Chapter Text
Baelor
It took seven days and seven nights for the fever to subdue.
Baelor had been worried sick. His brother in the age of ten and one, laying on the bed with flushed face, shivers took over Maekar's body and whispers of pleading to stop.
No one knew why this happened, Maekar had been healthy and was training with one of the kingsguard when he suddenly collapsed and developed a high fever along with pox that came out of nowhere.
Baelor sat next to the bed as he grasped his brother's hand. He put maekar's hand on his forehead. He whispered, "Let him live, by the Sevens. Wake up, Valonqar."
A small rustle—a movement caught him off guard, the eyes blinked, with a hoarse voice, "Who the fuck are you."
and in Baelor style, he all but jump to bed and hug his little brother.
The first thing he noticed was the high ceiling, it was well sunlit room, then the smell penetrates his senses. Ugh, he grimaced as he squinted. The smell reminded him of the same incense his mother like to used to ward off mosquito. The second was somebody was holding his hand, he could feel the sweat in his forehead being wiped and the way his body felt so wear out like after running triathlon in London that left him in hospital for weeks. The third was someone—a person jump onto him and hold him so tight and maekar let out a pained groaned.
When the stranger let go of him and the stranger's hand moved to holding his biceps, he almost yelled out of the sheer ridiculousness. This stranger's face was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time with his dark hair with white streaks, heterochromatic eyes of brown and pale violet, a small lines and brown skin tone like the Martells—this was not a stranger. This was Baelor Targaryen and he almost looked like the actor Bertie but also weirdly younger, Bertie was in his fifties. Or somehow they found Bertie Carvel younger doppelganger to prank him and he was in—
A mirror, right in front of him, showed a child-like pale face with red dots that looked like chicken pox with a impossible white golden hair. That is not me, he thought.
And the fourth thing he realized, this is not my world. What would he do in this situation?
He bashed his head against Baelor Targaryen's nose. Baelor let go of his hold. He tried to jump out of the bed but his body would not cooperate. It was heavy and weak, all he could do was crawling out of the bed or at least made some distance.
"Who the fuck are you." It was a pitch higher than he used to. His eyes searched the room for a weapon.
The possibly Baelor Targaryen let out a grunt. "Maekar—"
A candlestick on the side table. He took it and his grip was weak but he swung it nonetheless, the candlestick almost fell out of his hands. "I'm not Maekar!" He yelled and for a good measure, he pointed the candlestick at Baelor Targaryen.
Baelor Targaryen looked defeated and concerned with his hands trying to stop the bleeding. Baelor digged a handkerchief out of his inside chest pocket. "Calm yourself, Maekar."
The door on the right suddenly opened. Two person burst out of the door. He pointed the candlestick at them, they wore armours—white armours, white cloaks and a symbol of crown and swords in the middle of their chests with swords on their waists.
"We heard yelling, my Prince." One of them said.
"It is alright, my brother had just woken up from nightmare and scare himself." Baelor said. The bleeding appear to stop, Baelor already put the handkerchief inside his pockets. "Please, send for the maester, Sers."
When they left, Baelor took the candlestick and put it back on the table, "Maekar—"
"That's not my name."
"Then what is your name?"
He froze. Because he is not Maekar Targaryen. He is not the fourth prince, no he is… is… who?
There was no answer but a silence. He poke and prode his head for a memory, for a name he should have or a nickname. He could hear nothing but his fast heartbeat along with the room seemed to darken. His name–he should know it, the one thing people called him since he was born–what is it. His stomach twist and turned. He wanted to vomit. He doesn't remember. "I— I don't remember."
A dread came over him and he looked up to Baelor and saw that he wasn't the only one who felt it.
When he woke again, he didn't remembered sleeping. He could feel the hands on his face and it tried to poke his mouth. He bit whoever that finger belong to. A shout of pain was heard and internally, he cheered. He opened his eyes to see Baelor still sat on the left side of the bed with a exasperated expression. And on the right, there was a person with chainlinks on their neck. A maester, his mind answered.
"My prince, do you know where you are?" The maester inquired as he cradled his now bloodied finger.
He could only shook his head.
"We're in the Red Keep, brother." Baelor answered.
"What year is it?"
He shook his head again.
"Do you know me?" Baelor pointed at himself. He could see bruises started to form around his nose. He cringed as he shook his head again.
"The prince is well physically, my Prince." The maester finally said, "The pox was deadly to children, and the memory loss was a way compensated for the fever subsided."
"Is there a way to make him remember again?"
"Only time will tell my Prince." The maester left with slight bow and Baelor only flick his hand to shoo him out.
Well that was it. When the maester left, Baelor with a furrowed eyebrows that creased his forehead. He almost laughed because how similar the creased line based on Bertie's wrinkle. "You truly don't remember?"
"Are you fucking doubting me?" He scoffed. "What advantages from loosing one's memory?" Okay, how the fuck he sounded like a medieval person.
The sound came out of Baelor: a laughter, that surprised him. Baelor's shoulder shook from the laughter as if he had been holding onto something and had been relieved from a great burden. He wiped his eyes, "You still have the same attitude brother."
He hummed and he tried to changed position to sitting down and Baelor put another pillow on his back. "What is my name?"
Baelor held his hands with such gentleness. He thought this must be a trick in his brain. "Your name is Maekar. You're the youngest out of four and i am the oldest, i am Baelor and there are Aerys and Rhaegal. Our father is Daeron Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms and Mother is Myriah Martell, Queen and Princess of Dorne. That made us, princes."
"Prince? like royalty."
"Yes."
"And year? What year is it?"
"185 AC, our father had just ascended the throne."
"How old am i?"
"You're one and ten." weird way saying eleven. "I am five and ten."
Huh, so when was the Redgrass happened again? if he's not wrong, when Daeron the Good ascended to throne then he arranged marriage between Maron Martell and his aunt? Daenarys Targaryen which triggered the rebellion because Daemon wanted… Daenarys' hand??? while Daemon was married to another???? Wow if he was correct then Daemon is a right prick.
Absurd. The whole thing was. This was not isekai. He refused to believe it so. Kill him right now. A quick gun in his mouth but there was no gun in this stupid medieval setting.
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, decades before canon timeline. Waking up in a different body was scary and now added with different reality, a reality he believed to be a fiction. He didn't know shit during the rebellion or who would die and live during and aftermath of it. He might have to kill himself to avoid being killed by Blackfyre bastards.
He had lied of course. He knew some about this reality and its future. He remembered a bit of his past life (calling it past life was so jarring, he could feel the shiver forming), like how he was in last year of university as a major in history and was deciding to continued with a master degree just to stop the inevitable unemployment and homelessness or end up killing himself. That was a particular hard decision. And he remembered vaguely that he had a mother and a fleeting obsession with A Knight of The Seven Kingdom novel.
Now with this stories with a vague timeline, Maekar might not survived to adulthood if he's being honest. "Kill me like for real, right now." He muttered under his breath.
About an hour after the maester left, his supposed family came to see him. His father and mother smothered him with kisses and hugs and they managed to steer away from his poxes, he had to suppressed the urge to flinch and recoil at their attempt of showing affection. And Baelor stood in front of the bed, smiling at his suffering. Well, they seemed to be loving. Maekar guessed that the fan theory of him getting neglected was false.
"If you excuse me, father. I am needed elsewhere." Baelor gave a slight bow before he left. Fuck you! don't leave me alone.
"You had us worried, son." King Daeron or did Maekar need to called him dad? Did they use 'dad' in medieval? father? Lord father? he'd figure it out as he go. And the Queen arms wrapped around him. The itchiness of the pox came back as Queen's clothes rubbed against his skin, he stilled.
They briefly looked at each other and frowned.
"My skin itches," Maekar said. He schooled his expression, he unconsciously didn't want to bother them.
The Queen pulled back and sat on the edge of the bed. She took his hands instead, "Is it true? You…you don't remember us?"
"Baelor told me that you're my father and mother."
"Yes—yes, we're your parents." The King sat on the opposite of the Queen, they crowded him with their eyes glistened with tears. Oh please don't cry, i can' cry on command. They sounded so hurt. Now i am the villain in the story.
"I will be well….father…mother," He licked his lips as he experimentally tried to used the right title, "The Maester said that with time the memories will come back."
That was if the original Maekar come back and kick him out of his body.
And then the door opened to revealed two teenager. That could only be his other brothers: Aerys and Rhaegel with Baelor tagging behind them.
Rhaegel jumped into the bed and hug him. Ugh, Maekar winced as the urged to scratch his body got intense.
"I thought you're going to die," Rhaegel sniffed onto his shoulder. Stop making him feel bad. The others looked alarmed but Maekar shook his head as he put his arms around Rhaegel.
"It is okay, brother. I will be well."
"Okay?" Rhaegel parroted. Long brown hairs mushed into his face with a faint sweet smelling soap. It was honey.
Maekar cursed himself. He patted Rhaegel's back, "I meant, fine—it is fine."
There was a tap on his shoulder, Maekar looked up and see Aerys with a stern expression like a child imitating an adult, his back was straight ever proper prince with a small frown of worry. "I am glad that you are in a good health." Aerys said, "You had us worried."
Aerys was a rigid? also warm? No, more like a child lead with logic and his emotion second which was concerning to see. If this was anime, he'd bet that Aerys would fix his glasses every ten seconds. But Rhaegel was sweet as candy. The rumours of him being crazy might be exaggerating.
It took him weeks to recovered from the pox, he'd asked to bath twice a day and somehow the maester gave him a oil that weirdly smelled like onion to applied on his skins which helped with the itchiness and overall discomfort from the pox.
Baelor had stayed.
"What about your duty?" He had asked, "You are the heir right?"
"They could wait." With such nonchalant-ness, Baelor might win the most caring brother. Nah, that probably went to Rhaegel or even Aerys. They both kept visiting him during the day when Baelor couldn't leave his task behind. But he stayed during the night, on the chair. Ridiculous, he knew that. Maekar thought that his back must've been aching, to sleep on the chair. So, Maekar as a dutiful little brother had asked him to sleep on the bed.
When night came, the restlessness came and uninvited cold sweat. He had toss and turn to make himself tired and to end the uncomfortableness just to end up wincing at the brush against his skin. Then, Baelor with all his might put Maekar on his arms with Maekar on his chest and slowly caressed his back.
Maekar's breath slowly even out and with that he slept far much better.
It was a day after the maester declared him healthy and can go back to his old activities which consist of study with maesters and sword fighting with his trainer. Which if he compared to what he used to do; swimming before seven in the morning, followed with an hour in the gym, went to lectures along with his homework and his part time in university's library, was a dull. Maester Jehan lectures about the Targaryen's dynasty entered his right ear and left his other ear. He could barely opened his eyes with the coldness of library and the sound of Maester Jehan soothing voice was a double kill.
Maester Jehan himself have a valyrian steel chain link—that was the reason why he asked to study with the Maester—he studied magic which mean that Maekar need to rephrase his questions without being sound like a lunatic.
"Who is Aegon II's brother?" Maester Jehan suddenly asked.
Maekar flinched. Isn't that the one who had impeccable jawline? He asked himself. He didn't read Fire & Blood and didn't watch House of the Dragon aside from occasional twitter spoilers. Aegon's brother with the one wore eye patch, his eyes were torn apart by Prince Lucerys. Fuck me, i remember the actor who played him. But who?
"He was…Ae—fuck me…ugh," He clutched his head. He hoped this deter the maester to continued this stupid lesson. Like let him read the genealogy and let him be. Oh my god, leave him alone.
Ewan McGreggor? No it was Mitchell, what his name again? AH! "Aemond, he used hm…dark sister if i am not wrong."
"Should you try that trick on me again, I'll have to tell your lord father, my Prince."
Damn. He thought he was slick. "I don't know what you mean."
Maester Jehan only sighed and he gave Maekar the most painfully forced smile, "Let us continue the lesson."
If he had a gun this won't happened.
Before the sun had risen, Maekar had taken himself out for a walk around the Red Keep. He still couldn't believe he was living and breathing in this stupid world. He glanced back to see two guards, one of them were Kingsguard and the other was his father old sworn sword? He didn't know their name–he doesn't want to know them. They've been trailing him since he could walk with assistance. Like a puppy—No, guard dogs. He never liked dogs.
The Red Keep itself was massive towering red castle in the edge of the land and the sea: which was cool to see the sea from his room but what's not cool is how whenever he trained in lower level of the Keep, he could taste the smell of capital. Even the thought of it made him gag.
"This way, my Prince." The Kingsguard with left hand guided him to the other way. He admitted he still didn't know the way around.
Through the kitchen, they went down stairs to a small land and in front of it the sea.
A morning light of the sun softly touched his skin, the fog has lifted. Maekar took a step forward to the edge of the water, the waves slowly moving back and fort. There was nothing but the sound of waves and occasional birds.
Is there sharks in the water? Do they exist?
He gave out a sigh of frustration, it has been a while to finally be alone even with the guars a couple feet behind him. He used to live so far from the sea, with the nearest to be three towns over, he compensated it by swimming in the local pool. He might not the Iron Borns, he could appreciated the cold morning wind and the taste of salt sea.
"My Prince, it is near the time for sword training."
The peace he felt was shattered. Leave him alone! Can you just leave him alone?!
Maekar glared at them. "Lead the way."
One thing he knew about training with sword was: it was pain in the ass. It had been two months since the pox and two weeks since the first time ever he held a wooden sword. Crazy, he thought to himself. He saw those movie and series with knights, kings, and princess knight swung their sword and defeated evil forces. It was implied that those knights had always train so hard that they masters the swords and how they came to their glory. He had fantasize himself as a knight of course but being mermaid in the pool was better. Entertaining those kids, fulfilling their wishes. He grinned at the memory when he volunteer to be a mermaid.
Now with one of the Kingsguard, Ser Crakehall.The Ser Roland Crakehall. Who was considered greatest knight after Baelor based on opinion of Ser Duncan the Tall. He looked like his actor but also not and younger, it was like the blend of the book and movie became one. Before the pox, Maekar was his squire, somehow.
So with wooden sword in his hands, Maekar tried to find a grip that would fit him. Bur before he could, Ser Crakehall took the sword and put it back into his arms. "Here," He placed it in the way it was comfortable and wouldn't fall. "Feet apart, your left foot is your lead."
Ser Crakehall with his hands on his back, stood next to him with a smile. "Now, bring your sword forward."
Ser Crakehall told him to continue with the same movement until his arm ache, to build back the strenght. This is dull. He swung the sword again. Well back home he did things more dull than this.
Home…Where is home again?
Maekar stopped. There was two swords and four hands. A steady ring blasted on his ears, he could see Ser Crakehall figure getting closer and he put his hands on Maekar's shoulders and shook him. But Maekar could not feel anything. He could not breath. Maekar gasped. The ringing getting louder and louder. He dropped the sword and curled up on the ground.
Suddenly they were face to face, Ser Crakehall put Maekar's hand on his chest. "Breathe, My Prince." A steady rhythm of deep relaxed breath.
"I—" He choked on the words, shaking his head. Maekar could feel a bile came out.
Ser Crakehall scooped him out and yelled, "Call for maesters!"
The way he cradled Maekar, with his arms under the knees and back. He accommodated Maekar head on his shoulder. That was the last thing he remembered.