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111: The Son of Ice and Fire, Year One pt.1
🕑 Added 2025-03-08 08:35:18 +0000 UTCOne week after Maekar’s Revelation
Garrick Swyft had been born the son of a minor branch of House Swyft, and worse still, he was the fifth son—practically a nobody. His father had sold most of their lands long before Garrick had even come of age, leaving them barely lords, barely noble. There had been nothing for him in the Westerlands—no inheritance, no great legacy to uphold—only the shame of a once-proud house brought low.
So, he left.
He took up the sword, becoming a hedge knight at first, and then, through grit and skill, he found service under a man he had come to admire—Stannis Baratheon.
Stannis had given him purpose.
For years, he fought by the side of a man he believed in, a man of iron will and unshakable conviction. He served him faithfully, fought in his battles, and followed him in his support for King Aegon. Stannis had even promised him lands of his own; it was the proudest moment of his life. He had secured a future for himself, something his four elder brothers had never managed. The shame of his family would be erased, and the Swyft name—however minor its branch—would rise again through his deeds.
But the happiness did not last.
Garrick’s mind drifted to that day: the battle that had shattered his dreams—the Battle of Fell Forest. He could still hear the clash of steel, the screams of men dying in mud and water, the deafening roar of fire as the dragon Neferion rained destruction upon them.
King Maekar Targaryen. The name alone filled Garrick with old hatred.
He had been there when Stannis fell, struck down alongside his son by that bastard king. Garrick had fought through the rivers, the water turning red with the blood of his brothers-in-arms. He remembered struggling against the current, his armor weighing him down as he tried to escape the slaughter. He had almost drowned. A friend, Ser Jory Wylde, had pulled him from the river—only for an arrow to find its mark in Jory’s throat the moment they reached the shore. Garrick had barely made it out alive.
When the battle ended, Stannis was dead. His son was dead. Storm’s End had fallen. The castle was now under the king’s rule through the puppet of sweet Lady Shireen. And the lands Garrick had been promised? Gone. Vanished with Lord Stannis.
For a year, he carried that hate, that burning resentment, whispering the same words that many in the Reach, the Stormlands, and the Riverlands still muttered in secret:
The Usurper. The bastard king. The man who remade Westeros.
But that had been a week ago.
A week since his entire world had been turned upside down.
The dead were coming.
The Others of legend—the pale demons from the stories his grandmother had told him as a child—were no longer just stories. He had seen them with his own eyes. Garrick shivered at the memory: the mindless wights, twisted and puppeted by some unnatural force, their dead eyes burning with an eerie blue glow.
King Maekar had proclaimed that the Long Night had come again.
And with it, a new Age of Heroes.
Garrick didn’t know what to believe anymore. Like many knights, he had spent the past week in a daze, wrestling with what he had seen. Some fell into despair, others into blind faith, and still more into denial.
There were those who believed the king’s warning, those who had seen the truth with their own eyes and now stood by him.
There were those who refused to accept it, clinging to the world as they had known it and dismissing all of this as madness.
And there were those who saw conspiracy in it, whispering that the king himself had orchestrated the spectacle to tighten his grip on power.
Garrick was not sure where he stood. His mind was still in shock, trapped between what he had always believed and what he had witnessed.
A sharp clank on the wooden table before him broke his thoughts. A wench had placed a tankard of beer in front of him, her eyes weary but kind. He muttered a thanks, though he wasn’t sure he would drink it.
The tavern was thick with tension, the air heavy with uncertainty. Men drank, but not with the usual revelry of King’s Landing. The normal loud, bawdy laughter was subdued, replaced by quiet mutters, hushed conversations, and the occasional argument.
“I tell you, my friends, it’s a trick,” a knight at a nearby table declared, his voice slurred but full of conviction. “Some Valyrian or savage Northman sorcery, all orchestrated by the king himself.”
“Why would he do that, you fool?” another snapped.
“To control us!” the first knight insisted, slamming his fist on the table. “He knows those loyal to the true king still live! He knows we would never bow to a bastard, so he conjures up this fear to keep us in line!”
“Bah,” another man laughed, shaking his head. “You’re a blind idiot. Have you not seen what the king has done for the realm? Look around you! The city thrives, trade flourishes, and fewer go hungry because of the grain dole. He’s the greatest king since the Old King himself!”
“Greatest?” another scoffed.
The argument grew louder, more heated—words turning sharp as men took sides.
Garrick tuned them out. Their voices faded into the background as his mind filled once again with images of the dead. The stories said the Long Night lasted a generation. No sun. Only darkness. Eternal cold and the dead.
How could they survive that?
Garrick pushed the thought away, but it lingered like a shadow in his mind. He stood abruptly from his seat, needing air, needing space.
“Oy, where are you going, Swyft?” a voice called behind him.
Garrick stopped and turned his head slightly. “I need a walk.”
He left before anyone else could question him, stepping out into the streets of King’s Landing. The city was changing—Maekar Targaryen had seen to that. Gone were the sprawling slums of Flea Bottom, replaced by construction sites that seemed to be growing new buildings by the day.
Tall structures of stone and timber loomed over the streets—insulae, the king’s magistrates called them. He had heard they were based on some Essosi design, a way to house many families in a single building instead of letting them rot in shacks and hovels.
Garrick wasn’t sure what to think of them.
The people went about their daily lives, oblivious to what lurked beyond the Wall, beyond their understanding. Oh, there were rumors—whispers of something that had been revealed in the Red Keep, of lords looking pale and afraid after a meeting with the king. But for now, the common folk did not know.
That was good.
Who knew what they would do if they did know? Riots? Anarchy?
The idea of a city tearing itself apart out of fear was not far-fetched.
Garrick felt lost.
Could the king truly lead them as he claimed he would?
Was this all truly happening, or were his friends right? Was this some grand trick by Maekar Targaryen, some ploy to cement his rule?
Garrick hoped it was a trick.
He hoped the king was deceiving them all, because that was better than the alternative.
It was then that he spotted a familiar figure walking ahead of him, moving through the city streets.
Garrick’s eyes widened in recognition. “Duncan!”
The man stopped, turning at the sound of his name. “Garrick,” Duncan said with a nod, waiting as Garrick caught up to him.
“Where are you going?” Garrick asked, falling into step beside his friend.
“To the Great Sept,” Duncan replied. “The High Septon has been giving sermons all day. People say he hasn’t left the altar since the king’s announcement.”
Garrick exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes… the gods,” he muttered. “They shall guide us.”
“Yes,” Duncan said, glancing at him. “Are you coming as well?”
Garrick hesitated, then nodded. “Aye. I think I will.”
If there was ever a time to seek the gods, it was now.
====
The Sept of Baelor was packed.
The massive doors stood wide open, yet the flow of people pouring inside never ceased. Nobles, knights, and those who knew of what the king had revealed had come to hear the High Septon’s sermon. The great hall of the Faith was a sea of bodies, voices hushed in reverence, the air thick with the scent of burning incense and candle wax.
Garrick craned his neck, trying to see through the dense crowd, but it was impossible. The sheer number of people made it difficult to move, let alone find a place where they could actually hear the sermon.
Duncan, beside him, smirked. “I know a way.”
Garrick glanced at him. “A way to what?”
“To hear,” Duncan said, motioning for Garrick to follow. “Come on.”
Garrick hesitated but ultimately trusted Duncan enough to follow. The man weaved through the crowd until they reached a small alcove on the left side of the sept, hidden behind a row of thick stone pillars.
There was an opening there.
Garrick stared. “What in the seven hells—”
“I grew up here in the Sept. I was even supposed to be a septon,” Duncan said with a grin. “I know some secrets.”
Without another word, Duncan slipped inside. Garrick followed, feeling the cool, damp air brush against his skin as he entered the passageway. The space was tight, barely wide enough for them to move, but after a few steps, it opened into a small chamber with an old wooden ladder.
Duncan gestured upward. “Come on.”
Garrick sighed and began to climb. The wood groaned under his weight, but it held. When he reached the top, he pulled himself onto a ledge and immediately realized where they were.
The upper levels of the sept.
From here, he could see everything.
The entire great hall stretched below them—massive pillars of marble, golden candelabras flickering with light, and at the very end, the Seven.
Seven towering statues, each a representation of the gods—the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger. They stood in their sacred places, watching over the gathered faithful.
To Garrick’s surprise, they were not alone up here. Other men and women had already claimed spots along the ledges, sitting or kneeling in silent reverence. Some were whispering prayers, others simply watching the hall below.
Duncan grinned and nudged Garrick’s shoulder. “Told you.”
They moved carefully along the ledge until they found a good spot with a clear view of the altar. As they sat, Garrick exhaled and turned to Duncan.
“How do you feel about all of this?”
Duncan didn’t answer immediately. He was staring down at the gathered lords and knights, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke.
“His Grace has been working tirelessly,” Duncan said. “I believe in him, Swyft. I believe he can save us from this.” He turned to Garrick, eyes burning with conviction. “We will all be heroes, like he says. The second Age of Heroes.”
Garrick simply nodded, unable to find the words.
Then, a hush fell over the great hall.
The High Septon took his place at the altar, and the sermon began.
“Brothers and sisters in the Faith, we live in extraordinary times,” he began, spreading his arms as if to embrace the entire hall. “The world as we know it stands upon the edge of a knife. A darkness long thought defeated rises once more. The old tales speak of it, and the old fears return. The Long Night approaches.”
A murmur swept through the hall—uneasy, uncertain.
“But we must not despair,” the High Septon continued. “For though the night is coming, we know its name. The great enemy of mankind, the Lord of Darkness, the Soul of Ice, the God of Night and Terror. He who brings only death, who would see the world frozen in his grasp—the Great Other.”
Garrick felt his breath catch. His fingers clenched into fists as the words wrapped around him, holding him in place. He listened, transfixed.
“But fear not!” the High Septon cried. “For as darkness rises, so too does the light. The gods have not forsaken us! The gods have shown me a vision.”
A ripple of awe spread through the crowd.
“The gods have declared a holy war against this Great Other, against his armies of the dead, against the Others who come to steal the warmth from our world!” His voice rose, full of fervor. “The Seven have made an alliance with the other gods of this world to stand together against this abomination, against this eternal evil! And they have chosen a champion!”
The High Septon extended a hand, fingers trembling with divine conviction.
“Our glorious and holy King—King Maekar Targaryen.”
The hall erupted in gasps and cries of astonishment.
“He is the son of ice and fire,” the High Septon proclaimed. “Born of two ancient bloodlines, prophesied long ago by the First Men, the Valyrians, and even the oldest of the Andals! He alone stands between mankind and oblivion, and through his rule, we will find salvation!”
The chamber shook with voices, lords and knights muttering to one another.
Garrick’s chest rose and fell, his heart pounding. He could feel it—something deep inside him that recognized the truth of these words.
“The gods themselves have chosen him!” the High Septon’s voice rang through the hall like a clarion call. “And so we must follow him, obey him, serve him as we would serve the gods themselves! To do otherwise is to betray mankind—to betray our own survival!”
He raised his hands to the heavens, his voice soaring.
“All hail King Maekar!”
A single voice rose from the crowd. Then another. And another.
“All hail King Maekar!”
More and more voices joined, swelling into a chant that filled every crevice of the grand sept.
“All hail King Maekar!”
Garrick did not even realize he was speaking until he heard his own voice, strong and unwavering, joining the countless others.
“All hail the Champion of the Gods!”
And as he shouted, as he felt the sheer power of that moment, he realized something. All his doubts, all his fears…they were gone.
For the first time since that fateful day at Fell Forest—since he had watched Stannis Baratheon die, since he had lost everything—Garrick Swyft felt whole again.
He had a purpose. He now knew the truth about their king.
He had a true leader—a king—to follow.
And he would follow him to the end.
Comments
TyrantGod
He is becoming the Paul Atreides of Westeros!
mlungisi mguni
Propaganda go brrrrrrrrrr
