyes. “It is truly you,” she said, voice thick with wonder. “Hyrkoon reborn. Azor Ahai, risen again to save us once more.”
Maekar blinked, trying to school his features. “Yes, yes… I am,” he said dryly, glancing at Melisandre. Clearly, she had a plan—and he was already halfway through playing along.
Melisandre gave the faintest smirk. “I told no lies,” she said smoothly.
“I believed you, Melisandre,” Mei said. “I was given a vision during prayer this morning, remember? I just needed time to interpret it. Now, as I gaze upon Hyrkoon’s glorious form, I understand what the Lord showed me.”
Maekar let out a long sigh but said nothing.
Mei clasped her hands, eyes shining. “It would be the greatest honor of my life to host Hyrkoon the Great in our sacred temple tonight.”
Maekar looked to Melisandre again, then gave Mei a nod.
“Why don’t you go ahead and make sure everything is prepared for his arrival? I shall lead Azor Ahai to the temple,” Melisandre said.
“Yes, yes, I shall,” Mei replied. Even as she turned to leave, she glanced back, unable to take her eyes off him.
Once Mei was out of earshot, Maekar looked at Melisandre, brow furrowed and voice low. “Okay… what the fuck is going on?”
Melisandre didn’t flinch. She merely offered that familiar, enigmatic smile of hers and said, “R’hllor is worshipped here—almost as fervently as in Volantis. Perhaps more.”
Though her tone was calm, there was unmistakable satisfaction beneath it.
Maekar nodded slowly, the realization dawning. Of course. The connection between R’hllor and Hyrkoon—linking them together—must have been easy enough for them to establish.
“And what is your plan, Red Woman?” Leaf asked, her voice soft but direct.
Melisandre’s eyes flicked toward Maekar. “I believe our king already understands.”
Maekar exhaled through his nose. Yes, he understood well enough.
He turned to the others and said simply, “Come. Let’s go to the temple.”
As they started walking, Lyonel kept pace at his side. “My king,” he asked hesitantly, “could you at least tell us what the plan is?”
Maekar gave him a sidelong glance and smirked. “You’ll see tomorrow.”
They made their way through the still-busy streets of Shamyriana. The path to the Temple of R’hllor was lined with silver bowls burning saffron-scented oils, their flames casting dancing shadows across crimson mosaics of fire, stars, and dragons.
The temple itself loomed ahead like a blood-soaked jewel—massive, tiered, and constructed entirely from deep red stone that seemed to drink in the firelight. Ornate carvings of flames and figures in prayer adorned its façade, and at the highest tier stood a golden statue of Hyrkoon with hands outstretched.
As Maekar approached, the great bronze doors opened, and a wave of heat and incense washed over him.
Inside, the temple was alive.
Priestesses and acolytes lined the grand hall, bowing low and whispering prayers as he passed. Some pressed their foreheads to the floor; others reached out to touch the hem of Maekar’s cloak as he walked among them.
He was greeted like a god.
Priestesses—clad in sheer red silks, adorned with gold and rubies—stepped forward to offer themselves without a word, their eyes glowing with fanatical devotion.
Maekar politely declined each offer, holding his composure with a strained smile and a muttered “perhaps another time,” though inwardly he was screaming. It reminded him too much of the time priestesses came from Volantis to the capital for the first time. Then, as now, they gave him little space or peace. This, however, felt even more intense.
Finally, he was led to a private chamber at the top of the temple—lavish, warm, and blessedly silent.
He collapsed onto the massive, silk-draped bed with a heavy sigh, rubbing his face.
Lyonel leaned against the doorway and muttered, “I don’t know if I should be jealous or terrified of you after seeing that.”
Maekar cracked an eye open. “There was a time I would have invited them all to my bed.”
Lyonel laughed and closed the door, taking up guard by the entrance.
Maekar had to wake early the next day, so he quickly fell asleep.
====
Before dawn’s first light, Maekar was led away to be bathed as part of the ritual. He stood still as warm water cascaded over him, feeling the priestesses’ reverent hands upon his skin, their eyes shining with awe. When the bathing was done, they dressed him in golden robes stitched with threads of red and black, the sun and flame worked into the fabric. Melisandre stood beside him, also robed in ceremonial crimson, while Mei—the High Priestess—circled him with a censer of incense, chanting in a language Maekar didn’t fully understand.
He could hear it now: beyond the temple walls, the roar of a crowd. Voices. Chants. Thousands of them.
Lyonel, standing near the edge of the chamber, shifted uneasily, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His face, normally unreadable, was tight with concern.
Maekar leaned slightly toward Melisandre. “How many people will be out there?”
She didn’t look at him. “As many as it takes for the Patriarchs to take notice.”
Before he could respond, Mei glided forward, her silken robes trailing behind her like flowing fire. She smiled, wide and serene. “They are all here to see you, Azor Ahai,” she said, her voice reverent. “The recent rumors of demons returning in the Grey Wastes have haunted our people. You bring them hope. You bring them deliverance.”
Maekar didn’t answer. He simply followed as Mei beckoned him forward through the wide ceremonial corridor, Melisandre and Lyonel close behind.
Mei raised her hand, and the temple guards pulled open the doors.
Golden sunlight from the rising sun burst through the gap.
Maekar stepped forward into the light, and what he saw made his mouth drop open.
A sea of people. Tens of thousands crowded the plaza outside the temple, their faces turned toward him, their voices rising as one:
“HYRKOON! HYRKOON! HYRKOON!”
It was deafening.
Mei stepped forward, raising her arms, her voice carrying like fire through the plaza. She spoke in the local tongue, chanting a speech Maekar only half-understood—but he picked out the words: “Returned… Hero… Light… Chosen… Save us all.”
Melisandre leaned in, her red eyes gleaming. “Is he close?” she asked softly.
Maekar glanced upward. The sky above shimmered with gold and rose, and he could feel it—wings cutting through the dawn wind.
“Yes,” he said. “He’s close.”
He stepped forward, drawing Blackfyre, its dark Valyrian steel gleaming in the morning light.
“Do your thing,” he said.
Melisandre nodded, and her hands glowed with red heat. She whispered a prayer to R’hllor, and the ruby at her throat flared.
In a burst of fire, Blackfyre ignited.
By now, Mei had reached the climax of her impassioned speech. Her hands were raised, golden bangles glinting in the rising sun, her crimson robes fluttering in the soft wind that carried the scent of incense and oil over the awestruck crowd.
“And now—behold him!” she cried. “The one promised in fire and ash, reborn in darkness and light. He who shall deliver us! Bask in the glory… of Hyrkoon!”
And then—
A roar.
Deep and thunderous, it split the air. Every voice fell silent, every breath stilled.
Another roar followed, louder, closer.
All eyes turned skyward as Neferion descended from the light of the rising sun, his massive wings blotting out the morning gold.
In that moment, Maekar made himself fully visible.
He strode forth from the temple’s towering redstone archway, his golden robes catching the light, Blackfyre blazing in his hand.
The people saw him.
And they screamed, the silence broken.
“HYRKOON! HYRKOON!” they chanted, louder than before—so loud it shook the square itself. People collapsed to their knees. Some wept. Others raised their arms to the sky as though to catch his light.
Maekar raised Blackfyre high, letting its flames shine over the endless sea of worshippers.
Above him, Neferion let out another roar.
Maekar sent a silent command.
With a beat of his titanic wings, Neferion hovered above the temple, opened his jaws, and unleashed a torrent of dragonfire into the sky.
It lit the heavens ablaze.
The people went into a frenzy.
“HYRKOON!”
“HYRKOON!”
“HYRKOON!”
“HYRKOON!”
The chanting reached a fever pitch. Maekar met Melisandre’s gaze; her plan had worked.
The Patriarchs would notice now. A part of the city was already in his hands.
