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67: The Son of Ice and Fire, Under the Shadow of a Dragon pt.1
🕑 Added 2024-09-15 07:30:05 +0000 UTCMaekar
Dragonstone
Maekar walked through the shadowed corridors of Dragonstone, the stone walls cold and silent around him. The sound of his boots echoed softly as he made his way to Daenerys' chambers.
As he reached the entrance, he paused, catching sight of her sitting with her handmaidens.
Daenerys sat gracefully by the large window, her silver hair cascading down her back, illuminated by the soft glow of the setting sun. Her handmaidens—Valaena, Naerys, and Alysanne—busied themselves with quiet tasks, but their presence did little to mask the worried expression on Daenerys' face. She glanced toward the doorway and noticed him standing there, a smile creeping onto her lips despite her clear concern.
"Leave us," Daenerys said softly to her handmaidens, who quickly curtsied and exited the room, casting curious glances at Maekar as they passed.
Maekar stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He crossed the room with calm, measured steps.
"Why leave early?" she asked, her voice holding a tinge of frustration as he approached. "Why not leave with your men?"
"I don't need them to burn pirates," Maekar replied. "They’re coming for another matter entirely."
Daenerys didn’t press for more details, though curiosity flickered in her violet eyes. Instead, she shifted her concern to something else. "Why do you have to leave at all?" she asked, her voice quieter now, almost pleading.
"I told you before, Dany," Maekar said, gently taking her hand. "This is the best way to deal with the pirates. And I need to get used to flying the dragon."
Daenerys' face tightened with worry, and she immediately started rattling off worst-case scenarios. "What if you get hit by an arrow? What if they have scorpions? What if—"
Maekar cut her off, pulling her into a tight embrace, his strong arms wrapping around her as he pressed his cheek against her silver hair. "Nothing will happen to me, Dany."
She remained silent, her breath soft against his chest as she hugged him back, her grip firm, as though afraid to let go.
Maekar gently broke the embrace, looking down at Daenerys with a serious yet soft expression. "I need you to do something important for me, Dany."
Daenerys blinked up at him, her brow furrowing with concern. "What is it?" she asked, her voice unsure but ready to listen.
Maekar took a breath before explaining. "In two weeks, some lords from the Stormlands, Crownlands, and Blackwater Bay will be arriving here. I’ve spent over a year swaying them to my side, convincing them to support my cause. But I need more than just my words to seal their loyalty."
"I need you to deal with them until I return."
Daenerys’ gaze searched his, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. "Me?" she asked, biting her lip, uncertainty filling her voice. "I don’t know if I can do that, Maekar."
He smiled, gently lifting her chin to meet his gaze. "Dany, you’re stronger than you think. One day, you will be my queen, and you’ll have to show them that side of you. They need to see the woman who will stand beside me."
Daenerys’ face softened, her heart swelling at his words. "Your queen?" she whispered, happiness blooming within her. His belief in her gave her confidence she didn’t know she possessed. She could see it now—standing beside him, ruling.
"Yes," Maekar said firmly. "My queen."
Her smile grew, bright and full of warmth. "I’ll do it," she said, her voice steadier now, filled with confidence.
"Good." Maekar nodded. "I’ll be back in three weeks, and I plan to make a grand entrance before the lords with my dragon."
Daenerys’ smile turned playful, and she raised an eyebrow. "Are you still just calling it 'the dragon'?" she teased lightly.
Maekar chuckled. "I’ve finally decided on a name," he admitted, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Melisandre suggested it, and I liked it."
"Well?" Daenerys asked curiously, stepping closer. "What is it?"
"Neferion," Maekar said, rolling the name off his tongue. "Apparently, it’s another name for her lord’s champion, Azor Ahai."
Daenerys tilted her head, considering the name. "Neferion… it does sound like a name fit for a dragon." She smiled again, her eyes twinkling. "And for your dragon."
Maekar’s grin widened. "I think it's perfect for the Cannibal," he said, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. "He has quite a… nefarious reputation, after all."
=====
Maekar left Daenerys and made his way to his chambers. When he entered, Lyonel was already there, waiting for him.
"Your Grace," Lyonel greeted with a respectful nod, stepping forward as Maekar shrugged off his cloak.
"Lyonel, help me with my armor," Maekar ordered.
He stood still as Lyonel moved swiftly, helping him into his Valyrian steel armor, piece by piece. The dark, shimmering metal gleamed faintly in the low light. Lyonel’s hands moved with practiced ease, fastening each clasp and buckle until the armor was secure around his body.
Once his armor was fitted, Maekar walked over to the large wooden desk in the corner of the room. A map of the Stepstones lay spread out across its surface, with ink markings noting key points of interest—pirate strongholds, known hideouts, and naval routes. He studied it closely, his finger tracing a route down the coast before stopping at a point 30 leagues outside of Myr.
"Make sure the men are prepared on the Lady Lyanna as soon as they arrive from King’s Landing," Maekar instructed.
Lyonel, ever attentive, listened intently but couldn’t hide his growing concern. "Your Grace, let me come with you. I can—"
"No, Lyonel," Maekar interrupted, turning to face him. "I need you here with Daenerys. I only need my Varangians."
Lyonel’s brow furrowed with worry. "But why, Your Grace? If it’s only the pirates, surely you and the dragon are more than enough?"
Maekar exhaled deeply. He looked Lyonel square in the eyes, his voice steady but with a hint of foreboding. "I intend to wipe out the Golden Company Lyonel."
Lyonel’s eyes widened in shock. "The Golden Company?" he repeated, barely concealing his disbelief. "But why...?"
"You'll understand when I return," Maekar said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Lyonel, ever loyal and unwavering, bowed his head in acceptance. "As you command, Your Grace."
With his armor fully fitted, Maekar took his warhammer from Lyonel and walked out of the chamber.
=====
Maekar, Daenerys, and Lyonel made their way toward the caves once more. He had ordered the smallfolk to stay far from this area, as keeping Neferion a secret was crucial. He knew that even if rumors began to spread, he could dismiss them as mere superstitious talk from the people of the island, but he preferred to keep it all under wraps for as long as possible.
As they walked, Maekar could feel the presence of Neferion, a deep connection unlike any other in his family’s long history of dragonriders. He could command him with his mind—something he did not think his ancestors could do. It was a bond reminiscent of the one he shared with Ghost, who walked protectively beside Daenerys.
Neferion was already waiting for them outside the cave, his massive body casting a shadow over the rocky entrance. His black scales gleamed like polished obsidian. The dragon's wings were folded tightly against his body, but his tail flicked impatiently, scraping against the stone floor as they approached.
Maekar stepped forward and placed a hand on Neferion’s snout, feeling the familiar heat emanating from the dragon. "Ready to go?" he asked softly, running his hand along the dark, smooth scales. Daenerys, standing beside him, reached up to pet Neferion as well. Lyonel, however, stayed a few paces back; he was still afraid of the dragon.
Neferion lowered his head, his nostrils flaring as he huffed a small breath toward Ghost, as if challenging the direwolf. Ghost stood his ground, his red eyes unblinking, his fur bristling slightly but otherwise remaining calm.
"Neferion, behave," Daenerys scolded, her tone playful but firm. The dragon let out a low, rumbling growl in response but obeyed, backing off slightly.
Maekar's eyes shifted to the saddle already secured on Neferion’s back. It had been quite a struggle to put it on the dragon the previous day. It was no easy feat—Neferion was not the most patient of creatures, and the process had been taxing. "I’ll need dragonkeepers in the future," he muttered to himself.
Turning to Daenerys, Maekar smiled. "Dany," he began, his voice soft but resolute, "I’ll be back soon. Three weeks, and I’ll return in a spectacle no one will forget."
Daenerys nodded, her eyes filled with worry. "I’ll hold you to that," she replied as she stood on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the lips.
Maekar then crouched down beside Ghost, stroking the wolf’s thick fur. "Look after her for me," he whispered. Ghost whined softly, as if in response, before stepping back to stand beside Daenerys.
Maekar put on his helm, and with his warhammer fastened on his back, he climbed on top of Neferion.
Once he was seated atop Neferion, he took a moment to survey the view from his elevated position. The waves crashed against the cliffs, and the sea beyond shimmered under the golden hues of the setting sun. The horizon stretched endlessly, the colors of the sky bleeding from orange to pink, then fading into a deep purple.
He glanced down at Daenerys, who had moved to stand beside Lyonel.
“Alright let's do this” he muttered holding on to the reins.
With one last nod, Maekar mentally commanded Neferion to take flight through their bond. The dragon responded instantly, unfurling his massive wings with a powerful whoosh.
The ground beneath trembled as Neferion leaped into the air, the force of his takeoff sending dust and pebbles scattering. Maekar felt the rush of wind against his face as the dragon’s wings beat rhythmically, carrying them higher and higher into the sky. Below, the island of Dragonstone shrank rapidly, the sea now far below them.
.
.
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Warrick ‘The Weasel’ Seawind
Bloodstone
The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a blood-red hue over the waters as The Sea Weasel sliced through the waves, approaching the infamous island of Bloodstone. The jagged cliffs of the island loomed ahead, their dark, foreboding shapes standing out against the orange glow of the setting sun.
Captain Warrick Seawind stood on the deck of his sloop, eyes narrowed, taking in the familiar sight of Crimson Hold, Red Orys's fortress, perched high on the cliffs like a vulture waiting for its prey.
It had been used by many pirate lords in the past, each giving it a different name.
"Bring her in nice and easy!" Warrick called to his crew as they steered The Sea Weasel toward the docks below Crimson Hold. The small warship maneuvered deftly, slipping past the larger ships already anchored in Reaver’s Bay.
The docks were bustling with activity as always. Pirates of all kinds shouted orders, drank heavily, and brawled, their laughter and curses filling the air. Red Orys’s flagship, The Bloody Wyrm, sat at the heart of the harbor—a massive war galley with iron plating and blood-red sails.
Around it floated a fleet of ships, from Lysene galleys to Stormlander warships, all looted from various victims over the years. The bay was thick with the smell of salt, tar, and smoke from the forges where ships were constantly being repaired or modified for the next raid.
Warrick surveyed the ships. Most of Red Orys's fleet was here, their crews preparing for the assault Orys had been planning for months. The Black Baron, another pirate lord in the Stepstones, had been muscling in on Red Orys's territory, and now Orys planned to take back a few key islands in a brutal show of force. It was going to be a bloody affair, and Warrick had no intention of being anywhere near the front lines. He was a survivor, not a hero.
The Sea Weasel pulled up alongside a free dock, and Warrick hopped off, his boots thudding softly on the wooden planks. He was greeted with a cacophony of sounds—the roar of the waves crashing against the rocks, the rowdy laughter of drunken pirates, and the shrill cries of whores offering their services.
Reaver’s Bay was a chaotic place, to say the least. The town nestled at the foot of the cliffs below Crimson Hold was a festering pit of vice and debauchery, the perfect haven for pirates. Shabby taverns lined the docks, their signs swinging in the breeze, adorned with crude images of naked women or skulls. The streets were thick with sailors, mercenaries, and traders, all mingling in a swirling mass of lawlessness. The air was thick with the smell of piss, cheap wine, and the sharp tang of saltwater. Everywhere he looked, pirates were celebrating their ill-gotten gains. They drank, gambled, and fought in the narrow streets, while whores draped themselves over the shoulders of men who had been at sea for far too long.
Warrick navigated the streets like a man who knew exactly where to step. A few pirates nodded to him in passing, and he returned the favor with a sly grin. His reputation as a slippery bastard had earned him respect—or at least enough fear to keep most from crossing him. As he made his way through the throngs of rowdy pirates, he passed one of the larger taverns, where a group of men were singing a bawdy sea shanty at the top of their lungs, their tankards sloshing ale onto the ground. Further along, a pair of drunk sailors were being dragged out of a brothel by two women who looked more dangerous than any pirate Warrick had ever faced.
"Orys has them well-fed and entertained," he muttered under his breath, smirking as he spotted a couple of his own crew already disappearing into a nearby tavern.
As Warrick walked toward the Crimson Hold, he was greeted by the sight of Red Orys himself striding out of a tavern. Orys’s fiery red hair was wild and unkempt, and his piercing blue eyes seemed to glow in the dim light. His armor, pieced together from the loot of a dozen different battles, clinked softly with each step.
Orys spotted Warrick and called out with a rough, gravelly voice, “Well, if it isn't the Weasel! Come, join me. I hear you've brought quite the haul this time!”
Warrick grinned as he approached. "Aye, we got lucky. A Braavosi merchant ship, fat with cargo. Gold, silver—"
Orys let out a hearty laugh. “Now that’s the kind of news I like to hear! You’ve done well, Weasel. The lads have been talking about that Braavosi haul for days now.”
Warrick’s grin widened as he nodded. "Fortune favors the bold, as they say. And we’ve had a good run these past months."
“Indeed,” Orys agreed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come, I’ll treat you to some of the finest wine!" Orys motioned toward the Crimson Hold, leading the way.
But before they could move, a panicked voice pierced the air.
"Lord Orys!" a man screamed, running toward them, his eyes wide with terror. "Something’s coming from the sky!"
The music from the tavern stopped abruptly, and all eyes turned skyward.
Above the clear skies were darkening, and a massive shadow loomed overhead, blocking out the fading light of the setting sun. Warrick’s heart pounded as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. And then, with a wave of dread, he realized what it was—a dragon.
Its enormous wings beat the air, sending gusts of wind howling across the bay. Fire glinted in its eyes, and its black scales gleamed like polished steel. The beast was colossal, its shadow stretching across the entire island.
A collective gasp echoed from the docks, followed by panicked shouts.
“Dragon! It’s a dragon!”
Warrick stood frozen in place, his heart hammering in his chest, as the dragon descended from the sky. Its massive wings stretched wide, like the sails of a hundred ships. The wind from the creature's wings whipped through the docks, sending men tumbling to the ground. The dragon's roar tore through the air, a deafening sound that shook the very earth beneath Warrick's feet.
For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The sight before him was too overwhelming. Flames erupted from the dragon's mouth in a blinding flash of orange and green, engulfing the ships in the harbor. The ships burned like dry tinder as the fire consumed them with terrifying speed.
Warrick's mouth went dry. He watched in horror as The Sea Weasel, his pride and joy, was bathed in fire. The sails burst into flames in seconds, the rigging snapping like dried vines as the inferno spread. The men on the docks screamed in terror, throwing themselves into the water in a desperate attempt to escape the hellish blaze.
"Warrick!" Red Orys’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. "Run! Move your arse before you burn with the ships!"
Warrick snapped out of his stupor, his body jerking into motion. His legs felt weak beneath him, but he forced himself to move. He turned and ran as the heat from the dragon's fire seared his skin. His heart raced as he glanced over his shoulder. The massive dragon still loomed above, swooping low over the town, and in that brief, terrible moment, Warrick saw the rider.
A man in black armor, dark and menacing, sat atop the beast. His armor glinted like obsidian in the dying light, and he wore a helm shaped like a wolf.
The dragon turned its fiery breath on the town now. The streets were ablaze, the flames leaping from building to building as wooden structures collapsed under the heat. The cries of men, women, and children filled the air, their screams mingling with the roar of the dragon. Warrick could hear them as he ran, their desperate wails echoing in his mind. The acrid stench of burning flesh and wood filled his nostrils, the smoke stinging his eyes.
He turned his head again, unable to stop himself from looking. The dragon hovered above, it's great wings beating against the air as it unleashed another torrent of fire. Pirates ran in all directions—some toward the docks into the water, others toward the jungle—but it didn’t matter. The fire consumed everything in its path.
Warrick ran, fleeing toward the edge of the jungle, his legs screaming in protest with every step. He finally reached the relative safety of the trees, the cool shade of the jungle offering brief respite from the inferno. His chest heaved as he stumbled forward, his body trembling with fear and exhaustion. He could still hear the screams, still see the flames in his mind.
“Warrick!” a voice hissed from the shadows. Warrick turned, spotting Red Orys crouched low behind a cluster of ferns. The pirate lord’s face was covered in soot, his eyes wide with disbelief. He motioned for Warrick to join him, and Warrick staggered over, collapsing beside him.
"What the fuck was that?" Warrick gasped, his voice hoarse from the smoke.
"That," Orys growled, his voice laced with rage, "is the end of everything we've built." His eyes were wild, his body tense with fury and fear. "A dragon. A fucking dragon."
The sound of screaming pirates echoed through the trees, their voices lost in the inferno now lighting up the night sky like a hellish beacon. The dragon's roars still thundered overhead, louder than anything Warrick had ever heard. The flames consumed Crimson Hold, the place they'd once believed to be untouchable.
"What do we do now?" Warrick asked, his voice trembling, barely able to form the words.
Orys was silent for a long moment, his jaw clenched tight, as if fighting against the wave of hopelessness washing over him. "We run. We fucking run, Warrick. There’s nothing left here. Nothing to fight for. Not against that."
Warrick nodded, his stomach churning with fear as he realized how hopeless their situation truly was.
"We need to move further into the jungle," Orys hissed, his voice shaky as they stumbled through the thick underbrush.
Just then, Warrick noticed something—a shadow falling over them. It grew larger, darker, as the sky above seemed to shift.
“We’re fucked,” Orys muttered under his breath, staring upward. "We’re all fucked."
Warrick's body trembled as he, too, looked up. High above the jungle, the dragon swooped low, its massive shadow flickering through the trees like a grim omen of death. The size of the beast was overwhelming, its wings outstretched like a shroud over their impending doom.
Fire erupted above them, scorching the tops of the trees, turning the once-thick jungle into a blazing inferno. The heat was unbearable, the flames spreading with terrifying speed, consuming everything in their path. The roar of the fire drowned out all other sounds, a deafening wall of destruction that engulfed them.
“Run!” Warrick screamed, his voice barely audible over the roar of the flames. He pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling as he darted deeper into the jungle. Branches whipped against his face, and he stumbled over roots and fallen logs, but he kept moving. The air was thick with smoke, and every breath felt like it was burning his throat. His vision blurred as the heat closed in around him.
The flames leapt from tree to tree, spreading faster than Warrick could run. He could hear the screams of men caught in the blaze, their cries of agony filling the air. The stench of burning flesh hit him, and he gagged, fighting to keep his stomach from turning. In the distance, through the swirling smoke, he saw them—burned men, their bodies charred beyond recognition, smoldering where they had fallen.
Warrick’s heart raced with terror as he saw Red Orys ahead, running desperately through the jungle. The dragon’s roar filled the air again, and Warrick’s stomach clenched as he saw the beast's dark shadow swooping low over the jungle once more.
In the blink of an eye, the flames erupted around Orys. The dragon’s fire engulfed him in a torrent of burning orange and green, his body consumed in seconds. Warrick saw him scream, his mouth open in a soundless cry as the fire overtook him. His skin blackened and peeled away, his hair ignited, and in moments, there was nothing left but a smoldering husk.
But there was no time to mourn, no time to even process the death of his friend and lord. The fire was closing in, and Warrick could feel the heat against his back as he ran. His lungs burned with every breath, the smoke thick and choking, making it harder to see, harder to think. His legs felt like they were made of lead, every step a struggle against the oppressive heat and the rising panic in his chest.
He stumbled, falling to the ground as the smoke thickened around him. His hands burned as they hit the dirt, the heat from the ground searing his skin. He tried to push himself up, but his body was failing him, the smoke filling his lungs, suffocating him. His vision blurred, and the world around him began to fade, the roaring of the fire growing distant as his senses dulled.
Warrick coughed, choking on the thick smoke as his body gave in to exhaustion. His muscles refused to move, his lungs screaming for air that wasn’t thick with ash. He lay there, his face pressed into the dirt, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come. His mind swam in a haze of fear and despair, and as the flames drew closer, he knew it was the end.
The last thing he saw was the shadow of the dragon passing over him, its wings blotting out the sun as the world around him burned.
