Maekar sat once more in the same run-down house as before, the air stale and heavy. Around him stood the Unsullied, though they looked different now.
Loose, patched cloaks draped over their frames, disguising the boiled leather and hardened plates strapped beneath. The armor was crude compared to what they once wore, but it served well enough. Each carried a short sword and a hidden dagger, their discipline unshaken despite their changed appearance.
Grey stood at attention before Maekar, who sat calmly in a worn chair, his shadow cast long by the dim torchlight.
"You will all soon begin your missions," Maekar said evenly.
Grey inclined his head, voice steady. "What does the master command?"
"First—recruitment," Maekar replied.
"You are my shadows. Your foreign looks and silence make you ghosts in daylight. The ones who will move in the open, who will act when you cannot, will be the children you gather."
The Unsullied listened without blinking, every word sinking into them like carved stone.
"We have gold," Maekar continued.
"Enough to draw the desperate. Do not touch children with parents. We do not need questions. Take only the lost—the orphans, the forgotten, those with no one to notice their sudden disappearance."
Grey nodded sharply. "It will be done."
"But that is not your true purpose," Maekar said, his voice dropping low.
"The children are not only shadows—they are keys. Keys to knowledge."
Grey remained motionless, but Maekar caught the faint flicker in his eyes—the smallest trace of confusion.
"These children," Maekar went on,
"have survived the filth of King's Landing. They know which alleys to avoid, which doors open for a price, which men carry blades, and which carry coin. That knowledge is what I want."
He leaned back slightly, letting the silence stretch before he continued.
"Gangs," Maekar said at last.
"It is a loose word here in the slums. A pack of half-starved children with rusted knives can call themselves a gang. But there are others—larger, organized, and armed. They hold sway over whole districts, unseen and unchecked. Eventually, we will bring these groups under our control."
The Unsullied stood unflinching, their shadows cast long by the dim lanterns.
"But not yet," Maekar said.
"First, we build our own strength. We gather children, train them, shape them into our eyes and ears. That comes first. And you—" his sharp gaze swept over them,
"—You must begin learning Westerosi speech. You do not need to read or write, but you will understand the common tongue. Without it, you are blind here."
Grey bowed his head once in acknowledgement. "As you command."
Maekar steered the conversation back to recruitment. "Orphans are not simple," he said, his voice low and measured.
"They are wary of strangers. They will sell you out for a piece of bread. To gain their trust, we must give them what they lack: protection."
He paused, letting the weight of the words sink in before continuing.
"Gangs exploit these children—forcing them to beg, steal, or serve as bed slaves. We will offer them food and safety. In exchange, they will perform small tasks for us. Once they depend on us, that is when we begin taking what we truly want."
Grey and the Unsullied nodded, waiting for further instructions. Maekar continued, his voice low but carrying unmistakable authority.
"All of this is for one purpose: sabotage. Once we control the gangs, they will strike—hit and kill patrolling Gold Cloaks."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep across every Unsullied.
"The Gold Cloaks are not merely guards. The ones who command them hold the true power in this city. It was my uncle before, and now it is my grandfather. My goal is to seize that control."
He leaned forward slightly, emphasizing his next words. "My uncle Daemon, who is our enemy," Maekar said, ensuring they understood who their enemy is and who their 'ally' is.
"He still commands loyal members within the guards who would act on his orders. Over the coming years, we must weaken him, dismantling his influence under the guise of gang riots."
Maekar felt he had shared enough for today and stood. "I will visit every week to check on your progress," he said.
"Do not leave the houses during the day. Only move in pairs at night. Gather children and earn their trust—that will be your first mission."
With that, he departed, thinking as he made his way to the Red Keep.
'It will be a slow process, but doable. The desperate orphans will do anything for a sense of belonging. I will give them that.'
A day passed, and the royal family returned to King's Landing. Otto quickly resumed his duties as Hand. After a feast welcoming the king back, everyone prepared to retire after the long journey. Maekar, intending to head to his chambers, was stopped by his grandfather.
"Maekar, if you would follow me," Otto said.
"I would like to have a word." He did not wait for a response; instead, he walked ahead toward the Tower of the Hand.
Maekar's eyes narrowed as he thought, '
He must be feeling slightly threatened by my actions on Driftmark.'
Maekar wanted to see what Otto had to say; he followed silently. Soon, they were seated in the Hand's work chambers. Before Otto could ask him to sit, Maekar had already taken a spot on the couch, while Otto, pausing slightly, sat behind his desk.
As usual, Maekar's gaze was empty, unreadable, silently observing his grandfather. Otto, however, seemed unsettled by the boy's placid expression and broke the silence.
"How is your wound improving, Maekar?"
Maekar's silence stretched for a few seconds before he replied flatly, "Good."
The bland answer seemed to annoy Otto, though his face remained carefully neutral.
"I see… Some time ago, before I was called back to assume my rightful post as Hand of the King, your mother sent me a raven, worried about your disappearance."
He left the statement open, inviting more than Maekar might intend to share. It might have worked on another thirteen-year-old, but not Maekar. The boy remained silent, tilting his head slightly, as if silently weighing where Otto was headed with this.
Otto sighed. "If you would like to tell me, where had you gone?"
Maekar broke the unyielding eye contact he had maintained the entire time and began to glance around the chambers.
"You work fast, grandfather," he said, his voice calm.
"Lord Lyonel's touches to the place have already been removed, it seems."
He paused briefly. "I have to say… he had better taste."
Maekar then stood, ready to leave the chambers, but Otto's raised voice stopped him.
"I haven't given you leave yet, boy."
Maekar turned, locking his gaze onto Otto's. Slowly, he walked toward him, hand resting lightly on Darksister. Passing the desk, he stopped directly in front of the sitting Hand. Otto looked up at him with the same firm expression, but his body language betrayed discomfort.
Maekar broke the silence. "What do you really want, Lord Grandfather?"
Otto's body relaxed slightly as he spoke.
"Just outside Oldtown… we found large scorch marks. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Maekar?"
We now know why Maekar took all these risks to gain the unsullied; he wishes to control the city through the gold cloaks. He also knows that Daemon has a good grip on the gold cloaks even during the dance, so he plans on culling their numbers over the years and placing people he owns.
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