Chapter Text
The seat at his immediate right is empty.
He drums his fingers against the arm of the chair. It is a practised motion to avoid his hand from travelling to the back of his head, press down lightly where the pain lives. He is in the middle of their family meeting coming to an end, the Dārys(King), his father speaking on the business of the Targārio(Targaryen's). It was not wise to show any signs within his position, even among family.
Especially among family.
"...and of the remainders in our family, of course," his father catches on, and everything Baelor does to remain neutral works as a charm, "of finding Maekar, the systems will continue in their search."
Gratitude is sickening in his heart. Here, they stand in remnants of a dynasty. It's like travelling down the road to end up where you started. His signet ring on his left hand, black and silver, has the head of three angry dragons, and it still leaves his finger cold, immovable on the occasion he decides to walk that road.
A snort sound in the corner of the room. Baelor's jaw nearly clenches.
Aerion.
"Iderennon maghan,"(I bring you a choice) His nephew claims to the table, insolently. Baelor senses an oncoming headache.
"We are wastin—"
"Aerion!" Aegon, fifteen this year, glowers from the other side of the table, "We're not leaving dad out there alone with the Blackfyres."
"What if the reason he hasn't come home is," Aerion makes a gesture of emptying his hands, "because he doesn't want to?"
The argument is sunk from the beginning. Everyone in this hall knew Maekar loved his family, and if it were true that his memories returned as had the rest of theirs, he would certainly come back to them. Come back where he belongs, supposedly.
"You say that like it's set in stone," Aerion argues, scowl in place, "but people change, do you want him to go through all of it again?"
Aegon opens his mouth but freezes in his path. Eyes darting to Baelor for a few long seconds and then, snatching back to his seat. The table had fallen silent. Needless, Aerion doesn't bask in his victory until it's in hand, which means he turns to Baelor next, "Or would you rather that Dad remembers how he bashed your head in, Uncle? So he could spend this life as miserably as he had the last one?" Aerion adds cruelly.
"Aerion!" The Dārys scolds from the other end of the table. It was too much insolence, but Aerion has perfected his arts so well that Baelor can't find grounds to argue. "You are relieved from your seat for the coming two weeks. There is a certain kind of decorum expected on this table. Or, have you forgotten your oath?"
Aerion flinches, looks away, fight still burning bright in the boy: "Forgive me," his gaze slates to Baelor, a lack of intimacy when he says, "Dārys...Dārilaros(Heir to the throne) ."
The table sighs, some settling back in their seat, his own Valarr looks at him to Aerion, crossed hands on the table. A suspicion in his eyes for the boy.
"We can't run away from who we were," a small voice says from Egg's side, Aemon, "Father never shied away from facing his battles, no matter how awful they were."
"Do you hear how you sound? Okay, you say father was strong, and I agree, yeah, absolute unit of a guy," Aerion allows, his tone placating, but no one on this table is fooled enough, "but was he ever at peace, Aemon?"
Aemon, smartest of them all and the brightest of his age in the country, has no answer to give. Hangs like deadweight in the air. The family meeting ends, and Aerion is the first to leave. He does more of that in the past few months. Instead of lingering at the table or learning more of the family business like he used to.
When everyone has left through the doors, his father beckons him closer and discusses the meetings with their base in the Dornish Marches. Baelor will have to meet them and remind them of their loyalties; he's less involved with keeping his hands clean in this life.
Baelor is cutthroat, as he was raised, in this family. One of the rare exceptions where you are born into the wealth of the Dārior. The Dārior, or the Valyrian syndicate, has dominated the Westerosi crime scene for a rule much longer than their royal counterpart. And as a result, much more bloodier too. No longer were there any dragons; magic had seeped out of the modern world, and all they had at their disposal was brutal cruelty to stay on top.
His father looks out the balcony, "Bony qopsa taoba issa." (That one is a difficult boy)
Aerion is better than his past self would allow. A mercy, but Baelor plays to his father's tune, "Mirri ōdria uēpi dōrī drējī zgiēñisi." (Some wounds are hard to heal)
Daeron shakes his head, looking down at his golden ring, "I was once where you are now, where he was, this too shall pass," his gaze is older than his age when it lands on Baelor, "I must seem like the beast to you."
Baelor jokes with glinting teeth, "We used to be dragons in a different time, in a different world."
His father is not amused, "...absence certainly shifts one's way of looking at a circumstance. Maekar suited you at your side," he lingers in his assessment of his son and Baelor's head aches, harmed without being touched. Baelor does not answer, watching over the gorgeous blue horizon of city. It was like what Viserys, first of his name, said, upon learning of the dance of dragons. What now when we've come here? The Dance was more brutal, and that time period in the new world was rife with keen displeasure, anger but it didn't fullfill vengeance, somehow.
It fascinated him. The difference in this life and the one that passed.
"...I will be leaving for the Marches soon. In the meantime, our message to Riverlands will be sent and attended to."
Daeron peers at him, nods to his words. Additionally, other details are furnished, and Baelor flexes his hands. Jena's report on the Marcher bosses had been consolidated, and Baelor would have to fly down in the morning as dārilaros and sort out the matter between the lower ranks. They had a certain preference for him.
Baelor spares a glance at the city beneath them.
Then, he leaves.
Fuck, where the hell is it?!
He grumbles, scorn evident as he shoves his hand deep into his shitty messenger bag. And finally, his hand grabs a clump of wires, his earphones. Popping them in, Aerion strolls down the street, and can feel eyes on him.
He flicks a middle finger as high as he can.
Because he doesn't really approve of the entire surveillance state gig they have running on him. And because Dunk is likely the one who's watching him.
Get this. It's only him who gets this stupid privilege.
Not Aegon. Not Daeron. Not fucking Dweedledee no 1, who should be microchipped, or Dweedledee no 2, who follows her like a tail, and also should be microchipped. Him.
The Dārys thinks he's sleek, tryna set this shit up on him, but Aerion has only ever approved one person (technically two) on his back. His dad and mom, the rest of them can piss right off. He'd be back in Dorne more often to visit mom and quietly fulfil his duties as Pāsābagon, and part of the family inner circle.
He grabs a bottle to down it in one go. Kinda doesn't leave, you know. The burn. Throwing away the bottle, he crosses the intersection to the public washroom to take a leak, and sneaks into the women's washroom. Gets his wig, Daeron's baggy pants and hoodie out; this is his routine every morning because his family, the one that's not related by blood by the way, sucks.
He comes out of the washroom and catches an old woman giving him a side eye. He's got enough time for the response to flow out of him. "Don't you worry, ma'am! No one who looks like me is ever gonna fuck something like you," he winks at her, savouring the gasp, "you're safe."
Puts on a surgical mask, stuffs everything inside, and walks out with a schoolbag.
Ah crap. He forgot those contact lenses.
Goes back in, puts on brown contacts methodically. He could not afford to get caught by the guards, it would screw everything sideways. If Uncle Baelor got a whiff of what's going on, he'd be so, so dead, you wouldn't find much to put him in a grave. Or is that an overkill?
He's not....entirely sure about it, actually.
Once in a while, he thinks about Uncle Baelor from his past life. Calmer, protective and restrained. The man who is playing Dārilaros is not him. Yeah, the face cut, hair, and eyes match, but he's...different. Heck, Aerion at twelve years old figured the shit out of it with one glance. It was the first time Daeron and he had been brought from foster care into the Red Keep, the main base of the Dārior, right after Daeron showed signs of Rūnarys. The illness where they remember a different life, one where they were royalty, one where they were dragons.
It was Visenya who first recalled her memories, Rhaenys following and then Aegon. Together, they founded the Dārior, the local crime syndicate, but the phenomenon persisted. Had most people scratching their heads. So, came the oath of the Zaldrīzo Ānogar (Blood of the Dragon)— thou shalt swear fealty to the honour of the Targārio. Oath to the house, oath to the past. Because the Targaryen now knew who would be loyal and who would not, the struggle for power at the top was tenfold worse.
The likes of Maegor never got to sit on the throne under his father's watch, but neither did Aenys. Not that it did much to curb the bloodshed in the early 1800's. However, when Jaehaerys sat as Dārys, things became more uniform. The inner circle is almost always solely members of the family who have proven their loyalty either in the past or present.
Or..they were a ruling monarch. That is a separate bother on its own.
The order of people is mostly like this: at the top is the Dārys, the father and the king, then the Dārilaros, the heir. Below him are various Jemagons, his mother and Jena are in this position, overseeing activities in the borders of Dorne and the marches. People who do the dirty work are Pāsābagon, which he and Valarr are, and he's given his own crew of Azantys, soldiers who obey him.
Technically, all of them are soldiers to the Dārys and Dārilaros.
There were, of course, people who wanted nothing to do with the Targārio, even with their memories and especially so. People who went into hiding. Rhaena, for instance, the Black Bride, was never to be found, no matter how hard Jaehaerys searched for her in his time. Later, it was told that she hid from all of them and claimed asylum in the State of Ibben. Over time, the seat passed, through chaos, through bloodshed, through unwilling participation.
Eventually, it was said that having a previously ruling monarch naturally as a child would strengthen one's claim to the Dārior. So his grandfather's father, Aegon the Fourth of his name, tracked down Naerys and forced her into a marriage.
He never sat on the throne either. The Dārys got the courts to throw him into prison for DV and other convictions, and he had his throat slit there.
So the next course of events would be for Daeron, second of his name, to reasonably have four children as they did.
That didn't happen.
Only three sons were born. When it was time for Dad to be born, Grandma had an unavoidable and unprecedented difficulty during her pregnancy. The miscarriage nearly put her to death. It became clear that Maekar would not be born her son, and his line wouldn't be directly connected to the bloodline.
They would crop up eventually. All at different ages and places. Aerion and Daeron in foster care; Rhaella and Daella were already Dyanna's adopted twin daughters. Aemon was in a village in some corner of the North before he trekked down to the Keep.
Aegon was brought to the Keep, abducted by that NBA wannabe, which at the time was messy because Aegon hadn't got his memories back.
And yet.
Dad hadn't been found.
Aerion just doesn't understand why they couldn't accept the fact that Dad didn't get his memories, or he's dead in a ditch somewhere. Fuck's sake, he groans, getting on the tube. It's rushing with people. He glances over the people who have entered, but doesn't recognise any faces. So far so good.
He gets out at his stop, passes through the mall and buys a skateboard there. In case he needs a good alibi.
Finally, at the end of 63rd Marcoise Street is a small, charming cafe & bakery by the name of 'Loaf & Lute' above its front door. He knocks out the wig and mask, but that isn't where he enters from. Next to the store is an alleyway, the side entrance of the bakery opens right next to the trash. Aerion squirrels through the back door, removing his sneakers, and snatching a black apron hanging.
"Aerion, is that you?" A loud, masculine voice calls out.
Washing his hands, he grunts.
"You better not be having those earphones on."
He grunts again, senses heavy footsteps towards him, sneaks out those earphones when the source is just behind him. Aerion raises a brow, "I don't," and with just enough sarcasm (but also not), adds, "Dad."
At a towering height of 6'3 with his prickly personality filling out the rest of it, Maekar gives him a mean sideways glance. And if he wasn't his (unrelated) son, he'd be offended.
"How was the weekend, cap'n?"
A pause.
"Don't call me that," Maekar grumbles, with hair messily in a knot, his beard crisply trimmed, "was fine," he answers eventually, "visited my barber."
Dad's built like a massive truck. Like ripped massive. He looks scary mean, too, which is why he needs a nicer face behind the counter, because he scares away potential customers.
It took Aerion three minutes of observation and patience of another world not to text the family group chat. It's hilarious. He doesn't mind keeping the information to himself. Like an exclusive accessibility card, if you would. He's never really rolled with sharing either.
So.
His siblings can kiss ass.
Maekar opens the oven, and a deep, rich, nutty smell of a fresh batch spreads through the kitchen. It's caramel something. Aerion isn't sure, but it's heavenly, and they already have their first regular for the day, taking a pick of the freshest batch of loaf. Soft music flits through the bakery, and Aerion packs the bread, hands it over to collect the money.
Above them is a wind chime shaped like dancing butterflies, singing every now and then.
It is a quaint setting. More than that, it feels....breakable in Aerion's hands. Compared to his other job. The first time around, he had come here by accident. He had just finished closing a deal with one of the local gambling rings, and he was hungry for a quick bite.
Got himself a sweet, steamed custard bun that simply melted in his mouth on the first bite.
Choked on the second one when he saw Maekar serving it to him, asking him if he'd like anything else. Aerion shook his head, and then, the next day came back dressed more moderately. In need of a temp job.
"What did you do over the weekend?"
A fiendish smile creases over Aerion's lips, "I finished a few of my assignments."
Maekar gives him a once-over, "You don't look like the kind who would study."
"True, true, but you see," Aerion's smile stays, "I always finish my assignments, I like them. I get to learn so many things with each of them," where the jugular is, if teeth could be knocked into their throat. He loves his playground, and there's never a dearth for toys. Though, mom told him that he does have to play nice.
Maekar gently frosts the cake, pausing, "I forget what you majored in."
"Human rights, someone's gotta get their hands dirty for it."
Whether by divine intervention or a strange, life-transitory instinct, Maekar squints at him, unconvinced. It's a different relationship than a father and a son. Dad treats you differently when you're not his kid. Or maybe, Aerion was too much in his last life.
Which...he supposes he was.
But. He was also a prince of the kingdom. Every time he's born, Aerion is shown what he could be. It's a wildcard of fuckery all around to yearn for what he can never have.
He tugs on the neck of his shirt, goes for the water.
To be fair, even with the hired guards he has put up for father's protection from meeting any Blackfyre, Aerion isn't sure how long he can keep up with this act. Just yesterday, he had to re-route three meetings between the clans to avoid them stumbling this way.
Even the guards he's hired are contract-based outsiders and not soldiers sworn to the Dārys. He's dug the grave a little too deep for himself, he supposes.
But it's for a good reason.
This goes back to the Rūnarys. So a few hypotheses were formed over why it happens in the first place. One, fate's mysterious turns. Bullshit. Next, sometimes, when a group of related people lives closely together, they tend to receive these memories.
Dad was wretched and never at peace, even when he was King. Even if Aerion is dumb as a bag of rocks (he's not), what he isn't is a dumbass with no sense of self-preservation. And what his sense of self-preservation tells him is that Uncle Baelor does not like his dad.
To put things into perspective:
It's like wagging a stick of seared meat in front of a dragon. And the dragon doesn't attack you for playing with him, or insulting him. Or raising his blood pressure to the exosphere and back.
The dragon stays. The dragon stares, and the dragon does not bite.
See, the instinct that held the dragon back is Maekar. Is his dad. Or love for him, I guess?
But Uncle Baelor didn't grow up with Dad! Didn't have him by his side when Daemon Blackfyre bombed the Red Keep. Whatever warmth accumulated in his life for his dad is gone. Or never had the chance to see the light of the Sun to begin with.
In this life, Baelor has no love nor tolerance. He's different.
On top of everything, Dad murdered Uncle in his last life. Sure, accidentally, but like if Daeron killed him by accident in some past life, he would fuck that boy up, no matter which rehab or high-status sanatorium that little, dog-eating shit is in.
Side-stepping the fact that Aerion started it in the first place, Maekar's absence is why Aerion flies to Dorne as often as he does. And because mom is better in a way. She knows him better, sharper too, and he can't stay without her for long. Funny thing with absences, you don't know shit about what you have until it's lost from you.
However, that's not the only reason Aerion hasn't told anyone about dad.
And...it's...a pretty, big reason.
And to be honest, Aerion cringes, glancing at Maekar, unsaid words boil into apprehension.
"Matarys has a swim meet this Saturday."
Or at least that's what he thinks his phone says. He takes his handkerchief, stitched 'B.T' in black at the end, and wipes the surface clean of blood. It's sweet of Jena to remember that in the middle of the night, he's glad she's safely tucked away at home. She had insisted on coming, join in for the sake of old times. Baelor had dismissed it; better he meet her refreshed in the meeting.
He looks around the room, graciously soundproofed, furniture haphazardly turned over. Two men are dead at his feet, the blood ruining the fine, Myrish carpet. Shame. He would have preferred it bloodless. Preference is a privilege, however. Something these two gentlemen lacked as well. The scuffle at the Marches had appearances of potential infighting. The sort of thing that would pull a gun on Baelor's head tomorrow. Distant music plays from the lounge, loud chatter filling the air, glow of the room returning.
The welcome party.
He should call for Roland to fix this up. Baelor reaches for the knife, it had been closer at hand than the gun. He didn't wish to ruin the party which was kept in his honor to begin with. It wouldn't look well. Baelor looks down at his hand, moving his fingers. He remembers how he killed them. Throat and heart. They are dead, he's sure about that. But like everything, it's the landing blow that concerns him. The base feels shaky; his hand is too tight on it, controlling the movement. Like his hand became the weapon, and would that be so awful? Mother says it is.
There's a difference between a weapon and a limb. We betray our nature to be what we want. And, make-belief is not the kind of world they live in. He doesn't live in it.
That's why the past doesn't matter.
That's why looking back makes no difference.
The wine is good in his glass as Roland cleans up the mess. He wipes the blood off his face. He is glad that he wore darker clothes, and the cologne hides other unwanted scents of death. The evening is superficial cheer, he appreciates the hardworking appearance.
He feels a buzz at his thigh, ignores it in place of talking to one of the local pāsābagon. There seems to have been quite some tension, imagined or real, in the transport at the borders of the Red Mountains that had somehow not reached Jena's ears.
The pāsābagon earnestly thanks him for his words, kisses the ring. The kiss, of course, is reserved only for the Dārys and Dārilaros. The man is of a loyal kind among many who would elsewhere place their contention under sweetly veiled words. He reminds him of Duncan. Baelor makes note of his name and files it away.
His phone vibrates again, and he should have left it with Roland. He excuses himself for a moment, steps outside to receive it. The wind sweeps like a slow wave, Baelor glances at the calls he had received. Six of them so far in the past half hour.
One from Valarr, several from Dunk and the rest from Aegon.
He scarcely decides to call back when another incoming call from Valarr lights his screen up. He picks it up, and there's a bloody pandemonium on the other side.
"Aerion, you careless piece of shit! Are you insane—Oh my God, all this time, your loser ass—"
A petulant pause, almost mocking and undoubtedly, Aerion.
"I forgot."
There's a clatter of what he assumes is furniture. Aerion groaning about how he'd cut Aegon up for real. Then, there's a sharp crack, and Baelor can only anticipate broken bones. "Hello?"
"Thank Gods. Father," Valarr's voice is a thread of coherence, swallowing tightly, "Father, there has been an incident on Marcoise Street. The Blackfyres have blown up a few of our establishments, the Lucky Quartz has been compromised, they're gunning for the jewellers."
The Lucky Quartz was one of their underground fighting rings, Baelor's personal favourite pastime. He's not pleased to see it go. Another matter takes precedence which is that Baelor knows his son over two lifetimes, knows by the tilt of the voice that he's saving something for the last.
"Uncle Maekar has been found."
His blood runs cold. His voice sounds foreign to himself.
"...he's been found?"
"Aerion knew for months, he just never told," Baelor closes his eyes, spark of anger in his chest, "...and, he doesn't remember us either."
Doesn't remember me.
A flicker of interest gathers at that.
"I'll take care of it," he tells Valarr, disconnecting. It was good they followed protocol and called him instead of going down there themselves, which was likely the plan had he not picked up. Marcoise Street is a zone that is strictly non-violent in nature, being close to the top of Rhaenys' Hill. Or what was once Rhaenys' Hill.
He dispatches a few men, masked and dressed in known Blackfyre clothing. It should appear to the onlooker that they are not responsible. It wouldn't save them, but it would look much better for them if they refused to harm citizens during peril. He calls in a favour with the Chief of Police, and about three hours later, the News channels reflect some Blackfyres apprehended, none of their own men who had left before the police arrived.
Apprehended doesn't mean much. Daemon has enough influence to get them out if they were important and enough sense to pretend they never existed if they weren't. But displays like this are...rare and unneeded. Suppose everyone has a way of taking their own advantages with the country at war. Enough defence spent on the war in the Narrow Sea, the government isn't going to care for a little skirmish within the country.
But the war will end soon.
With that, an expectation of peace will prevail; all of those are signals to wrap this affair up early.
In their last life, they had successfully uprooted Daemon, and with his memories, he is more formidable this time around. Aegor, under him, had gathered men who he knew would join the cause.
Rhaegel's name blinks back at him on the screen. Aegon must have insisted he be informed. He puts it to his ear, "Brother," a pause, "Baelor," a soft voice slithers, still dressed in sleep, "Have you heard?"
"The Dārys will be arranging a family meeting soon," Baelor says, likely he won't be able to stay here as long as he had hoped. Rhaegel is quieter on the other end, he's settled alone on one of their properties outside the city, far from the apex of power. Baelor visits him occasionally when his mind is a coil of distasteful things.
"Does this mean things might change?"
"Things are always changing, Rhaegel," he whispers back after a moment's thought, "I'll send our men to pick you up."
Aerys, on the hand, would have to fly down from Oldtown, and he's going to miss an entire day of University classes.
"Mn," Rhaegel's silence is always a shelter, soft like a space above the water, where the sunlight lives, and Baelor is sorry to see it end, "take care, big brother."
Baelor hums, ending the call. Uncertainty coils in his stomach, winding in over and over again. He has forgotten his face. What kind of brother forgets the face of his younger sibling? Maekar never meant to kill him, but fate plays such an odd hand in taking Valarr and Matarys, Aerys, Rhaegel and his children, and the line continued through Maekar's.
He became King, held the kingdom together in a time of ultimate turmoil.
Sickening numbness softens at the back of his head. Perhaps, it would be different if he had remembered his memories when he was younger and impressionable. At twenty-five, when he did finally have his memories back, his life was already built without Maekar.
And they hadn't found him.
Like watching a movie on a big screen, Baelor felt as if Maekar wasn't real. Vignettes of their past life are complications braided into each other. Trust, envy, anger and love. Everyone around him remembers his love so fondly. What Baelor truly remembers is the visceral shock of a depression at the back of his head; he remembers dying in Dunk's arms.
He goes back to what Aerion said.
Yes. He wants him to remember. What use is forgiveness if it is ornamental as a jewel? Certainly, Maekar didn't mean to hurt him. But Baelor had died anyway.
Strangely, he can finally name that feeling. One that's been haunting him ever since he got his memories back more than ten years ago. Baelor stretches his hand, the embrace of tenseness in his fingers.
Things keep changing after all.
When you're surrounded on all sides, it simplifies the fight. And the fight is gruesome. The fight is killing, cutting, and clawing your way past the soil, the bloodied corpses of your comrades, it's just meat without soul at the end of the day. It's light after the dark tunnel, clawing to an end, pieces of meat stuck in between your fingers. There's always some kind of light, it just needs to keep digging through.
It happens in such a familiar way. Out of nowhere, all of a sudden. The store in front of him explodes, ringing in his ears as he ducks desperately for cover behind the counter. Grateful that he chose wood instead of glass to embellish the front of the store because a fucking explosion just ripped the pharmacy in front of his bakery.
Several smaller explosions go off distantly.
Maekar locks down the shop and sees a woman thrown off the asphalt, her child crying for help, and she looks straight at him, "Please, help," and he'd be an actual monster not to help them. When he crosses to the other side of the pavement, he sees a lone spark. Realisation settling, he sprints to the child and grabs her seconds before the second explosion.
The blow slams him down on his back, the girl safely in his arms. Maekar winces, what the fuck.
He hears the sirens in the distance, and soon, the ambulance is meters away. There are people in worse conditions in the hospital. Maekar isn't hurt, but the medic insisted on a check-up. It's in the muttered whispers, cursing the government, the stupid war, the bloody shootouts. King's Landing is rife with crime bosses, or better known as sombions, they are usually silent and have been for the past few decades, but the rising tensions between the Targārio and Blackfyres in the presence of the Big War were steadily drawing public dislike.
The Targārio interferes in a lot more affairs than crime, they've got their grubby fingers in politics, finances and international organisations. A necessary nuisance, some deemed, with a price twice its cost, others opposed.
"Could you rotate your shoulder and tell me if you feel any pain?" The doctor smiles at him, encouraging, and Maekar does what she says.
"Little sore."
"It could feel like that for sometime but I don't think it's anything serious. You should take these painkillers," the white prescription is handed over to him, she smiles, "if you get any recurring pain or sensation, you could come back, and we'd check that out."
"Thanks," he grumbles, not void of manners, clutching his coat.
"It's alright," she smiles cheerfully, "your family is here."
Maekar stares at her, blandly, "My what?'
"Your son is outside."
"Oh," Maekar says, unsure as disbelief colours his face and he pops his head out the door. Aerion is looking down at his black boots, tattoos creeping out of his neck. He stares intently at how the steel tops tap against each other, tonguing his cheek with so many piercings, it would set off an airport of alarms.
He looks up to Maekar, and how the nurse thinks this is the son is beyond him. Maekar wouldn't be caught dead wearing a wife-beater and skinny jeans like some uncultured druggie. Or with that lip-to-ear chain piercing.
"...do your parents not care about you?" Maekar asks, dryly.
"Ha? No, they do."
"Then, why are you out here saying you're my son?"
Aerion coughs mysteriously into his fists, wincing, "C'mon, cut me some slack! I was so worried when I heard about those places blowing up!" He looks at him with genuine concern, scanning him to determine any harm.
"You didn't have to come," Maekar narrows his gaze, zeroing on a detail, "how did you know I was here?"
"It's the closest hospital, and the florist told you that you were taken there," Aerion shrugs, holding onto his coat over his shoulder. The florist in question is Mirai, a Qartheen immigrant who lived in Westeros for half his life, and Aerion never bothered learnt his name. Unruly and out of the norm, Maekar judges him. He reminds himself that this is not actually his son, but he is his temp hire for the bakery.
"Why did you try to save that girl?" Aerion says, distaste echoing on his face, "You could have been seriously hurt."
Unappreciative of both meaning and tone, Maekar raises a harsh brow at him.
"I mean, yeah," Aerion swiftly waddles past, "you were part of the military and all, but like if you don't look out for yourself, you're gonna be in deep trouble."
Rolling his eyes, Maekar looks away.
Something tugs at his slacks, and both of them turn to the little girl from before. She's shy in her grip, a small flower in her hand, which she presents to Maekar. He'd forgotten her name. Didn't ask in the first place, he remembers.
The orange-yellow flower stares back at him. The girl is not looking at him, she has her eyes tightly shut. Gulping down, like she expected Maekar to chop her up and eat her. A fair examination, he doesn't really welcome a lot of presence. And, he is not kind. Which is why Aerion is a unique nonsense existing at his shoulder.
He takes the flower, and then the girl points to where her mother is sitting on one of the beds. Head bandaged, wires jutting out of her wrists, but alive. Thankfully, alive. She mouths 'thank you,' at him, satisfaction at her daughter who runs back to her.
Maekar slants his head in a nod and then turns away, "Six injured and one dead," he relays, and Aerion stiffens beside him, "You should avoid coming in for some time. The Targārio will likely have an answer for this."
"Eh, I don't think it's gonna be that big a deal," Aerion humours him, "I mean, the Targārio won't be harming a lot of civi—"
"That's in comparison," Maekar hisses at him, "Not in isolation."
Aerion quietens down, "Wow, you really hate them, don't you?" He's looking funnily at his shoes, eyes painfully crinkling, lips pressing to a tight line.
"I'm surprised you don't. Half of Landing sees the writing on the wall," Maekar squints as they walk through the doors.
"Which would be what exactly?"
Maekar stops suddenly, turning to him, "You have a head over your shoulders, no? Go figure it out, and go home," he barks the last part out, stepping into the elevator. What kind of parents led their kids to roam around this time?
Before the elevator doors close on Aerion, Maekar mumbles, "Take care of yourself, boy," Aerion's eyes go round, and if he had a tail, Maekar supposes it would be wagging. He slips into the parking lot, a little in the open with no car or person in sight. It's around one in the morning, and life bustles loudly from the hospital when he gets the call on his second phone.
His snarl is visceral, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"You know, it sounds so adorable when you're pissed off, right?"
"Daemon."
The man on the other side chuckles lightly, and Maekar can't believe it for one wild second, "You said there would be no—"
"Lose some, gain some, Maekar," the smooth voice interrupts, "the Targārio are a vessel filled with blood. Gotta get your hands dirty to clean it up. With that, congratulations, Maekar! You have earned a new mission, and this one is really, really special," there's something anticipatory in his voice, like he's toying with his fun but he's always toying with Maekar. Some kind of sadist, Maekar had initially concluded.
But. Another mission? Maekar thinks, how many more until they are satisfied? Has he proved his loyalty enough in the Stepstones and Narrow Sea? Maekar takes a deep breath to compose himself, still comes out as a grumble, "What is it?"
"The details will be shared later, but," Daemon's voice lightly licks the last word, "at the moment, we have a name for your special mission."
Maekar raises a brow, he has a feeling, intuition even, as he waits for the target to be spilled out.
"He's going to be the meat and the bone of your mission — Baelor Targaryen," Maekar's heart feels cold in his chest for some odd affliction. Like he's doing something wrong but he's never met him to form an opinion. These feelings come to him in a rapid flurry but Maekar is a soldier and his eyes are on the prize.
He knows who that is so to speak. Few in King's Landing haven't heard of Baelor Targaryen. He's the Targārio in flesh, the empire, its future, everything. Several descriptives found the man, but the end is clear, Baelor Targaryen is a dangerous man, and he will look you in the eye and fool you where you stand. He will cut you dead and bring your family flowers for your funeral. He's not a man to be trifled with, no matter how well he lies.
"You know what they say of him," Daemon's voice is wistful, accomodates the heaviness in Maekar's chest, "Iēdrosa gīdāpa, sȳndroso lykāpa, peldiō sȳndor," ("Calm as still water, quiet as a shadow, a viper's shadow,") it comes out as spit. Whatever dislike Maekar has for the Targārio, Daemon simply superseded tenfold and even more so is Aegor's hatred.
Maekar shares no love for the latter, seemingly reciprocated by the other. Their goal was simple enough— dismantle the Targārio in King's Landing.
It is true that nothing exists in a vacuum. Supply and demand are the rules of the modern market. The Targārio exist to feed on the country's prevailing weakness due to past economic conditions, the ongoing war and famine. They offer private protection and established themselves in an ambiguous relationship with the Great Sept. So religion shrouded them and turned a blind eye to their practices so long as the church received its share.
There is no external authority that can check them.
Which really fucking begs the question.
"What's my opening again?" Even if the details are to be shared, he couldn't see how the Dārilaros would be close to someone with his own background? Perhaps, Maekar might have to join as a guard, or a soldier? But that's difficult business. The Targārio is notorious for hiring cutthroat guard dogs who are loyal to their cause, and the exceedingly rare people who betrayed them were executed.
In the past, the Targārio got creative with it. Sometimes, alone, sometimes, in packs.
"Oh you don't need to worry about that," Daemon chuckles flippantly, and Maekar feels his eye twitch, "how do I put this? He likes pretty things, and you, Maekar," he inherits a devilish tone, "are very, very pretty."
"I'm not gonna whore myself out," Maekar says flatly. Never you mind that Maekar can barely act, he would never even pass.
"Told you, you don't need to worry," his reassurance is unhelpful, "he'll be coming to you soon."
Maekar's incredulity doesn't get time to form before the line goes dead. Daemon and his fucking charades, Maekar grits his teeth. Focus, focus, focus on the light. Because there is light, there is always light at the end of the tunnel.
The grime will be worth it.
He thinks of it, the way Baelor Targaryen might come to him, the way Daemon said it so definitively. Maekar rubs into his sternum, softening the cold discomfort, better have something warm when he gets home. He gets down from the bus, cracking his neck, as he walks down the street to the bakery. His place is close by, Maekar rents it from Shiera, the witch. It's not to demean her, it's the only description that authentically fits that woman.
He had seen strange things in her cabin and would rather their conversation be stuck at nadir upon any given time.
His phone lights up with a message from Aerion.
Lessgo fishing on the weekend!
:-)
He might actually concede to that, the week has been long, hard and tiring. Feels like he's waiting for a comet to pass at this point of their mission.
He keeps the phone back in his pocket.
If Maekar were a more incompetent man, perhaps, he would not have noticed the black car with tinted windows. But because he is, he goes back home, eyes checking for traps near him and when nothing is found, he goes inside his house.
And shuts the door close.
