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The Son of Ice and Fire, Lost in Time Pt.13
🕑 Added 2025-02-21 19:46:26 +0000 UTCMultipe POV's in chapter
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Otto put down the letter from his daughter, frustration boiling over him.
It had been six years since he had been removed from his position as Hand of the King—and for what?
For speaking the truth? For urging Viserys to do what was right? To name his trueborn son—his grandson, Aegon—as heir instead of continuing with the foolish proclamation that Rhaenyra would inherit the Iron Throne? To follow the laws of the realm, as they had been followed for millennia?
But no.
Our weak, pathetic King refused. Instead of listening to reason, he had stolen his own son’s birthright, clinging to his sentimental, reckless decision. And Otto, after years of loyal service, had been discarded, sent back to Oldtown in shame.
His hand tightened into a fist, the veins in his wrist pulsing with anger.
“Otto,” came a voice from behind him.
He turned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he saw his brother, Lord Hobert Hightower, walking toward him.
His elder brother strode across the chamber, his long grey-green robes flowing behind him, his expression unreadable.
“A letter from our Queen?” Hobert asked, his tone light, but Otto knew him well enough to sense the deeper curiosity beneath his words.
Otto exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping the parchment. “Yes, from Alicent. She sends her wishes.”
Hobert gave a slow nod, stepping farther into the room. “And how are the children?”
“Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond are well,” Otto answered, though his voice was distant. His mind was still fixed on the injustice done—to his grandson, to him, to his family.
Hobert’s lips pressed into a thin line before he nodded. “Good. Good.”
The Lord of Oldtown walked over, settling himself gracefully into the chair across from Otto. A heavy silence lingered between them for a moment.
“This Dragonlord, brother,” Otto said, breaking the silence, his voice tight with unease. “He troubles me.”
Hobert, seated comfortably across from him, gave a knowing nod. “Of course he should,” he said. His tone was measured, but there was an edge of concern beneath it. “The man has turned the East upside down, and now he has arrived in the west—in our realm.”
Otto exhaled sharply, his frustration deepening. “The rumors we heard have been proven true. The Dragonlord claims to be from Old Valyria, sent forward in time.”
At that, Hobert let out a short laugh, shaking his head in amusement. “And I assume our good King believes him?”
Otto gave his brother a flat look. “What do you think?”
Hobert smirked but leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepling in thought. “Well, brother, the man does have a dragon—some say it is larger than the Black Dread himself.”
Otto’s expression remained grim as Hobert continued, “And he did carve out a vast empire in Essos in just six years, no less. That is not the work of an ordinary man.”
“He is a charlatan,” Otto countered, his voice firm. “And according to Alicent, he has the court and the King enthralled.”
Hobert exhaled through his nose, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “Believe what you will, brother,” he said. “But he is a man with the largest dragon in the world and a sizable realm behind him. Whether or not he is truly from Old Valyria matters little—the power he wields is real.”
Otto’s jaw tightened. “Damn Valyrians,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Let us hope no more come crawling out from the Seven Hells.”
Hobert chuckled, but Otto did not share in his amusement. He remained serious, the weight of his thoughts settling heavily upon him.
This Belaerys was dangerous. Otto Hightower did not like unknowns.
Hobert’s laughter faded. His eyes narrowed as he studied his brother’s tense expression. “What is it?” he asked, his tone shifting to something more serious. “What else does Alicent write?”
Otto exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the parchment as if he wished to crush it in his grasp. “He is to marry the Sea Snake’s daughter,” Otto said, his voice clipped with frustration.
Hobert’s eyes widened in shock. He stiffened, staring at his brother as if he had misheard. “What?” he breathed, almost disbelieving.
Otto slammed the letter onto the table, his nostrils flaring. “You heard me. He is to marry Corlys Velaryon’s daughter. And as if that were not enough, the King plans to betroth Corlys’s son to the Princess.”
Hobert remained wide-eyed, his mind racing to process the implications. He sat in silence for a long moment, staring at nothing as he mulled over the sudden and dangerous shift in power. Finally, he exhaled, his voice lower, troubled. “That… is troubling news.”
“Troubling?” Otto almost shouted, rising abruptly from his seat. “Our cause is dead!”
Hobert did not speak.
Otto paced furiously, his long robes billowing with each heavy step. “Do you not see? With Belaerys bound to the Velaryons, our influence is all but gone. The power of House Velaryon will now be greater than ever before! And you call this ‘troubling’?”
Hobert finally leaned forward, folding his hands, his expression unreadable. “We need to tread carefully, Otto.”
“We need to do something!” Otto snapped. “We cannot just sit here and let this happen!”
Hobert inhaled deeply, nodding slowly. “For now, our only hope is that the Dragonlord is too occupied in his conquests in Essos.”
Otto clenched his jaw.
“We still have time, Otto,” Hobert continued, his voice level, calculated. “Anything can happen. Anything.”
Otto narrowed his eyes, watching his brother carefully. He certainly hoped so.
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Roger Reyne was the fourth son of Tyblot Reyne, and ever since he had reached his majority, one thought consumed him:
What was his future?
His eldest brother would inherit Castamere, their family’s ancestral seat. The second would receive lands of his own, and the third—well, there would be a place for him, too, in some capacity.
But Roger?
As the fourth son, he was the last.
His father could grant him a small holding, something insignificant yet enough to keep him from being landless. Still, Roger had no interest in living in the shadow of his brothers, ruling some meager estate in the Westerlands.
He was already a knight—young but well-trained. He could travel the realm, become a wandering knight, earn renown through tourneys and battle, and live a life of honor and adventure.
It was a noble path—but it was not enough.
Roger wanted more. Craved more.
And now, he had found it.
Two moons ago, he arrived in King’s Landing alongside his family for the great tourney held in honor of the Dragonlord from the East—the mysterious Maekar Belaerys, the man who had carved out a vast empire in Essos in the span of just six years.
And it was this same Dragonlord who had given him a new path.
A proclamation had been sent across Westeros, calling for knights, second and third sons, and men of noble birth.
Maekar Belaerys had conquered lands freed from the savage Dothraki hordes—uninhabited and untouched, waiting to be settled and ruled.
And he needed lords to rule them.
Land. Power. A chance at something greater than being the forgotten son of Castamere.
The offer was simple: those who pledged themselves would receive a parcel of land, a place to rule, and command over settlers who would establish new towns and villages.
It was a foreign realm, ruled by foreign customs, but the reward was too great to ignore.
And Roger would not decline.
“So, you have decided to accept the Dragonlord’s offer?” his father’s words broke him out of his thoughts.
Lord Tyblot Reyne leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes fixed on his son. His voice carried neither disapproval nor enthusiasm—just a quiet acknowledgment of Roger’s choice.
Roger nodded, his jaw set with determination. “Yes, Father. I feel it is the best path for me.”
Tyblot nodded slowly, his lips curling into something close to approval. “I thought you would. It is a bold choice.”
Then, to Roger’s surprise, his father continued, “I had a private meeting with the Dragonlord as well.”
Roger blinked, taken aback. “You did?”
What business did his father have with the Dragonlord?
“Why?” Roger asked, unable to hide his curiosity.
Tyblot exhaled, steepling his fingers as he leaned forward. “I was surprised as well when I received a summons from him. He had a proposition for me.”
Roger listened intently as his father continued, “The Dragonlord wishes for House Reyne to be his trade partner in the Sunset Sea.”
Roger’s brow furrowed. “Trade? In the Sunset Sea? With the North?”
Tyblot nodded, his expression turning pleased. “Yes. He plans an extensive trade relationship with the North, and he wants us to be the primary facilitators.”
Roger could barely believe what he was hearing.
“Why us?” he asked, his mind racing. “Why Castamere, when Lannisport is right there?”
His father let out a short chuckle, the sound filled with satisfaction. “Because the Dragonlord is not a fool, my son. He knows the Lannisters would try to demand favors and dictate terms. But we? We are ambitious, yes, but we do not hold a kingdom in our hands. We are free to grow alongside him. And in return, we will gain access to wealth beyond measure.”
Wealth beyond measure.
The words made Roger’s head spin.
“The amount of riches we will make, my son,” Tyblot continued, “will surpass even the greatest mines of the Westerlands.”
Roger’s mind raced at the implications. But then, a thought struck him.
“But the Lannisters… they will be furious.”
Tyblot’s eyes gleamed, his smirk full of satisfaction. “Let the Golden Lion complain. They cannot do anything. This is my right as Lord of Castamere.”
Roger exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. “This changes everything.”
Tyblot nodded, but then his expression turned even more serious. “There is more.”
Roger stiffened. “More?”
His father smiled again. “Because of my acceptance of this arrangement, the Dragonlord has granted you the largest parcel of land in his new territories. Not only that, but you will manage a mine as well—one of great value.”
Roger’s breath caught. He had hoped for a decent holding, a small lordship, but this?
His life was truly changing.
Then, his father’s next words hit him like a blow.
“Oh, and you will have to marry a Tolosi noblewoman.”
Roger’s eyes widened. “What?!”
Tyblot chuckled at his reaction. “It is part of the arrangement. The Dragonlord wishes for strong noble families to rule his new lands. I am sure she will be a beautiful Valyrian lady.”
Roger opened his mouth, but no words came out.
A wife? A foreign wife?
It was not a bad thing.
Not at all.
He had come to King’s Landing as the fourth son of Castamere, a man with few prospects. Now, he would leave as a Lord, a ruler soon to be married… and a man on the path to greatness.
His life had taken a turn for the absolute best.
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“They will be here in a day, my king,” said a kneeling knight in the service of Daemon Targaryen.
Daemon lounged on his makeshift throne, his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His fingers absentmindedly squeezed Mysaria’s tits, his paramour perched comfortably on his lap.
“They are early,” Daemon mused, his smile widening.
Mysaria leaned in, pressing a kiss against his cheek, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Soon, Dorne will kneel before you, my love.”
Daemon chuckled darkly at the thought. Yes, soon the Dornish lords would bow. Perhaps he would take a Martell princess for himself, much like he had Mysaria. It was said the Prince’s daughter was a great beauty.
Daemon lifted his goblet high.
“Hail to my friend, Emperor and Dragonlord Maekar Belaerys!”
His men cheered and banged their cups against the tables, toasting the Dragonlord.
Mysaria trailed kisses along Daemon’s jaw, her voice sultry as she murmured, “And what of the Disputed Lands, my king? Will you claim them as well?”
Daemon smirked, taking another long sip of wine. “Why not?” he said arrogantly, his confidence radiating through the hall.
“Then it will be a proper kingdom.”
Mysaria chuckled, her nails tracing along his chest. “Will your new friend allow it?”
Daemon shrugged, standing abruptly and lifting Mysaria off his lap as he did.
“He has a great empire already. A little bit of land will not concern him.”
He turned to the gathered warriors in the hall—men who had followed him through war and who would fight for him now. The men Maekar had sent had strengthened his army considerably.
“With the soldiers my friend, the Dragonlord, has provided,” Daemon announced, “we will begin our conquest. Soon, the desert dogs will bow before us.”
A roar of approval echoed through the hall. Swords were raised, cups clashed, and the men cheered for their king.
Daemon smirked, his blood pounding with excitement. “For now, drink and celebrate,” he commanded. “For in three moons, we go to war!”
The men cheered even louder, the cry ringing through the halls.
“King Daemon of Dorne!”
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The bath chamber was opulent, filled with the scent of exotic oils and the soft glow of flickering candles. The centerpiece of the room was a magnificent bronze tub, its surface adorned with intricate Valyrian sigils.
Seara Targaryen, a true Valyrian beauty, reclined in the tub, her silver hair wet and clinging to her porcelain skin. Her violet eyes were half-lidded in relaxation as she luxuriated in the warmth of the bath. Age had only enhanced her allure. Her large breasts, still firm and supple, rose and fell gently with each breath.
Two attendants, both naked and equally beautiful, stood by the tub. Their hands moved with practiced grace as they tended to Seara, pouring scented oils into the water and gently massaging her shoulders. Seara's hands drifted to her breasts, squeezing them gently. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she reveled in the sensation.
The attendants helped her to stand, water cascading down her body in rivulets. They wrapped her in a soft, plush towel, drying her carefully before helping her into a silk robe.
Seara stepped out of the bath and walked into her chambers, the silk of her robe clinging to her damp skin, accentuating every curve of her body—especially her voluptuous ass. The chamber was a sanctuary of luxury, adorned with rich tapestries and plush furnishings.
Sinking into a chaise, she closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment of pure indulgence. The stresses of the day melted away in the comfort of her private sanctuary.
“My princess.”
A voice broke through the silence, dragging her out of her thoughts.
Seara opened her eyes, annoyance visible in them, her delicate brows furrowing as she turned toward the servant who had spoken.
“What?” she asked testily, stretching lazily against the silk cushions.
“Lord Xharys is here, my princess.”
Seara sighed, rubbing her temples. “I had forgotten about that.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Bring him to my solar. I will meet him there.”
The servant bowed quickly and hurried away to carry out her orders.
Seara stretched once more before motioning for her attendants to help her dress.
She chose a revealing gown—something befitting her station—combining the opulence of Volantis with the sensuality of Meereenese fashion. The fabric was sheer, dyed in deep crimson and black, clinging to her curves in a way that left little to the imagination. Gold embroidery traced across her gown in the shape of serpentine dragons, twisting around her chest and waist, accentuating her figure.
Her long, silver-gold hair was adorned with jewels, cascading down her bare back in flowing waves. Her deep violet eyes smoldered as she caught her own reflection in the mirror.
“Xharys,” she muttered under her breath as she fastened her golden bracelets.
He was a leading member of the Cult of the Eternal Dragon—once a fringe sect among the Volantene nobility, but one that had grown significantly in recent years.
They were fanatics.
The Cult of Meraxes, or the Cult of the Eternal Dragon, was a mystical sect devoted to the old Valyrian pantheon, worshipping Meraxes, the Dragon-God of Time and Fate. They clung to their prophecy—a prophecy that spoke of the return of the Dragonlord, one who would lead the faithful back to Valyria to rebuild its glory.
Seara had once laughed at them. Six years ago, she would have mocked their foolish beliefs. But then, something happened.
He appeared.
Dragonlord Maekar Belaerys—a dragonlord of Old Valyria, a man who had stepped forward through time, they claimed. A man who had conquered Slaver’s Bay, destroyed the Dothraki, and now threatened Volantis itself. How could the Cult not believe? To them, Maekar Belaerys was the avatar of Meraxes, the living god foretold in their prophecy.
And now, Xharys—one of the Cult’s most powerful members—had come to speak with her.
Seara walked gracefully through the corridors of her mansion, her gown flowing around her. Servants and guards bowed their heads as she passed, none daring to meet her piercing gaze. By the time she reached her solar, she found Xharys already waiting.
The man was fat, his robes of deep violet barely concealing his massive girth. Yet despite his size, he carried himself with the confidence of a man who believed himself untouchable. His Valyrian coloring—the pale silver hair and violet eyes—marked him as one of old blood.
As she entered, he turned, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the sight of her.
Good.
Seara smirked, stepping farther into the room, her hips swaying with every movement.
“Lord Xharys,” she purred, taking her seat across from him. “You look well.”
The fat man licked his lips, his bejeweled fingers tapping against his golden rings.
“And you, Princess,” he murmured, “most beautiful of us all… a goddess in mortal form.”
She leaned forward slightly, her gown falling just enough to reveal more than was proper, her eyes locked onto his.
“Tell me, Lord Xharys,” she said, her voice silken, “why have you come?”
“You know why, Princess. You must believe now,” Xharys declared, his voice trembling with fervor. “His coming is undeniable. Maekar Belaerys is the Avatar of the Eternal Dragon.”
Seara smirked. “Oh yes,” she murmured, “a very impressive man indeed.”
Xharys leaned forward, his violet eyes gleaming with anticipation.
“Then you will join us, Princess?”
Seara didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she sauntered toward a nearby seat. She sank into it with a slow, deliberate motion, her fingers idly tracing the golden embroidery along the armrest.
“Why now, I wonder, my lord?” she mused, her gaze fixed on him. “Is it because of the Dragonlord’s visit to my family in Westeros?”
Xharys’s eyes widened, his fingers twitching nervously.
“No, no!” he stammered, his confidence wavering for a moment. “You are a Targaryen—a pureblood, the purest of us all.”
Seara waved a hand dismissively, cutting off his frantic explanation.
“No need to explain, my lord,” she said smoothly. “I will join you. I suspect this Dragonlord of yours will soon rule us all.”
Xharys exhaled sharply, relief and triumph flashing across his face.
“A fine decision, my princess,” he said with a deep bow, his hands clasped together.
Seara’s grin widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes.
“We can meet again later, my lord,” she purred, “for I am a busy woman.”
Xharys nodded eagerly, his enthusiasm almost pathetic.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he agreed hurriedly. “There is a grand gathering next week. We have heard that the great Belaerys’s armies have taken Mantarys.”
Seara’s brows lifted slightly, though her surprise was well hidden.
Already? she thought, her mind racing.
Belaerys was moving fast—faster than even she had expected.
She offered Xharys a knowing smile, tilting her head just enough to make him squirm beneath her gaze.
“I will be sure to attend,” she promised.
Xharys bowed low, his robes brushing against the marble floor before he turned and left the chamber.
The moment the doors closed, Seara leaned back into the chair, exhaling slowly. Her mind drifted, as it had many times before, to Dragonlord Belaerys. She bit her lower lip, her fingers trailing idly along the exposed skin of her thigh.
he had never had an Emperor before.
Hells, a Dragonlord from Old Valyria?
The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
She knew she was still desirable—her beauty had only deepened with time, like a fine wine aging to perfection. Her violet eyes, her silver hair, the fullness of her figure—she was a vision of allure, one that few men could resist.
And Belaerys would be no exception.
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So Maekar x MILF Seara.
Comments
Odysseus
nice
