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115: The Son of Ice and Fire, Hyrkoon the Hero pt.1
🕑 Added 2025-03-21 20:06:47 +0000 UTC“It’s getting colder!”
Maekar turned his head, glancing back at the bundled figures behind him. Lyonel was hunched low, his cloak pulled tight around him, nose and ears reddened from exposure. Melisandre, by contrast, sat upright and still, the wind fluttering the hem of her crimson robes, but not a single tremble betrayed her. Her ruby glowed faintly at her throat. Beside her, Leaf sat cross-legged, calmly watching the land pass below.
“It’s freezing!” Lyonel shouted again.
Melisandre gave a faint smile. “I feel nothing.”
“Because you’re a sorceress,” Lyonel grumbled.
“The Lord of Light keeps me warm,” she said simply, her voice calm, unbothered.
Maekar squinted at the horizon. The sun had set half an hour ago. “We’ll stop for the night,” he called back. “Neferion could use the rest.”
“Neferion?” Lyonel balked. “What about us?”
Beneath them stretched two vast lakes, their waters frozen at the edges. Between them lay the skeletal remains of a city—once proud, now broken. Cracked roads led into a sprawl of shattered buildings and leaning towers. Maekar guided Neferion downward, the massive dragon circling once before descending like a storm cloud. Snow and dust billowed in his wake as he landed beside the lakeshore.
They dismounted one by one. Lyonel jumped down with a groan, shaking the stiffness from his limbs. “Gods,” he muttered. “I swear my fingers were about to fall off.”
Melisandre stepped down lightly, robes fluttering, the air around her still and warm despite the chill. Leaf climbed down after, her eyes scanning the ruins around them, her expression unreadable.
Melisandre looked toward the jagged skyline of broken spires. “We are in Sallosh,” she said softly, “once a city of the Men of Sarnor. A holy place in their time.”
Maekar stepped forward. He gazed up at the towering remains—monolithic structures that still reached into the night sky, cracked and leaning but still proud. Great arches rose like ribs from the broken streets, their carvings faded but not forgotten. The ruins had an eerie stillness to them.
“What happened here?” Lyonel asked, eyes wide at the size of the ruins.
Maekar answered grimly. “The Dothraki happened, my friend.”
Lyonel spat. “Savages.”
They moved deeper into the ruins and chose a spot near the base of a collapsed tower. Neferion curled nearby, his body coiled protectively around the camp, smoke drifting from his nostrils.
They built a fire from dry wood Leaf scavenged from the rubble. Soon, golden flames flickered and danced in the cold air, casting shadows against ancient stone.
The four of them sat close around the fire. Melisandre’s ruby glowed brighter in its light. Lyonel warmed his hands and muttered about his frozen toes. Leaf remained quiet, her gaze fixed on the ruins, listening to the wind whisper through the stone.
“This was where the Fisher Queens once ruled,” Leaf said, her words quiet, almost reverent.
She tilted her head toward the lakes beyond the ruins. “I looked for the great sea that was said to be here. But I did not find it.”
Melisandre, who had been watching the flames intently, lifted her eyes. “I know what you speak of, creature of the old gods,” she said. “These lakes are what remain of the Great Silver Sea.”
Lyonel, who had been chewing on dried meat, paused mid-bite. “A sea? Here?” he said incredulously, his eyes scanning the city. “You’re telling me there was once a sea in the middle of the fucking grasslands?”
Maekar shook his head slowly. “I didn’t know either,” he admitted, looking out over the city and the grassland that surrounded them.
“You should know this, my king,” Melisandre said gently. “For in the oldest legends, one of the Fisher Queens bore a child. His name was Huzhor Amai—a warrior and a unifier. He brought together the Tall Men and forged the Kingdoms of Sarnor.”
Maekar’s brow furrowed. “Huzhor Amai…” he whispered. Then his eyes widened. “Wait. Azor Ahai.” He looked up sharply. “This Huzhor Amai… is Azor Ahai, isn’t he?”
Melisandre tilted her head slightly. “Yes,” she said simply. “Many names, across many tongues.”
“So,” Maekar said, his voice low but curious, glancing at Leaf, “you must know some legends about this place. I would love to hear them.”
Lyonel, reclining with his back against a cracked stone wall, looked up. “Aye,” he said, smirking. “I’d like that too. Better than sitting here in silence.”
Leaf nodded. “Long ago, when these lands were still a great sea, the Fisher Queens ruled here. They reigned not from a castle or stone hall, but from a palace that floated upon the water.”
“It was called Nēdena Valy, or Moon’s Daughter. A vast barge made from pale wood and strung with silver bells. Its sails were dyed moonlight blue, and when it drifted, it sang—a song only the waves and the gods could truly understand. The decks were always perfumed with lilies and flowers that bloomed only in the night.”
Maekar blinked, picturing it. “A floating palace…”
Leaf nodded. “Within, the queens practiced moon-magic. They drew dreams from fish, visions from tides. In crystal basins, they kept silver eels that whispered the will of gods. It was said they could speak to the divine directly.
“The people of the Silver Sea were great friends of the Earthsingers, those like me. My kin in this land lived in the kingdom of Ifequevron just north of here.”
Maekar tilted his head. “Are there still Earthsingers in Ifequevron?”
Leaf’s smile was small, wistful. “Perhaps, if the forests there still breathe. I would love to know if my kin remain in these lands.”
A long silence followed. Then Melisandre spoke, continuing Leaf’s story.
“It is said the last Fisher Queen bore a son. His name was Huzhor Amai—a man of radiant beauty and towering height. His father was a warrior-king from the eastern mountains. And Huzhor… he was born for greatness.”
She continued, “He united the Zoqora, the Gipps, the Cymmeri, and even the Hairy Men of the Woods—through marriage, through strength, through vision. He claimed divine right from his mother. His children became the Tall Men… rulers of the Kingdom of Sarnor.”
Maekar, who had been staring into the fire, muttered, “Sarnor… I have my suspicions.”
Melisandre turned to him. “Suspicions?”
He looked up at her. “That the resting place of Lightbringer… may lie buried in one of the Sarnori cities.”
“Did you see it in your visions?” Melisandre asked, hoping her god had shown him something.
Maekar nodded. “Yes. in my visions Eldric spoke of going to Zarnoq. It sounds… similar, doesn’t it? Zarnoq… Sarnor.”
“It does,” Lyonel added. “It really does, Your Grace.”
“Well,” Maekar sighed, lying back on the grass and pulling his cloak over his chest, “let’s hope I’m right. Tomorrow, I think we’ll be able to reach the Bone Mountains. Try to get some sleep.”
Maekar closed his eyes, and soon sleep took him.
=====
Maekar awoke to the sound of thundering hooves—dozens, maybe hundreds—shaking the ground like an oncoming storm.
“Your Grace! Your Grace, wake up!” he heard Lyonel’s panicked voice.
Maekar sat up instantly, eyes sharp, instincts already flaring to life. “What? What’s that sound?”
“Dothraki,” Lyonel said breathlessly.
That woke Maekar fully. “Where?”
“They’ll be here in minutes,” Melisandre said as she stepped into view beside Leaf. “This is their conquered city, after all.”
Maekar rose to his feet, brushing sleep from his eyes. “Right,” he muttered.
Lyonel looked around, eyes wide. “What are we going to do?”
Maekar shot him a look—disappointed but calm—and turned his gaze toward Neferion. The black dragon stood tall and still beside the lake, his massive wings half-folded, luminous green eyes watching them as if waiting for a command.
Lyonel followed Maekar’s gaze and blinked. “Oh,” he said, his face flushing slightly in embarrassment.
Maekar smirked faintly and reached out with his mind, sending a silent command to Neferion.
The dragon stirred at once, wings unfurling with a thunderous snap. The earth trembled as he launched into the air, his powerful limbs kicking up waves of dust and water. With one mighty flap, he soared northward, toward the galloping hooves.
Maekar turned to the others casually, brushing the last traces of sleep from his face. “What do we have to eat?”
He walked over to a crumbled wall of the ruined city and climbed it, seeking a better view of Neferion in action.
The dragon descended like a shadow from the skies. Below, a vast sea of riders—easily numbering in the thousands—was approaching fast.
Neferion roared.
It was not a roar of warning—it was a roar of death.
Then he breathed.
A torrent of emerald flame erupted from his maw, sweeping across the Dothraki vanguard. Horses screamed, men burned, and the front line collapsed into chaos.
The rest of the khalasar panicked. Even the most fearless among them had no answer for a full-grown dragon. They scattered in all directions—some fleeing west into the hills, others riding back north.
Maekar watched the firestorm from his perch, arms crossed. “That was a big khalasar, wasn’t it?”
Melisandre, who had joined him, nodded. “Yes. One of the biggest, from the looks of things.”
‘Was it Khal Drago’s, or maybe another Khal who managed to unite a khalasar this large? If it was Drago, then fuck him. I hope he was roasted alive.’ he thought looking at the carnage.
Neferion circled once, then landed nearby with a satisfied rumble, smoke still curling from his nostrils. The dragon stretched out, coiling beside the lake like a lazy cat.
“Well, let’s eat and get out of here. We’re already late,” said Maekar as he took some dried meat from Lyonel’s hand.
====
The wind howled past Maekar’s ears as Neferion soared through the dusky sky. Melisandre and Lyonel sat behind him, while Leaf nestled silently in front of him.
They followed the Dothraki road from the ruins of Sallosh. Herds of wild horses galloped below, scattered by Neferion’s presence, their riders fleeing into the wind. The road stretched onward like a scar across the land.
By the next sundown, they reached it—Vaes Dothrak.
It was massive: a city without walls or stone buildings, yet vast and ancient all the same. Great bronze statues of stallions marked the entrance, towering over the open plain. Thousands of tents and domed wooden halls stretched across the valley, encircling a sacred lake that shimmered under the moonlight. Even from above, the fires of the gathered khalasars burned like stars.
Maekar narrowed his eyes and smirked. “Let’s give them something to be afraid of.”
He nudged Neferion lower.
The dragon dipped his wings and descended, flying low over the sacred city. A thunderous roar erupted from his throat as he swept past the bronze stallions, shaking the very air. Below, chaos followed—screams, panicked horses, warriors drawing weapons. Priests fell to their knees, whispering frantic prayers to the Great Stallion.
He did not have Neferion attack—he merely passed by like a black comet, his shadow blotting out the moon.
Soon, they stopped by the large mountain near Vaes Dothrak, the Mother of Mountains.
They landed gently near a clearing on its slope. The mountain was where the Dothraki believed the world was born. Even in the growing dark, Maekar could see the ruins carved into the stone—temples long since abandoned, their steps leading up into the face of the mountain itself. It was ancient.
He wished he had time to explore; he would have been a great adventurer if he hadn’t chosen the path to become a king.
“Meh, who am I kidding? I would probably have become a khal or something if I ended up here,” he muttered to no one but himself.
Too much thirst for power.
They rested for the night, then rose with the sun and mounted Neferion again.
They found themselves flying over the Bone Mountains, which rose jagged, cruel, and dry. This was the southernmost stretch, known as the Dry Bones, where the wind bit like knives and the mountains seemed to bleed dust. Cracked earth and broken stone extended for miles. Valleys twisted in on themselves like the ribs of long-dead beasts, and the dry air tasted of ash.
Navigation was difficult. The air was thin and hot. Neferion grunted his annoyance more than once.
At last, they crested the final ridge.
And there it was.
The city of Shamyriana.
At the base of the Bone Mountains, cradled between stone ridges, sat the ancient city. It stood at the mouth of the Stone Road, the ancient trade route that cut through the Bones.
Beyond, Maekar could see the Great Sand Sea.
He guided Neferion toward a small hill several miles from the city—far enough to avoid attention but close enough to observe.
They made camp and rested for the night, and soon morning came once more.
====
Maekar stood tall before his companions. The red priestess was already cloaked in her crimson robes, the ruby at her throat faintly pulsing. Lyonel adjusted the sword on his hip, his usual restlessness hidden behind the furrow of focus on his brow. Leaf, in contrast, was nearly invisible. Her slight frame was swathed in plain brown traveler’s clothes, her cloak and hood pulled up to conceal her inhuman features. To a passerby, she looked like a silent child tagging along with her guardians.
“We’re here,” Maekar said, his voice sharp and clear in the morning stillness. “And I don’t know for how long.”
He looked each of them in the eye. “We stay until we find that key. No matter what.”
They nodded.
“Now,” Maekar continued, placing his hands on his hips, “let me refresh your memories on what we discussed before we left King’s Landing.”
He turned toward the distant city, nestled at the end of the dry valley, its silhouette etched against the sun.
“The city ahead is Shamyriana, one of the three remaining fortress-cities of the Patrimony of Hyrkoon. We’re here for the Grand Archives said to be in this city—it holds practically all the knowledge of these lands’ past. That’s where we begin our search.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
“There were once green lands here, with many rivers and fertile valleys. As you can see, time has not been kind. The great sea”—he pointed to the large desert in front of them—“dried up thousands of years ago, and to make things worse, many cities were destroyed by the Jogos Nhai.”
“Only three cities remain now, and due to our luck, this one contains an archive that could help us,” Maekar said. “Let’s not offend the natives, shall we?”
He cast one last glance toward the city, then motioned forward. “Let’s move.”
They began the descent down the hill toward the ancient road leading into the valley. As they approached, they passed weatherworn statues—tall stone effigies of armored figures with spears and strange, curved blades. The desert sands had worn away their features, but their posture still conveyed pride.
It wasn’t long before Lyonel pointed toward the road ahead, squinting.
“Look,” he said. “Warrior women.”
They could see a patrol approaching—half a dozen women walking with practiced precision, spears in hand. What struck them most, however, was their fearlessness and their lack of clothing. Their chests were completely bare except for the iron piercings they wore.
“Well,” Lyonel muttered, blinking, “that’s not something you see every day.”
“Women dominate every aspect of public life here,” Maekar said, glancing at Lyonel as they approached the gates. “They are soldiers, generals, judges, priestesses. A girl begins training with the spear and sword at the age of six and can join the ranks of the army by thirteen.”
Lyonel looked stunned. “What about the men?”
Maekar kept walking. “Nearly all men in these cities are ritually castrated before puberty.”
Lyonel stopped in his tracks. “What?!”
“You heard me,” Maekar replied without turning. “It’s true. They’re raised to be scholars, builders, servants, scribes, artisans, and caretakers.”
“But… how do they…” Lyonel stammered, face scrunched in disbelief.
“Ah, that.” Maekar smirked wryly. “You see, the three cities are ruled by the Great fathers—men claiming direct descent from Hyrkoon the Hero. Some of these ‘Great Fathers’ are selected in elaborate rites by high-ranking matriarchs who oversee all breeding decisions. A select few other men may be chosen to procreate, but only during Fertility Ceremonies governed by ancient law.”
Lyonel shook his head. “That’s not right.”
Melisandre, ever composed, nodded slowly. “Yes… it is strange. But stranger still is how these Patriarchs have held on to power.”
She paused. “There is a Temple of R’hllor in this city,” she added. “We should visit.”
“After the archives,” Maekar said, leading them toward the gate.
The gates of Shamyriana were vast and ancient, carved from reddish stone and flanked by towering statues of warrior women bearing spears. Beneath their watchful gaze, Maekar and his companions entered the city.
It rose in terraced levels, its streets paved with polished black stone that shimmered faintly in the light. Buildings of rose-gold sandstone stood tall with fluted columns and domed roofs of turquoise glaze. Murals decorated many of the walls, depicting scenes of triumphant warriors led by a man holding a flaming sword.
The people of the city seemed to hail from all over the world. The warrior women moved with commanding grace, some bearing marks of rank tattooed upon their arms and foreheads. The men—delicate-featured, soft-spoken, and nearly all hairless—wore robes of pale linen, exactly as the books from the Citadel had described.
Melisandre asked around for directions to the archives, and soon they arrived at its doors.
Maekar turned to them. “Right, let’s not do anything to offend these people and try to find a way inside the archives. I’m sure we’ll be granted entry to the Grand Archives in no time—if Lomas Longstrider was able to, then so can we.”
=====
They could not enter the archives.
Eight hours later, Maekar sat at a battered table alongside Melisandre, Leaf, and Lyonel—none of whom looked particularly victorious. Around them, the tavern pulsed with noise. A thick haze of spiced smoke drifted overhead. Travelers from all corners of the world filled the air with a dozen tongues—some from Yi Ti, others from Braavos and Pentos, and even a few Westerosi voices mingling with deeper, stranger dialects from the far eastern lands. One group caught Maekar’s attention: tall, pale-skinned people with silvery hair and eyes like cut amethysts.
“So that was a disaster,” Lyonel groaned, breaking Maekar’s train of thought. He nursed a bruised arm and looked thoroughly defeated.
Maekar narrowed his eyes. “Disaster? Lyonel, those women almost killed you.”
Lyonel winced. “I said I was sorry.”
“You can’t just storm into their sanctum and demand they ‘stand aside for the King of the Seven Kingdoms.’ That means nothing here,” Maekar snapped, though not without a trace of amusement.
“I am sorry, Your Grace,” Lyonel repeated, sulking into his drink.
Maekar shook his head and looked to the others. “Now what? We’ve insulted them, and we’re never entering that place again.”
Leaf, who’d been quietly observing, finally spoke. “Perhaps we can sneak inside. The earth always leaves a way, if you know where to look.”
Maekar considered it. “Let’s not push our luck.”
“I think we should do it,” said Lyonel, then flinched as Maekar glared at him.
Melisandre, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, stood smoothly from her seat. “That won’t be necessary,” she said, her voice calm and certain.
Maekar looked up. “You have a better idea?”
“I am going to the Temple of R’hllor,” Melisandre answered. “There is an evening prayer in a few hours…”
“Well, maybe R’hllor can guide us through it then,” Maekar said sarcastically.
“When I return, my king, I promise you will have the means to conquer this city without spilling a single drop of blood.”
Maekar blinked. “What?”
