Chapter Text
“Has he woken at all?” Baelor asked.
Judging by the looks on Valarr’s and Maekar’s faces, he had asked it before. It would not surprise Baelor. This was not the first time he had surfaced from cool nothingness, but hopefully it would be the last. He was coherent now, at least.
With Maester Yormwell holding his head straight, Baelor could only shift his gaze: left for Maekar and right for Valarr. Maekar always took his left—to cover his non-dominant arm. Valarr was wont to take his right, ready to receive what he offered—a hand, a letter, a pear. It hurt to look at them so far from each other.
They were each so worn, but the sight was a dull ache beside the pounding in his head. It is a simple question— why will they not answer it? They have no excuse to tarry—they had not been the ones fighting for their lives.
The thought was unworthy of him, but it came anyway, like the thud of plate against stone. Maekar’s blow must have cracked something craven open in him. Propped up by mountains of pillows and surrounded by family as he was, he was safe. He was safe. Still, there was something amiss. The stitches in his skull pulled sharply but they were not it. Pain, I can handle, he knew. He knew the heat of a bruise, blood darkening skin that could not afford it. Blood bursting, warm, wet.
He could remember the warmth of Ser Duncan’s arms around him, cradling him as he had not been held since boyhood. He had been so warm.
He had gone to see him—to see the miracle: a man good enough to strike a Prince. To save one, too. Across the field one moment, and at his shoulder the next. Pauldron to paltry mail. Ser Duncan’s great strength against his brother’s, the rasp of metal on metal and the smell of blood trapped within his helm.
And then Ser Duncan was kneeling. His once copper hair, now blackened with mud. His face, dripping with blood. His one good eye, gleaming sapphire. Symeon himself, cloaked in mine own colors. Baelor had stood above him, and barely felt his hand on his face. Barely felt falling, but for being caught. And then there was warmth. At his back, dripping on his face, clutching his shoulders.
It was good and then it was gone. When he woke next, and the time after that, and the time after that, there had been nothing. Ser Duncan was gone.
There had been familiar voices—low and strained. Hands probing at him from all sides, heavy steps going back and forth, back and forth. The rhythm of it soothed him through the crackling feeling that crept up his fingers and into his arms.
“That damned hedge knight nearly got you killed. Let him crawl back to his hedges.” Maekar snapped.
Baelor felt his face pull at that. Ser Duncan did not fight with a mace, brother.
“Ser Duncan is fine—Lord Baratheon’s maester saw to him.” Valarr was quick to continue. Fine. Alive. Alive, that’s good. But fine? The man was stabbed like a pincushion.
Baelor looked at his son, who looked back evenly. Not lying then.
“Father, I think— “
The skin just below Valarr’s eyes was bruised and puffy. His hand felt heavier than normal as his thumb squeezed the little puppy fat still left on his son’s face. His son—still unable to grow a beard, and with Jena’s blood, maybe never would. His son whose head was whole and round.
“You are tired. You should sleep.” He said, the words slow and heavy on his tongue.
“Father, you’ve just woken,” Valarr argued, leaning his head into his father’s grasp. His eyelids fluttered but his gaze was still trained on Baelor. Such a worrier, my first babe.
“Sleep. I will be here in the morning. I am too stubborn to die.” Baelor tried with a smile, but it was perhaps too soon. Valarr only closed his eyes and clutched Baelor’s hand to his face. There would be no more for him today, then. He will stay with me and we will see each other when we wake. We will know each other safe. I will keep him safe. Safe.
With a gentle touch to his shoulder, Maester Yormwell bid him back against the pillows. Sinking back, he turned to Maekar and looked past him, to the door. Through the crack at the bottom, sunlight came through and then a shadow. It shifted for a moment and then stayed.
“Who is at the door?” he asked his brother.
Looking just past him, Maekar answered, “Ser Crakehall.”
“Call him in.”
Maekar crossed the room with dragging steps.
“Your Grace,” Ser Crakehall bowed at the end of Baelor’s bed, his eyes cast deferentially at Baelor’s feet.
“Have another bed brought into this room. The biggest you can find. And then…” Baelor had to catch his breath. “The biggest bed for Ser Duncan. He stays here. Yormwell will see to my man.” My man.
“Baelor—”, Maekar started but Baelor lifted a shaky right hand.
“I want him here. I want my son here. They will be here when I wake.” Baelor decided.
“No.” Maekar snapped immediately. “Have you lost your damn—“, he bit the words off too late. Mind. Have I lost my damn mind?
He felt Valarr’s jaw tense beneath his hand. As his son made to pull upright, Baelor only drew him closer. He was warm too, and still slim enough to tuck under his arm.
“Ser.” Baelor returned to Crakehall. “I am your prince.”
“My prince, your grace.”
“And you follow…my commands.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I will fetch Ser Duncan right away, Your Grace.” And then he was gone too.
Later, Baelor drowsed through the sounds of boots shuffling and the drag of furniture across stone. He kept his eyes closed and pressed his lips upon his son’s brow. It was a good feeling, to simply hold him. He had not done so since Valarr had been small enough to carry. Certainly, Valarr had not clung to him so since he was very young. It was also a neat excuse to ignore his brother’s pacing. Maekar was avoiding his eyes too.
There was a knock at the door.
“Maester Yormwell,” Ser Donnel announced.
“Come.” Baelor croaked and he watched his brother flinch. He had truly thought me asleep.
Maester Yormwell also looked terrible—at least a decade older than Baelor knew him to be. There was a brief hiccup in his gait as he took in the new bed but then he was at Baelor’s bedside, clasping his hands in front of him.
“Your Grace,” he reported, “Ser Duncan is stable enough for transport.”
“Meaning what? What are his injuries?” Baelor asked. Yormwell traded a look with Maekar.
“His injuries are extensive, Your Grace.”
“I know that. What are they?” I saw him in the mud. He rose like a revenant. It should not have been possible.
Yormwell cleared his throat, eyeing Maekar once more.
“Maester Yormwell, Ser Duncan is my man. What are his injuries?” Baelor demanded.
“A lance wound to the abdomen. A puncture wound to his leg and his eye and another through his right hand—”
“His sword hand?” Baelor interrupted. The Trial was meant to save his livelihood: his hand and foot.
“Aye, Your Grace. Most likely, he caught the blade in a defensive gesture.” Yormwell answered, his gaze fixed somewhere over Baelor’s shoulder. After a moment of silence, he continued, “There were numerous other cuts and bruises. He lost a great deal of blood. He took some blows to his right arm and head—there might be fractures but I will not know until the swelling lessens.”
Fractures mean blunt force trauma. Not impossible from a sword, but not likely either. He had recently been reminded of that very fact himself. Had nearly died learning it. Ser Duncan yet might.
“And yet, it is safe to move him? Is he awake? I remember..I remember. He could not stand.” Baelor asked. Someone spoke of cutting the chainmail from him, so deeply had the rings been driven into his flesh.
“In and out, sire. Lord Baratheon’s maester supplied him with some milk of poppy but I would prefer my own preparation and the boy is big. For the sake of his healing, we would need a litter and many strong men.” Yormwell answered, glancing again at Maekar. His brother did not say anything, instead crossing over the window and turning his back to the room.
“I can arrange it, kepa.” Valarr volunteered, peeping up at him from under his arm. “We’ll use Kiera’s litter. My household knights are strong and careful. I will supervise.” Good boy.
Baelor smiled, or at least hoped he had. Valarr returned the attempt with the ghost of his own smile before easing off the bed.
“Prepare some poppy for him now. No reason for needless pain.” Baelor instructed the two of them. His brother’s hands fisted. He’s holding his tongue for once.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Yormwell agreed before leaving. Valarr straightened his sash, set a tray where he had been sitting, filled three goblets half-way from a nearby pitcher, and placed them each within Baelor’s reach. And then, he lingered.
Baelor looked at him, and after a moment, Valarr leaned in close. He whispered, “I can leave the door open. Or call Ser Donnel.”
Baelor lifted a hand to Valarr’s chest and assured him, “I am fine. Your uncle Maekar is with me.” Valarr gave a single nod and left the door cracked open anyway.
They listened to the low murmur of instructions his son gave the Kingsguard outside and then to the slowly fading footsteps.
“That dog may have killed my son. He gelded him and now he’s your man?” Maekar said, voice tight as he whipped around to glare at him.
A dog? As though Aerion had not been the one to issue the challenge. This had started with his madness. And now it would die with him, his mind supplied before he could stop it.
“What did Maester Yormwell say of Aerion’s recovery?” Baelor asked.
If Aerion died here, he would be condemned. The Seven would be said to have seen his cruelty and struck him down for it. Maekar may never forgive me.
“He cauterized the wound and stitched the others. If my boy doesn’t die from infection, there is a chance he may never walk again. And you want to bring the beast who mauled my son into your bedchambers?” Maekar answered.
For a long moment, Baelor’s tongue was lead. Who to address—the grieving father, his little brother or the Prince of Summerhall. He could command him but that would fix nothing. Neither would the knowledge that it was Aerion who laid the challenge and had agreed to such risks. And it was Aerion—his pride on the field abed. The father in him would strangle the prince before Baelor finished speaking.
Aerion could not die and neither could Ser Duncan.
When he finally put aside the pain in his head and gathered his resolve, he spoke: “He saved me from you. He caught your arm and halted the blow that would have broken me. I owe him my life, brother. And he’s promised me his.”
He watched his brother flinch as his words hit.
Saved me from you. As we had saved Father. He did not need to say it for Maekar to hear it.
“I did not… it was not on purpose. I heard Aerion shout. I needed to get to him. They will say I meant to kill you but it’s not true.” Maekar pleaded, red rising in his face.
“Peace,” Baelor assured, “I know. I would do the same for Valarr.”
Maekar gave a sniff and looked away. Baelor forged on, “Ser Duncan saved you from becoming a kinslayer. For that alone, I will not abandon him.”
Kinslayer. At the mere word, Maekar put his hands on the bed and bent in on himself. He heaved, back rising like a tide and for a moment, Baelor feared his brother would cast up his dinner. Bile most like. Maekar never did eat when worried.
There was no pleasure in seeing his brother so prostrate but it was necessary to lance Maekar’s hatred of Ser Duncan swiftly. Their stories were bound together now. Ser Duncan, having pledged to protect the weak from the strong, had placed himself between a puppeteer and a prince first and a prince and his brother’s mace next.
“I did not mean it. I would never harm you. I love you. You'll be my king. May the gods strike me down where I stand if I lie, brother.”
Baelor did not doubt that his brother meant his words—that he loved him. Maekar’s mistake had never been a lack of love.
Baelor placed his hand on his brother’s head and said nothing. As they sat, his eyes fluttered shut and he felt himself slip back into his mountain of pillows. How many might a man like Ser Duncan need? How soft are his hedges?
“Be kind to him.” He murmured before slipping off into darkness once more.