Scrying the Past II

Maekar and Daenerys laid in her chambers in Dragonstone. Moonlight cascaded through the tall, arched windows, casting a silvery glow on their entwined bodies.

Daenerys laid on her side, her nude form a stark contrast to Maekar's muscular frame. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, the color of freshly fallen snow. Her silver-gold hair fanned out across the pillow, a halo of light against the dark fabric. Her breasts were full and round, their peaks still taut from their recent lovemaking. Her waist tapered in, accentuating the curve of her hips. Her long, slender legs were entwined with Maekar's, her body fitting perfectly against his.

Maekar lay exhausted but content, one arm draped possessively around her.

Daenerys stirred slightly, her violet eyes opening to gaze at Maekar. "Let's do it again," she murmured, her voice a sultry purr.

Maekar groaned softly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

'Fuck, I've unleashed a monster,' he thought. They had gone five rounds already. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was spongy and bruised.

"Tomorrow," Maekar said, looking at Daenerys.

She pouted slightly, her full lips pursed in a way that made Maekar want to kiss her again. She nodded, snuggling closer to him.

"It's not every day you have sex in front of a dragon," Maekar said, a soft laugh escaping him as he remembered their first encounter on the island earlier that day.

"I'm sure the old Valyrians had some rituals like it," she said playfully.

Maekar chuckled, his arm tightening around her. "Well, maybe it worked, because, princess, you are insatiable."

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Maekar drifted off to sleep, only to wake up in the familiar yet unsettling dreamscape where he and Brynden always met.

"You know, I don't like the fact that you're watching every aspect of my life," Maekar said, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at Brynden.

Brynden's smile didn't falter. "I don't watch everything, only what matters."

"Only what matters," Maekar repeated, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Brynden's expression grew more serious. "I thought this would be a good time to continue our history lesson, considering recent developments in your life. Especially now that you have so much to lose."

Maekar's surroundings shifted. He blinked, and suddenly they were standing on a battlefield littered with bodies. The air was thick with the stench of blood and death. The fallen soldiers wore ancient armor—bronze plates and helmets—and they clutched bronze weapons in their cold, lifeless hands.

"What happened here?" Maekar asked, stepping over the body of a warrior whose hand was still curled tightly around his sword.

"We left off with the Old Kings last time," Brynden said, his voice steady, as if the carnage around them was but a distant memory to him.

Maekar nodded, recalling their earlier lessons.

"The other kings of the North," Brynden continued, "were terrified by the growing power of the Old Kings, particularly their magic. So they did what kings have always done when faced with a common threat. They united."

The dream shifted again, and Maekar was no longer standing among the dead. Now he saw armies clashing in the distance, lines of warriors charging toward each other. The Old Kings' forces were dressed in the same bronze armor, but Maekar could see their sorcery in action. Vines burst from the earth, ensnaring enemy soldiers. Trees came alive, their branches smashing through ranks of men. Streams and rivers diverted themselves, drowning entire battalions.

Nature itself fought for the Old Kings.

"The alliance of northern kings had one advantage: numbers," Brynden explained. "They combined their strength to take on the Old Kings and their magic. The war spanned generations."

Maekar's eyes followed the battles—hundreds, perhaps thousands, clashing on open fields. But slowly, steadily, the alliance was gaining ground. Despite their fearsome magic, the Old Kings were being pushed back. The scene shifted again, showing a kingdom in ruin, its forests burned, its rivers poisoned.

"The alliance proved too strong. One by one, the Old Kings fell, their kingdoms crumbling beneath the weight of the armies against them." Brynden's voice darkened. "Soon, only one of the Old Kings remained, ruling over the last of their ancient kingdoms."

Brynden turned his gaze toward Maekar. "As you know, when men are pushed into a corner, they can do things... unthinkable things."

Maekar watched as the dreamscape transformed into the seat of the last of the Old Kings. The Old King, desperate and crazed, stood atop a high tower, casting his eyes skyward.

"He sought aid from the Children of the Forest. He turned to even darker magics—blood sacrifices, rituals older than the First Men. In his desperation, he sought to secure his and his people's survival."

The sky darkened, and the wind carried the bitter chill of winter. Maekar watched in horror as the Old King, surrounded by his priests, began a terrible ritual. The ground trembled, and a great shadow loomed over the land. The temperature plummeted, frost spreading across the fields as the Old King called out to something—something ancient, cold, and powerful.

A name rose on the wind, whispered by the trembling priests: The Great Other.

Maekar took a step back as he saw the effects of the ritual. The king's soldiers—the last remnants of his once-great army—began to convulse. Their skin turned pale, their eyes became ice-blue. The very land itself started to freeze. The once lush, green forests were overtaken by frost and snow, and the entire kingdom transformed into a frozen wasteland.

"They became the cold ones... the Others," Brynden said, his voice grim. "An army of death, led by the former king, his mind lost to the cold."

"The newly-born cold ones, now the embodiments of the Great Other, unleashed a terrible wrath upon the North," Brynden continued as the vision of the battlefield began to dissolve into darkness.

"So this is the beginning of the Long Night?" Maekar asked.

"No, that comes later. The cold ones' assault was stopped, and the war ended with a truce," Brynden replied. "One of the surviving daughters of the Old Kings managed to broker a truce. Yearly sacrifices were made to appease the cold ones. It was only a temporary reprieve."

"Ah, not the Long Night, then," Maekar said.

Brynden shook his head. "This was but one event in a long history of battles between light and shadow. But there's more you need to understand—about the gods themselves."

"Go on," Maekar urged.

"The gods of Westeros and Essos and beyond, the ones you've heard of—like the Old Gods of the Forest, R'hllor, the Seven who are One—they are deeply connected to the natural world and human society. They are gods who can be understood, worshipped, and even interacted with through rituals and prayers. They give blessings, guidance, protection... they are tied to this world, accessible to mortals."

Maekar raised an eyebrow. "So, you're saying... the Great Other isn't one of these gods?"

"No," Brynden said firmly. "The Great Other is something entirely different. It doesn't fall under the category of these gods you know."

Maekar laughed. "What is he, an Outer God or something?" he said, remembering the term from his previous life.

"Outer Gods... yes, that would be an apt term for them. They are ancient, primordial beings that exist beyond our known universe. They're outside the natural order that governs this world. They're not bound by time, space, or reality as we understand it. Mortals can't fully comprehend them, and they often bring chaos and destruction."

"Fuck..." Maekar muttered, rubbing his temples. "So, how the hell am I supposed to fight that? An incomprehensible, world-ending force from beyond reality? Sounds just like something I'd love to deal with."

Brynden rolled his eyes at Maekar's sarcasm. "You don't need to fight the god itself. You only need to destroy its corrupted champions. It's been done before... it can be done again."

Maekar let out a long sigh. "And how exactly am I supposed to manage that?"

Brynden's expression softened, yet he remained cryptic. "We'll talk more after your excursion to the Stepstones. There's something important waiting for you there."

Maekar's frustration grew. "Great, you're blueballing me again," he sighed. "What's in the Stepstones for me, other than the pirates that are causing me trouble?"

"You have two months before the tourney begins. That's enough time to rid the Stepstones of the pirates who plague you... and to finally end one of our family's greatest enemies."

Maekar's eyes narrowed. "You don't mean...?"

"Yes." Brynden's voice was cool, matter-of-fact.

Maekar simply looked bewildered. "What... come on, you're fucking with me, right?" Maekar asked, but Brynden remained serious. "Really, what the fuck were their plans, anyway?"

Brynden gave a small smile, as if the answer was almost too ridiculous to say aloud. "To cause a war between you and Aegon, and then to invade."

Maekar burst out laughing. He could not believe what he was hearing. "I guess they didn't have to do much for that."

He paused, his grin fading slightly as another thought crossed his mind. "I noticed Varys was up to something not too long ago. He was sniffing around... and then, suddenly, he just stopped. No more whispers. No more movements in the shadows. The Spider seemed so pleased with himself, and then, nothing."

Brynden nodded slowly. "The Spider tried to weave many webs, only to realize he didn't have to. You will need to kill him when you return. I'm sure he has plans to further destabilize the realm."

"Idiots... you'd think they'd learn after five failed attempts." Maekar muttered.

"Use your dragon," Brynden advised. "Burn Aegor's company of traitors with dragonfire. And retrieve the sword of the Conqueror himself."

Maekar's grin widened at the mention of the sword. "You only need to show me the way."

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Lost in Time

The city of Tolos sprawled across the hilly coastline like a forgotten relic of a grander time—a place where the glory of the past still shimmered in every column and archway. The city's white stone gleamed beneath the golden light of the setting sun, casting long shadows from towering statues that watched over wide marble streets.

On a terrace of a grand mansion perched on a hill near the sea sat Daemon Targaryen. The salty breeze from the ocean below brushed against his face, teasing strands of his silver hair. His sharp gaze swept across the horizon, but his thoughts were far from the picturesque view of the sun-kissed waves.

"Tell me," Daemon asked, his tone betraying his irritation, "this so-called Dragonlord… what do you know of him?"

The man sitting across from him, Theron, one of the prominent lords of Tolos, shifted in his seat. Though his posture remained relaxed, the lazy sprawl of his arms across the chair was a facade. His eyes, a shade darker than the shimmering sea, betrayed a flicker of unease as they darted toward Daemon.

He hesitated before speaking, as though weighing his words carefully.

"It's true," Theron admitted, sitting up straighter. "The rumors are not mere talk. He is a Dragonlord." His voice was steady, but there was an underlying tension, as if speaking the words made him uncomfortable. "He conquered Slaver's Bay—well, it's called Dragon's Bay now."

Daemon's face twisted into a scowl. "There are no true Dragonlords left, save for my family," he said, his tone hardening. "We are all that remains of Old Valyria. Perhaps the so-called 'pure-bloods' of Volantis would make such claims, but they are nothing more than pretenders to what was lost."

Theron's voice dropped to a whisper, as though even mentioning this mysterious conqueror might summon him. "Some say he is an ancient Dragonlord—brought forward through time from the Doom itself by ancient magicks."

Daemon laughed, the sound sharp and mocking. "An ancient Dragonlord," he repeated, as if the thought was so absurd it bordered on mockery. He leaned forward, his smirk returning. "You don't actually believe that nonsense, do you?"

Theron's face, however, was grave. "He has crushed the Dothraki hordes, laid waste to their khalasars. His empire stretches from Slaver's Bay—Dragon's Bay, as they call it now—to Lhazar, and all the way across the Eastern Dothraki Sea. Even the Free Cities feel his shadow. Tolos lives in constant fear that he will soon set his sights here."

Daemon's eyes narrowed. He knew of this empire that had risen in just six years. It made him feel inferior. He hadn't even completed his conquest of the Stepstones yet, and somehow an empire the size of the Seven Kingdoms had risen in that time.

"It is said that he wears Valyrian steel armor, and bears a sword of legend. He is worshipped as a god by the freed slaves who now follow him. Even the followers of the Red God are flocking to him."

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his irritation slowly giving way to something more calculating. A sly grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Is that so?" he murmured. Whether this 'Dragonlord' was some charlatan or something more, Daemon had to know.

"Well," Daemon continued, his voice tinged with amusement and danger, "I'll be finding out for myself soon enough."