The rain fell in sheets over King's Landing International, hammering against the glass ceiling of the arrivals terminal as the late evening flight from Braavos touched down.
There was a hum of weary travelers, a tide of rolling suitcases and crumpled business suits, but one man stood apart from the current.
Baelor Targaryen didn't move. He simply watched the gate, hands clasped behind his back, dark wool coat immaculate despite the humidity inside the terminal.
His assistant, a nervous young man with a tablet clutched to his chest, shuffled beside him.
Gareth Snow
Sir, the board meeting was moved to nine. I rescheduled your dinner with the Pentoshi delegates. The courier from Volantis is waiting at the office, he says it's urgent—
Baelor Targaryen
without looking away from the gateIt can wait.
Gareth Snow
hesitatesEverything can wait?
Baelor Targaryen
his voice low, calmEverything.
The doors slid open. A wave of passengers emerged, tired and rumpled, dragging luggage over the polished tile.
Baelor's eyes scanned each face with quiet focus, searching for one in particular.
Gareth Snow
Sir, if you don't mind me asking—who exactly are we picking up?
Baelor Targaryen
a faint, almost imperceptible shift in his expressionI don't know yet.
Gareth Snow
blinkingYou don't... you don't know?
Baelor's jaw tightened, the ghost of an old scar his nose pulsing with tension.
Baelor Targaryen
quietlyThey called from the hospital in Braavos. Said there was an accident. Said my name was the only one my father ever wrote down. That's all I have.
Gareth Snow
voice smallThat's—
Baelor Targaryen
interrupting, softerThat's everything.
The flow of passengers began to thin. One figure lingered at the far end of the corridor, standing still, holding a single piece of crumpled paper, looking around as if lost.
Baelor straightened. His dark eyes fixed on the person with the kind of intensity that could silence a boardroom.
