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The Son of Ice and Fire: Lost in Time pt.6
🕑 Added 2024-10-21 09:27:01 +0000 UTCMaekar walked through the courtyard of High Tide, his steps steady and deliberate, his gaze fixed ahead, seemingly indifferent to the eyes that followed his every movement. He could feel them—servants, household knights, even curious onlookers—watching as he passed, their whispers trailing behind like an echo of shadows. They assumed he didn’t speak the Common Tongue. After all, he only ever spoke Valyrian, letting them believe what they wanted. It amused him that they thought their conversations were secret, unaware that he understood every word.
“Is he truly from Old Valyria?” whispered a servant girl, her eyes wide.
A nearby guard shook his head, his tone dripping with skepticism. “Bah! Just a story to make himself important. He has a dragon, that’s true, but he’s no more from Valyria than I am.”
Another, older man-at-arms chimed in, his weathered face serious. “They say he conquered Slaver’s Bay in just a few years. Freed the slaves and broke the Dothraki’s power. That’s not a man you trifle with—no matter where he’s from.”
A cluster of maids gathered near a stone wall, their voices barely more than murmurs. “Did you hear about Lady Laena?” one asked. “She’s caught the dragonlord’s eye. They’re always flying their dragons together, walking through the gardens. She’ll be married to him before long, mark my words.”
“But isn’t she betrothed to the Sealord’s son?” another maid gasped.
The first shrugged, her tone dismissive. “That won’t matter for long.”
Maekar heard it all, the whispers of gossip that followed his every step, but gave no outward sign of listening. His mind was focused on more important things—on the future he intended to shape, the empire he planned to build. Coming to Westeros had been his first calculated step, a way to weave himself into the politics of the land, to reclaim the Iron Throne that he considered rightfully his. At first, his eyes were set on Rhaenyra. He thought he could marry her, and position himself for the crown.
He saw Daemon as an obstacle in this plan and wanted him to be temporarily removed from the equation. But the rogue prince, contrary to expectations, had become something like a friend. Daemon's rebellious nature, his ambition, and his relentless pursuit of it had led Maekar to admire him. They had shared drinks, stories, and a bond forged through their shared disdain for limits. He had even promised Daemon his aid in conquest—Dorne, the Triarchy, an expansion of his kingdom of the Stepstones.
Still his ultimate goal never changed: the Iron Throne, the ultimate prize but then Laena had entered his life, altering the course he thought he planned to follow. She was fierce, passionate, and kind—she reminded him of Daenerys. She had filled a void in him he hadn’t realized had grown so deep.
And so, he made a change to his plans. Yes, he would still plot for the Iron Throne, but he would also seek to combine it with his fanatically loyal domains in the East, in Dragon's Bay—a realm stretching from the Frostfangs to the Jade Gates. And like Aegon the Conqueror, he would have two women by his side, and one of them would be Laena.
As he moved towards the keep, lost in thought, a sneering voice interrupted him.
“The so-called Dragonlord,” it spat, thick with contempt.
Maekar paused, his brow furrowing as he turned to face the speaker. Before him stood a man of similar build, though less muscular, his disheveled clothes hinting at too many nights spent drowning in wine. His eyes were glassy, his face flushed with drink and anger.
“A pretender, a fake,” the man slurred, staggering forward, his words heavy with venom.
Maekar studied the man, and after a moment, understanding dawned. This was the former Sealord’s son—the spendthrift whose betrothal to Laena had long since been an annoyance for Corlys Velaryon, one that had been carefully kept at bay.
“You think you can take what is mine?” the former Sealord’s son snarled, his voice cracking with fury.
Maekar stayed silent, his expression one of mild confusion and amusement. He watched as the man swayed, the crowd around them growing still. Servants paused, their eyes widening, while guards moved closer, their hands hovering near their blades. This was not a confrontation anyone had expected to see, but now that it was happening, no one could look away.
“You are a liar!” the former Sealord’s son shouted, his voice growing louder. “Pretending to be a Dragonlord, a pretender! You are nothing!”
Maekar’s amusement faded. He glanced around the courtyard, noting the gathering crowd. The man had challenged his honor. Maekar stepped forward, his voice steady, as cold as winter. “You have insulted my honor,” he said, his eyes locked on the former Sealord’s son
“No, you... you insulted mine!” he raged, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. “Face me, pretender! My name is Lucian Feregno. Face me. Fight me. Let’s settle this once and for all.”
Lucian drew his sword, the metal catching the sunlight in a flash. The courtyard seemed to hold its breath, servants and guards alike whispering to one another. Even the Velaryon knights looked unsure whether they should intervene.
From the corner of his eye, Maekar saw Corlys Velaryon striding out of the keep, his face stern, with Laena, Laenor, and Princess Rhaenys following close behind.
Corlys’s voice cut through the tense courtyard like a blade. “Lord Maekar! Lucian! What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his gaze sharp as it flicked between the two men.
Maekar turned slightly, inclining his head in respect to Corlys. “This man has challenged me to a duel of honor, Lord Corlys,” he said, his tone even.
Lucian stumbled forward, raising his blade higher, his voice a slurred sneer. “Fight me, oh mighty Dragonlord!”
Corlys looked at the two men, his expression turning calculating. He could see the crowd that had gathered—the vassals watching intently, the knights ready to step in.
Finally, Corlys nodded, his voice ringing out. “Clear the courtyard! Give them room!” he commanded.
The crowd began to move back, forming a wide circle around the two men. Laena stood at the front, her eyes filled with concern. Laenor moved towards Maekar, a sword in hand, offering it.
“Take this,” Laenor urged quietly, his tone tense.
But Maekar shook his head, his eyes fixed on Lucian. “No,” he replied, his voice carrying across the now-silent courtyard. “I will use my own.”
Corlys looked at Maekar in surprise at his words. Maekar stepped forward, taking his position against the so-called spendthrift, as Laena had often called him. The courtyard fell silent; all eyes were fixed on the two men.
Maekar moved without hesitation, his hand moving to his sword. He drew Lightbringer with a swift motion, and as he did, the sword blazed with light—a warm, almost fiery glow, the flames dancing along the edge of the blade as if it were alive.
Gasps echoed around the courtyard. Even Corlys looked momentarily taken aback. Laena’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide as she watched the flames that licked along the blade. It was beautiful—terrifying and awe-inspiring all at once.
Lucian's face drained of color, the drunken bravado vanishing as quickly as it had come. He stared at the blade, his eyes wide with fear, the sword in his own hand trembling.
Maekar moved into a fighting stance, his focus unbroken, his eyes locked on Lucian. He could see the hesitation, the fear in Lucian’s movements. This was no real duel—this was an execution of a fool who had stepped too far. Lightbringer hummed in his grasp, the warmth of the flames radiating outward.
Lucian lunged first, a clumsy swing driven by desperation. Maekar sidestepped easily, his movements fluid. He struck back, his blade meeting Lucian's with a sharp clang, the force of the impact sending Lucian stumbling.
Maekar pressed forward. His strikes were relentless, and Lucian struggled to keep up, his arm weakening with every blow. The end came swiftly—Maekar stepped forward, his blade flashing in a deadly arc. With one clean stroke, Lightbringer cleaved through Lucian’s neck. The courtyard fell utterly silent as Lucian’s head toppled to the ground, followed by the dull thud of his body.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence, the scene frozen in time. Then, gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd—some in shock, others in awe, many in disbelief. Corlys stepped forward, raising his hand for silence, his voice carrying with authority. “Lord Maekar is the victor. Remove the body,” he ordered, gesturing to the guards, who moved swiftly to obey.
As the crowd began to disperse, their whispers filled with excitement and fear, Maekar sheathed Lightbringer, his expression calm, controlled. He walked towards Corlys, his eyes steady.
“Will this cause any trouble?” Maekar asked quietly, his voice low.
Corlys shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “No, my lord. In truth, you’ve done me a service,” he replied, his tone almost amused. “He was a nuisance, and his presence had long outlasted its welcome.”
Laenor approached, his eyes fixed on Maekar, filled with newfound respect. “That sword… it proves what you say. You are truly a Dragonlord of old Valyria.”
Maekar inclined his head, acknowledging the words without pride or modesty. His gaze shifted towards Laena, who stood at a distance, her eyes meeting his, her lips curving into a faint, relieved smile.
The rest of the crowd seemed convinced as well. They looked at him differently now—with a mixture of fear, reverence, and respect. They had seen proof of his power, and the sight of Lightbringer ablaze had left them in awe.
Corlys turned to Maekar, his voice lower now. “If I might speak with you privately, Lord Maekar?”
Maekar nodded. “Of course.”
Together, they walked to Corlys’ solar, leaving the murmurs of the courtyard behind them.
Once inside, Corlys closed the door, turning to face Maekar, his expression more serious now. “I owe you an apology,” he began, his tone sincere. “He was my guest, as are you, and I should have dealt with him myself.”
Maekar shook his head, his expression calm. “It’s alright, Lord Corlys. He challenged me—I had to answer. Honor demanded it.”
Corlys frowned, shaking his head. “No, truly, I let the situation escalate. I should not have allowed it.”
Maekar met Corlys’ gaze, his eyes intent. “There is something I wish to ask now that we are alone,” he said, his voice steady.
Corlys raised an eyebrow, curiosity evident. “What is it?”
Maekar took a breath, his gaze unwavering. “I wish to ask for Laena’s hand in marriage. I have grown fond of her, and she has expressed the same for me. I would ask for your blessing.”
For a moment, Corlys stared, clearly taken aback by the request—by its boldness, by the timing. But then his expression softened, a note of pride touching his features.
“It seems my daughter has chosen wisely,” Corlys said at last, his voice soft. He paused, then nodded, his decision made. “Yes, Lord Maekar. You have my blessing.”
Maekar inclined his head, a smile forming. “Thank you, Lord Corlys.”
Corlys moved to a nearby table, pouring wine into two goblets. He handed one to Maekar, raising his own. “To the future, then,” he said, his tone lighter. “To family.”
Maekar raised his goblet to Corlys. “To family,” he echoed, their goblets clinking together.
.
.
.
The great hall of High Tide glowed with life, the flickering flames of countless torches casting a golden light across tables brimming with food and drink. Lively music filled the air, blending seamlessly with laughter, the clinking of goblets, and the hum of conversation. It was a night of celebration, a night to remember.
Corlys Velaryon sat at the head of the table, his eyes shimmering with pride. He was every inch the proud lord, his expression warm as he watched those gathered to celebrate with him. Maekar sat beside Princess Rhaenys and Laena, enjoying the cheerful atmosphere.
Maekar had grown fond of Rhaenys—the Queen Who Never Was. He respected her immensely, and he believed that she would have made a far better ruler than Viserys, who now wore the crown. Rhaenys possessed a sharp wit, a keen mind, and a natural grace that commanded respect effortlessly.
For her part, Rhaenys had been delighted by her daughter’s choice. She had even playfully challenged Maekar to a duel to determine if he was worthy of Laena's hand. He had laughed, promising he would rise to the challenge, should it come to that.
Finally, Corlys rose from his seat, his goblet raised high. The room quieted, the lively music and chatter fading into an expectant hush. All eyes turned to the Sea Snake.
“My lords, my friends,” Corlys began, his voice carrying easily across the hall. “Tonight, we gather not only to celebrate our strength but to announce a union that will elevate House Velaryon to new heights.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the gathered crowd before settling on Maekar and Laena. A proud smile curved his lips. “I am pleased to announce the betrothal of my daughter, Laena, to Dragonlord Maekar Belaerys.”
A murmur rippled through the hall—some whispers of surprise, others of curiosity, but all soon followed by excited applause. The lords and ladies exchanged glances, then cups were raised high in congratulations. Maekar turned to meet Laena’s gaze. Her eyes were warm, her lips curved into a smile that seemed to soften the whole room.
She raised her goblet, her eyes never leaving his. Maekar returned her smile, lifting his own goblet to meet hers. They drank, and the hall erupted in cheers, a chorus of voices celebrating the new union that had been proclaimed.
The feast continued, the music grew livelier, and the festivities truly began. Maekar danced with Laena, spinning her gracefully across the floor, her laughter filling the air like bells ringing in spring. He danced with Princess Rhaenys as well, then with the other noble ladies of the castle. The joy of the night seemed boundless.
But as the evening wore on, Maekar realized that Laena was no longer among the dancers or the chattering nobles. He scanned the room, his eyes searching for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. A flicker of curiosity—tinged with concern—passed through him.
Excusing himself, Maekar weaved through the bustling hall, moving past the laughter and celebration. He slipped through one of the side doors into the quieter corridors beyond, his eyes sharp, searching for any sign of her. It was then that he noticed something—a silk scarf lying on the floor, its fabric unmistakable. It was Laena’s, the very same she had worn earlier in the evening. He knelt, picking it up gently, his gaze lifting in the direction it seemed to point—toward the guest chambers.
A sudden thought struck him, quickening his pulse: his chambers.
Maekar made his way through the shadowed corridor, his strides long. He reached the door, slightly ajar, the warm glow of firelight spilling through the gap into the dim hall. He pushed the door open gently and stepped inside.
There, bathed in the golden light of the flickering hearth, stood Laena. Her silhouette was framed by the wide window behind her, the view beyond an endless stretch of moonlit ocean. The waves shimmered under the full moon, their quiet murmur filling the stillness of the room.
Laena turned at his entrance, a soft smile curving her lips as her eyes met his. “I wanted a moment alone,” she said, her voice barely louder than the whisper of the waves outside. “All the celebration… it became a bit much.”
Their eyes held each other for a long moment, the world around them seeming to fade until only the two of them remained. Without a word, Maekar stepped further inside, closing the door softly behind him.
