Maekar stood on a road paved with fused black stone, smooth as glass. The sky above was a deep shade of violet, with the sun burning a rich golden-orange, casting an almost unnatural glow upon the fields before him. Greenseeing, even after learning from Brynden and becoming the Three-Eyed Crow himself, was still difficult—especially this far in the past—for he was in the Lands of Long Summer.
He took in the sight before him: fields of green and gold, a land of unrivaled beauty… yet tainted by the wretched suffering it concealed. Thousands of slaves toiled under the burning sun, their backs scarred and broken, their gaunt faces devoid of spirit. Their hands trembled from exhaustion, their legs wobbled, but they dared not slow down. Overseers watched over them with whips, their expressions devoid of sympathy, their voices sharp as knives.
Crack!
A whip lashed against a young slave's back. A man collapsed onto the burning stone, his small hands clutching at the loose grain he had been carrying. A Valyrian overseer, his silver hair flowing past his shoulders, his pale face twisted into a sneer, approached lazily.
"Stand, mongrel."
The boy shuddered but did not move fast enough. The overseer grabbed him by his thin, malnourished arm and dragged him away, laughing as he did.
Maekar clenched his fists. This was Valyria. The real Valyria.
He walked forward, his eyes drawn to massive Valyrian estates that rose like monuments to excess across the countryside. Villas of pure white marble, their pillars adorned with golden statues of dragons and forgotten gods, their gardens filled with exotic flora from conquered lands—trees with blood-red fruit, vines of purple and gold, fountains that flowed not with water but with wine—tended by slaves bred only for beauty.
Within these estates, pleasure and cruelty were woven into one.
In one courtyard, a Valyrian noble, draped in sheer silk robes, lounged upon a couch of polished ivory, sipping wine from a goblet. Two bare slaves knelt at his feet, their faces blank, their wills shattered. He ran his fingers over their bodies idly, as though they were nothing more than decorative ornaments, petting them like one would a favored hound.
Nearby, another group of Valyrian lords and ladies, their eyes alight with sadistic glee, had gathered beneath a shaded pavilion where a spectacle was unfolding.
A man—a captured warrior from a conquered land—was bound to a black obsidian pillar, his flesh bare, his arms chained above his head. Before him stood a Valyrian woman, tall, elegant, her amethyst eyes gleaming with delight as she slowly peeled the skin from his chest with a dagger finer than silk. The man did not scream—his vocal cords had already been removed. The Valyrians watching laughed and toasted their drinks.
"Ah, the flesh peels so smoothly when the blood runs warm," the woman murmured, licking her fingers before turning back to the audience. "Shall we see how long he lasts?"
A murmur of amused approval ran through the gathered nobles.
Maekar did not want to explore more. Brynden had told him of other horrors the Valyrians in the time before the Doom had practiced—he had spoken of flesh gardens:
Limbs, torsos, faces—bodies sewn together into grotesque living art, their voices stolen, their minds broken. Some were forced into obscene positions, held in place by chains of silver and obsidian, left to wither under the burning sun. Others had been merged together, flesh twisted and reshaped by Valyrian sorcery, made to crawl, to beg, to entertain. Maekar was unwilling to see those horrors with his own eyes.
This was Valyria—the greatest empire the world had ever known
A paradise… a land of sheer beauty that housed a kingdom of monsters.
BOOM.
Maekar was startled by the sound. He looked to the south and saw a burst of fire and black smoke, an eruption splitting the heavens with a deafening roar. His breath caught in his throat as he watched the land itself convulse, as though the gods had reached down to rip it apart.
The explosion swallowed the horizon, its flames licking the sky, its smoke curling into monstrous shapes. A storm of molten rock, liquid fire, and choking ash spread through the lands. What had once been golden fields, lush groves, and vibrant estates was devoured in mere moments.
The rivers boiled away.
The trees burst into flames before turning to ash.
The very earth cracked open, swallowing entire palaces, towers, and manors into its flaming abyss.
Dragons fell from the sky along with their riders.
The sky darkened as black smoke blotted out the sun, the golden-orange glow replaced by an infernal red, casting the ruins of what had once been the Lands of Always Summer into eternal twilight.
And then, it was gone.
What was left was a wasteland—blackened, molten rock cooling into jagged obsidian plains. A once-fertile paradise twisted into a desert of ruin.
He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. The world shifted again.
When he opened them, he was somewhere else—further back, thousands of years before the Doom.
He now stood near the Fourteen Flames.
====
The volcanic peaks rumbled beneath the sky, pillars of fire and smoke reaching upward. . Lava rivers flowed through carved channels, winding between massive towers. He could see the city of Valyria in the distance, away from the burnt-black surroundings of the Fourteen Flames. Even from here, its vast spires of fused black stone rose higher than any fortress or city in Westeros.
He looked around. He was surrounded by tall, cylindrical towers—massive structures built directly into the volcanic rock of the Fourteen Flames. Their open ceilings exposed great stone perches where dragons nested, their monstrous forms silhouetted against the firelit sky. Some were coiled in slumber, others watched from above with burning eyes.
These were not just any towers. They belonged to the most powerful among the Forty Families—the rulers of the Valyrian Freehold. The elite dragonlords lived closest to the flames by right; the heat, the fire, the very breath of the volcanoes was their domain, and they believed their gods dwelled within the Fourteen Flames themselves.
His own family, though they were dragonlords, could not compare to those residing in these towers. They were the smallest, the weakest of all the dragonlord families.
Maekar began walking. He had been exploring Valyria for the last two months, trying to discover the secret of Valyrian steel. But for some reason, he could never reach the Fourteen Flames where he knew the forge was. So he had decided to try again from the Isle of Faces—where he was now—and it had worked. He was able to see the Fourteen Flames and explore it through his greenseeing.
As he made his way through labyrinthine streets carved from black stone, he saw slaves everywhere. Their backs were scarred and bent, their chains rattling as they toiled under the merciless sun and the volcanic heat.
A whip cracked. A scream followed.
A young woman—frail and sickly—collapsed in the street. The overseer, a broad-shouldered freeman draped in dark linen, scowled and lifted his whip again. The lash struck once, twice, three times. The woman did not move. The overseer cursed, waving over two others to drag her lifeless body away. She would be fed to the flames.
Maekar clenched his fists and forced himself to move on.
The Freemen—those who were neither Valyrian nor slaves—walked freely among the enslaved masses. Their heads were held high, but their eyes lowered whenever they passed someone of higher class. They were second-class citizens, allowed to own businesses and homes, yet forever barred from true power.
Farther up the road, he passed true Valyrian citizens: silver-haired and violet-eyed, but lacking dragons of their own. They were scribes, merchants, alchemists, healers, commanders, and soldiers who made up the vast majority of Valyria's free population. Unlike the dragonlords, they did not have dragons. Their descendants would one day become the people of Lys, Myr, and Volantis—the Free Cities.
Maekar continued on, his path leading him closer to the heart of the volcano, where the greatest forge in the Freehold was said to lie. The tunnels wound through natural caverns, their walls glowing with the reflected light of distant lava flows.
And then he saw it: a chamber vast beyond imagining.
The walls of the volcano stretched high above him, disappearing into a haze of heat and smoke. The ground was carved into terraced platforms, each level dedicated to a different part of the forging process. At the very center of the chamber stood a monolithic black stone, its surface carved with glowing runes that pulsed with energy.
Two dragons were chained to it—massive creatures with scales black as night and eyes that burned like molten gold. Their chains were forged of Valyrian steel, holding them in place, wings half-spread, their maws bound shut.
"Well," he muttered, "I've found it."
Was dragonfire the secret to forging Valyrian steel? If so, they were in luck—Westeros had four dragons now. He just needed to…
He paused, hearing the sound of chains rattling, echoing through the cavern.
Five men knelt before the forge, stripped naked, their bodies covered with Valyrian runes drawn in blood. Their expressions were vacant, eyes empty—they had already accepted their fate. Above them stood a firemage, his face hidden by a dragon-headed mask. He raised his hands high, a curved obsidian dagger glinting in the firelight. His voice rang out in a low, droning chant.
In one swift motion, he slit the throat of the first man.
The sacrifice collapsed forward, blood pouring into the forge and hissing as it met the molten steel. The flames roared to life, growing taller and stronger, turning an unnatural shade of violet and gold. One by one, the remaining four were offered to the fire. Each time the dagger fell, the forge burned brighter. Each death fed the steel.
Maekar felt his stomach churn as he realized the horrific truth.
This was how Valyrian steel was made. Through fire and blood.
But that was not the worst of it. At the far end of the forge, beyond the hammering smiths and chanting mages, Maekar saw something even more horrifying. More slaves knelt in chains, shoulders trembling, faces lowered toward a massive pit carved into the volcanic rock. Around the pit stood a ring of firemages, their robes embroidered with symbols of dragons and flame, their hands outstretched toward the Fourteen Flames high above.
As one, the mages lowered their hands.
The slaves were pushed forward.
Their first screams rang out, piercing and raw with terror. But their deaths were not swift. The flames did not burn them instantly. Instead, they wrapped around their bodies, clinging to their flesh and consuming them slowly, as if feeding on their suffering.
What in all the fuck was wrong with these people?
Brynden had told him how the Valyrians had descended into their worst depravity by the time of the Doom. He was certain that if not for the Doom, they would have caused another catastrophe and destroyed themselves eventually.
Maekar gritted his teeth, his hands clenching into fists as he watched. This was why Valyrian steel was unlike any other metal. And this was why he would never recreate it.
Never.
There was no threat big enough to justify such horror.
He took a step back, then another.
He had seen enough.
He needed to leave.
The vision broke.
Maekar gasped, his eyes snapping open. The first thing he saw was the massive weirwood above him, its pale branches swaying gently in the night breeze. And then—Leaf stood before him, her golden-green eyes unblinking.
"Brynden had the same look in his eyes when he viewed Valyria," Leaf said softly, her gaze fixed on Maekar's face.
He did not answer immediately. He simply stood, brushing the dirt off his tunic as the memory of the horrific forges still lingered in his mind. He exhaled slowly, his heartbeat finally beginning to calm.
Leaf tilted her head. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Yes… and no." His expression darkened.
"Perhaps," she said softly, "you should focus on dragonglass. There's no need for this Valyrian steel you seek."
Maekar didn't respond at first. His gaze drifted across the lake toward the weirwood grove, lost in thought. The taste of ash and blood from his vision still clung to his tongue.
"I need to do something," he finally said. "We have made little progress on where Lightbringer is. No lead on where the final key…" His voice trailed off, frustration creeping in.
The Citadel's efforts had yielded little. Only three-quarters of their vast, twisting archives had been thoroughly combed through. He had sent maesters to the Free Cities, hoping some fragment of ancient lore might surface there—an old record, a forgotten prophecy, even a misplaced map.
So far, they had nothing.
And time was no longer a luxury.
"We've got a year and a half," Maekar muttered. "Maybe less."
The air had turned colder. The winds from the north were sharper now, biting deeper with each passing moon. Reports from the Night's Watch grew more dire by the week—increasing raids, missing patrols, and even whispers of a creature that made Maekar's blood run cold.
A dragon that Leaf had warned him of long ago, one possessed by the leader of the Others.
Maekar exhaled and looked up.
Above the lake, three dragons soared through the early evening sky, their scales catching the last golden rays of sunlight. A soft roar rumbled through the canopy as they banked and dove, weaving between the tall oaks like shadows of fire.
Sunfyre, Rhaenys' gleaming gold beast, led them.
Behind her flew Morghul, Daenerys' crimson dragon.
And last, a smaller but swift form—Allyrion, Viserys' dragon. Her scales shimmered pale blue and silver, like the sky after a storm. She bore an eerie resemblance to Dreamfyre, the dragon once bonded to Princess Rhaena centuries ago.
Leaf followed his gaze.
"They're almost there," she said. "Sunfyre and Morghul will be able to be ridden within a few moons. Allyrion not long after."
Maekar nodded. Whatever magic the Earthsingers had used had done its work. The dragons were growing faster now, especially in these last six months. Each had spent that time here on the Isle of Faces, absorbing what remained of this last bastion of raw magic in the world.
"I am glad your people are united now," Leaf said. "There were times Brynden feared they would never come together. That your kind would bicker until the cold took you all."
Maekar gave a dry chuckle, the sound low in his throat. "So did I."
He stared across the sacred waters of the Isle, remembering what it had taken. How much manipulation had gone into forging that unity.
Controlled exposure.
Carefully deployed truth.
He knew he couldn't just announce that the Long Night was coming and expect Westeros to rally. So he had turned to the oldest powers that shape minds: faith, art, and fear.
First came the Faith of the Seven. The High Septon, now closely tied to the Iron Throne, declared that the Others were the enemies of all gods—unholy beings that had once tried to snuff out all light. The Seven, so the sermons claimed, had chosen him —the king born of ice and fire—to lead them in this war. Their Champion.
He backed it up with bards and ballads. Minstrels sang of the "Second Age of Heroes," casting him in the same light as Garth Greenhand, Durran Godsgrief, and the Last Hero. His banners bore the seven-pointed star beside the three-headed dragon. Septs displayed hastily painted art of him standing against waves of darkness, sword in hand, dragons behind him.
The smallfolk hailed him as their savior
And the lords? His allies followed without question. The others soon fell in line after he revealed the wights to them.
But propaganda had its price.
In their eagerness, the Faith had elevated Maekar beyond a king: the God-Chosen. The Light of the Seven. The Flame of Mankind.
It was dangerous. The Faith and the Crown coming together this could be perilous for the future. Perhaps misused by is descendants.
He had allowed the Faith Militant to be reborn—but they did not call themselves that now. They were the King's Men, fanatical warriors loyal not to doctrine but to him. Zealous. Fearless. Terrifyingly obedient.
And the recruits kept coming. Peasants. Nobles. Bastards. Volunteers for the Royal Army, for the Wall.
He saw movement to his side and looked to see Rhaenys and Daenerys walking toward them side by side. His eyes went straight to Rhaenys' hand, resting protectively over her growing belly.
Leaf noticed. "You seem unhappy with your queen and the child growing within her," she said with quiet curiosity. "Is it not your child she carries? The fruit of your bond? Why does it displease you to see life grow within her?"
Maekar muttered under his breath, "Don't get me started."
Rhaenys crossed her arms as she stepped closer. She had clearly heard every word.
"Yes, Maekar," she said, her tone cool. "Please, tell Lady Leaf how you hate your own child."
Maekar turned sharply, eyes wide. "Hate? What?! I love the—"
"Her," Daenerys said, cutting in smoothly, a sly smile curling her lips as she stepped up beside Rhaenys.
"Her?" Maekar echoed, blinking.
"Yes," Rhaenys said with a little smile. "Snow—one of the Earthsingers—told me. It will be a girl."
Maekar felt his breath catch.
A girl.
He smiled before he could stop himself—warm, real—but that joy was quickly followed by a familiar, crushing weight: fear. Not the kind he felt in battle or in nightmares of the past, but the deep, soul-sickening dread of a father-to-be in a world that was doomed.
He walked over slowly, taking Rhaenys's hand, placing his other over the slight swell of her belly.
"I'm happy," he said softly, honestly. "And I definitely do not hate this babe."
Daenerys raised an eyebrow. "Could've fooled us. You weren't exactly dancing with happiness when you found out."
"I had my reasons," Maekar replied, glancing between them. "You both know why."
Rhaenys gave him a sharp look. "Yes, and they were foolish ones. We are King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; we need to have children to secure the throne. The people need to see you believe in the future—show them there is a future."
"She's right," Daenerys added. "They need to know life will go on."
Maekar sighed. "Fine. You've made your point, like you did the last ten times we spoke about it."
Daenerys chuckled, then turned to Leaf with an earnest smile. "Will you come to our wedding? two moons from now?"
Leaf tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "Are you not already bound together?"
Maekar rolled his eyes. "No. The Faith would've thrown a fit if I married Daenerys along with Rhaenys. But now that I've…convinced the High Septon with some carefully worded nonsense about 'three heads of the dragon' and how Aegon had two wives, they're now demanding I marry her as well."
He chuckled "Oh how the world has changed"
"How strange your customs have become in the past, great leaders of the first men took many wives," said Leaf.
After a moment of silence, Daenerys turned to Maekar. "Did you find it? The secret of Valyrian steel?"
Maekar's jaw tightened. He stared out toward the trees. "Yes," he said at last. "And it's best that knowledge stays buried in the ashes of Valyria."
"Well then, the last two months were a waste," Daenerys muttered.
He turned back to Leaf. "Is there any way to find the final key? We've searched the Citadel's archives, we've sent men across the sea—there's nothing."
Leaf didn't answer immediately. Instead, she stepped closer to the great weirwood, placing her hand gently against the gnarled, face-carved bark. "I have told you what to do, Maekar, since your last visit. Let the gods guide you."
Maekar frowned, stepping forward. "I don't understand. I've tried everything Brynden taught me."
Leaf looked back at him, as calm as the still lake near the grove. "That is your problem. You try to force your way through every path. That is not how the old gods speak. You must go to the Heartgrove and let them guide you. Let them show you the way—not demand it."
She paused, tilting her head. "Brynden had that same trouble, always trying to carve paths through with a dagger. Sometimes you must allow yourself to be guided."
Maekar exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead. "Fine," he muttered. "I'll try to be 'guided.'"
Without another word, he turned and walked away. Behind him, he could hear Daenerys and Rhaenys continuing their conversation with Leaf, asking when they would be able to ride Sunfyre and Morghul.
Arriving near the great weirwood, he sat cross-legged beneath it. The grove was silent; only the whispers of the wind and the far-off caw of ravens broke the stillness. He closed his eyes and reached inward, calling upon the sight. He tried to grasp it, to command it—like a soldier commands a battlefield, like a king wields authority.
And it rejected him.
Violently.
His senses were yanked upward, his body pulled from the earth like a leaf caught in a storm. He was flying—no, hurtling—through clouds and fire and smoke. A scream tore from his throat as he spiraled out of control. And then he saw it:
The Fourteen Flames. He was back in Valyria where he had dreamed of previously.
The volcanoes roared below him, red mouths yawning wide. And he fell.
Down, down, into one of the gaping infernos—the heat unbearable, the light blinding—until he slammed back into himself with a gasp, the vision shattering like glass. He staggered backward on his knees, sweat slick on his brow despite the cool forest air.
"Fuck," he hissed, breathless. His frustration boiled again. "Damn it—"
Then he remembered Leaf's words: Let the gods guide you. Not force your way through.
Gritting his teeth, he took a slow breath, and this time, he did nothing. He didn't push. He didn't reach. He simply… opened himself.
It did not happen instantly. He sat there in meditation, and after what seemed like hours, it happened.
He found himself standing in a snow-covered forest. Gentle flakes drifted from a pale gray sky. Maekar stood in a weirwood grove again, but not the one on the Isle of Faces. This was somewhere else entirely.
What now? he thought, looking around.
It was then he saw them: red weirwood leaves carried on the breeze, floating like tiny flames dancing through the air, their path almost deliberate—beckoning him.
He didn't wait to think; he simply followed.
Through thickets and fresh-fallen snow, deeper into the forest he went, guided by that drifting crimson trail. The leaves never touched the ground—they led onward, ever onward, until at last they stopped.
He knew exactly where he was: this was the Wolfswood near Winterfell.
Ahead, nestled among a copse of fir trees, he saw a flickering fire—a small campsite. Two figures sat beside it, wrapped in thick furs, bows and quivers resting at their sides. Their voices were low, calm, exchanging words Maekar couldn't hear.
As he stepped closer, the crackle of the fire sharpened, and so did their features.
He froze.
He knew them.
Brandon the Builder—broad and tall, with a beard like snow-flecked oak, his face strong and weathered. And beside him sat Eldric Shadowchaser.
"…and I swear to you, Uncle," Eldric spoke in the Old Tongue, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, "the new emperor is obsessed. He wants to build a wall with five forts—each one massive, miles wide, hundreds of feet tall—stretching across the mountains near those now-desolate lands, to contain the abominations created during the war."
Brandon let out a low whistle, resting his massive hands on his knees. "And here I thought I was being ambitious, raising a wall from sea to sea. Sounds like I ought to sail east and offer my services as a master builder."
Eldric chuckled. "You'd get along well with them. They'd likely make you a god of stone and timber before the first brick was laid."
Both men shared a laugh.
Maekar, standing just outside the glow of the fire, furrowed his brow. He's talking about the Five Forts… and the Grey Wastes.
Brandon leaned back against a fallen log, his thick fur cloak dusted with snow. "Tell me more about this place where the cold never bites, where no snow ever falls. I still can't believe such a land exists."
Eldric nodded, a distant look in his eyes. "It's real. The sun is warm all year, the earth fertile. They call it the Land of the Long Summer. I stayed for a time with one of their kings—good folk. Sheep herders, simple, devout. They live in harmony with the land. No walls. No swords. Peaceful."
Brandon scoffed, though his tone was good-natured. "Peaceful? Sounds dull. Maybe I should lead my people there and conquer these shepherds. Escape all this snow and ice."
Eldric shook his head. "No need for conquest, Uncle. I'm sure the Valyrians will welcome you with open arms. Very generous people, they are. Kind and gentle folk."
Maekar couldn't help it—he let out a tiny snort, nearly a laugh.
Eldric and Brandon spoke for a while longer, mostly about the state of the North and how Brandon wished to expand west and take the entirety of the Wolfswood. There was no mention of what Maekar needed to hear, and he was about to give up—until Eldric started describing one of his journeys.
"…The most beautiful place I ever saw," Eldric began, his voice tinged with memory, "was the Arzawan Kingdoms."
Maekar's breath caught.
"The kingdoms are around a large lake called Aruna," Eldric continued, "so vast you could mistake it for a sea. Warm winds, rich soil. Cities carved from golden stone, gardens hanging from cliff sides. But the beauty was only surface deep."
Brandon glanced over, one brow raised. "How so?"
"The war," Eldric said. "They lost too many men—fathers, sons, brothers. Whole legions wiped out fighting the Shadow. By the time I arrived, the armies were filled with women. They took up the sword, led armies, defended their lands."
Wait—warrior women, a lake as large as a sea… Maekar thought, as the pieces began fitting together in his mind.
Brandon chuckled. "Like our shieldmaidens, then."
Eldric smiled. "Yes."
"They asked me to stay," he added quietly. "To rule. To rebuild. So I did. For a time."
Brandon laughed, hearty and booming. "Hmm. Surrounded by warrior women who worship you, golden cities, and warm summers? You've more restraint than me. I'd never have left."
"You already have five wives, Uncle," Eldric said with a smirk.
Brandon grinned, spreading his hands wide. "Could always have more."
Before Maekar could hear more, the wind shifted. The light dimmed, and the grove began to dissolve around him like mist on the wind.
His body jerked upright as he woke beneath the great weirwood. He stared up at the red leaves above, whispering as though they were still speaking to him.
"Thank you," he muttered aloud, to the silent entities known as the old gods.
He stood, heart pounding. He now knew where he had to go.
To the lands once known as the Arzawan Kingdoms—what the world now called the Patrimony of Hyrkoon.