Chapter Text
I feel like my head is about to explode, a terrible pain accompanied by the burning sensation throughout my body. I can barely move. The last thing I remember is being on a bus heading home, returning from a trip to visit my aunt and uncle in a town a few hours away. God, every time I breathe and my chest expands, thanks to the air I so desperately need, I feel like it's going to tear apart.
I'm lying in a bed, I think. Am I in a hospital or an ambulance? How much time has passed since the accident? I don't have the strength to think about it, but I've always been stubborn, so I make a small effort to open my eyes. When I finally manage to do so, the sight that greets me is not what I expected.
I'm in a dark room — I think it's night. It's a rustic place, well-furnished but sparsely decorated, lit by a few candles on a piece of furniture in front of me. The place seems vaguely familiar, but I can't remember why. I manage to turn my head slightly, and I see him.
Maekar Targaryen, almost exactly as he appears in the show I just finished watching with my friends last week. I don't know the actor's name, but this version, while similar, also vaguely reminds me of an older Henry Cavill. When I see him, he appears to be asleep, but curiously, as I stare at him, a wave of memories floods my mind.
Maekar and a beautiful woman — stunning, with black hair and purple eyes — smiling as they watch me play with a wooden dragon. Maekar teaching me to fish in a stream, surrounded by a forest in midsummer. Maekar hugging me after giving me my very own charcoal-colored horse. A thousand and one memories that only worsen my headache.
Is this a dream? It doesn't feel like a dream; it feels so real. The pain, physical and mental. The memories — not all of them are happy. I see the black-haired woman lying on a bed, two painted stones resting over her eyes. I remember the confusion and the agony. I remember... God, I remember making life hell for my brothers, for servants, for squires. In that moment, I realize that I am Aerion Targaryen. Though I can't tell if it's a dream or not, the pain is too real.
I stare at Maekar for what I think are minutes, maybe hours — I really don't know. I'm crying — from the pain, from the memories, from the accident. I'm so confused. Honestly, in my entire life, I've never found myself in a situation like this, so abruptly. What am I supposed to do?
Even though my body — Aerion's body — screams at me not to move, I manage to sit up as best I can in the bed. I look at Maekar again and think about what I should say. I'm still not sure if I'm in a nightmare or some cruel joke by an Eastern god — I think that reincarnating as one of the most loathsome characters in George R. R. Martin's is a terribly dark joke. Finally, I decide to play it safe and get into character somewhat, even if just a little.
"Father?" I say in a hoarse voice, barely a whisper. The imposing silver-haired warrior wakes instantly, opening his eyes and locking them onto mine. His violet eyes show concern, and a second later, a grimace of disappointment. My father has particularly expressive eyes too — I recognize that hint of disappointment in his gaze. I learned what that meant long ago. Too many disappointments in my life, and from what I've seen in this body's memories, Aerion has also learned to interpret the meaning of that look, not long ago.
"Son? You shouldn't be awake. Sleep. You must rest — the maester conveyed his concern about your recovery." His tone is bitter, resigned, weary. Pain and guilt behind every word, and a great deal of fury that he lacks the strength to unleash freely.
Swallowing some saliva, I prepare to continue speaking. Maybe I'm in a nightmare, maybe not. Maybe I'm in a coma in a hospital, or maybe I've been given a chance in another world. Strangely, for some reason, I feel the second option is the most likely.
"I'm sorry, Father. I'm sorry for everything that—"
"Enough," Maekar cuts me off abruptly, like a sword blade slicing through flesh — blunt and unapologetic.
"Do you really think that after everything you've caused, all the deaths your actions have brought about, you have any right to feel remorse? No. I know you, boy. The only thing you feel is regret that you didn't manage to kill that damn hedge knight."
I close my eyes briefly, hurt by his words. I'm not responsible for what happened at the tourney and the trial, but with the memories crashing into my mind like waves eroding the shores of my consciousness, I can't help but feel guilt.
"Father, truly, I didn't want to—" I'm cut off again, unable to finish my words.
"Enough of this fucking shit," Maekar says, suddenly rising from the chair where he was sitting. He stumbles briefly — I assume due to his injuries and bruises. He stares at me, holding back all his anger and pain as best he can.
"Baelor. The crown prince. The Hand of the King. My... brother. He is dead because of me, because I defended you at trial as any father must defend his children. Ser Humfrey Beesbury and Ser Humfrey Hardyng are also dead — two knights of the realm. Men of honor and integrity whom you could never hope to remotely resemble, boy. Good and brave men have died because of your cruelty and stupidity. I should have realized the monster you were becoming. I should have fucking listened to Daeron and Aegon... Your mother would be horrified by your actions — horrified to see what you've turned into."
I close my eyes again, feeling tears well up and spill down my cheeks, swollen with bruises. When I open them again, I lower my gaze, unable to look that man in the face — a man so disappointed by Aerion's actions, my actions now. The memories of how I broke that mummer's fingers flood back to me. Every small act of cruelty toward my brothers, as vividly as if I had been the one responsible.
Maekar lets out a weary sigh and practically collapses back into the chair beside the bed. "I have sent a raven to the king. You will be exiled from the Seven Kingdoms until His Grace decides the punishment is sufficient. If you attempt to return without royal permission, you will be disinherited and sent to the Wall." His voice is so harsh and raspy — determined and pained in equal measure. A man broken on the inside.
For a moment, I remain silent. I will be sent to a port with maesters until I recover, then immediately put on the first ship bound for Lys. At least that's the city mentioned where Aerion is exiled in the story. There's truly nothing I can say to change that fate. Honestly, it's even a mild punishment for what happened during the tourney at Ashford Meadow.
"I will board the first ship to the Free Cities, Father." I resign myself to say, barely a whisper.
Maekar rises again. This time, he manages not to stumble and adopts an upright, formal posture worthy of a prince. "Good. Now rest. We leave at the morrow." Without another word, he walks toward the door.
In the doorway, despite the darkness, I can see him slightly turn his head to cast one last look at me. Then he crosses the threshold, closing the door behind him. I remain silent, staring at the ceiling, wondering what sins I could have committed to deserve this punishment.