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All Maekar feels is overwhelming relief when it's over and Aerion yields, bloodied under the hedge knight, but still alive. He will be wrathful later, his fury will know no bounds, his foolish sons will have hell to pay.
But not now. Aerion sits up in the dirt, a frown on his face under all the blood. Foolish, idiotic, dear, dear, dear boy, alive.
Maekar drops his mace, wading through the dirt towards his son. It's strangely silent, but he cares not, he just wants to get to Aerion.
It's strangely silent.
The boy is coughing and the hedge knight is standing above him, swaying slightly on his feet, his face pale and his eyes unfocused on the ground.
Why is it so silent?
Maybe not so silent anymore. There's a low murmur in the crowds.
"-your grace!" someone yells behind him. For who? Maekar turns, slow. There's something like heavy dread growing in the pit of his stomach, cold as it runs up his spine towards his throat.
Something is wrong and his mind is frantically searching for an answer. Aerion... Aerion will be fine. Maekar is fine. Daeron... Daeron?
Gods, let Daeron be well and alive.
He turns and can't quite understand what he is seeing.
Lyonel Baratheon, kneeling in the mud, two Kingsguard beside him. There's someone laying in that mud, unmoving.
No.
That armor looks awfully familiar, and he knows who wore it today, but why is his brother not moving?
No, no, no, no...
The next he knows he's falling on his knees next to Baelor, who does not move and does speak and does not open his eyes, even as Maekar tries to wipe off the blood from that too still face.
There's so much blood.
How did it happen? When? His brother was standing just a few minutes ago, as fierce as ever, trying to hold back... Maekar...
No.
He reaches for Baelor's temple and he tries to be as gentle as he can be with his rough hands that were made only for violence, to hold back the blood, hot and sticky and red on his fingers.
And the red is still better than the white bone he can see.
He can see Baelor's skull. He wants to vomit. He wants to die.
He leans down, pressing his face against his brother's, willing him to live. As long as Maekar is there, as long as he keeps Baelor warm and close, he will not die. He cannot.
There is a breath on his face. Faint, so faint, but there. It brings Maekar back to his senses. The world stills, suddenly more clear and Maekar sits up, staring down at Baelor. His face is covered in blood, his skull is broken and white, he has a dent on the side of his head.
And he's alive.
Someone is yelling. It takes a little while for Maekar to realise that it's him.
People are rushing in, crowding around them and there are hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him away. It could be the Gods for all Maekar cares, there's no power in the world entire that will move him from Baelor's side now.
"We will have to lift him, your grace. We will have to lift him and we must have his head and his neck stable. Your grace, can you do that? Hold his head steady?" Someone is kneeling in front of him, speaking to him through the fog. Maekar understands and nods. He can keep Baelor's head stable, if that the last thing he ever does.
They lift him. Maekar holds his head and he feels like he's walking through a living nightmare, the world distorted around him once more. Each step feels a small eternity and he has to wonder if they'll ever reach their destination, whatever it may be.
His only purpose is to keep his brother's head steady, even as the warm blood is making his hands feel slippery.
Between one second and the next they are in a tent and things speed up again. There are maesters and their helpers and servants and yelling and Maekar is still standing like a statue, holding Baelor's head.
Someone grabs his shoulders and starts to pull him back, firm, but gentle. Maekar snaps around, to see who would dare, and then comes to a very quick halt.
It's Valarr.
The last thing he wants to do now is to injure him too somehow.
His nephew is pale, his brows drawn together and he's speaking. Maekar can't make out the words, but he lets the young man pry his bloody hands off Baelor and guide him away, pushing him down into a seat.
He fades in and out of knowing what's happening. Somewhere along the way they take his armor off, there is a maester, someone cleaning his wounds. He think his ribs cracked. He can't bring himself to care.
When he realises that he can't see Baelor he jumps up with the fury of a storm ad they have to push him down again. Was someone working on his shoulder? Yes, someone was. Sewing a wound together. He doesn't care.
If Baelor is dead... If Maekar killed him, they should tell him. Tell him to his face. That he killed his own big brother. He should stand vigil. They can't just... They can't just take him away, take him away from Maekar, he should know...
He looks around. Recognises the Ashford maester. Corners him like an angry dragon. He can feel the fury like liquid fire fill his veins.
"Where the fuck is my brother?"
The man doesn't quite want to tell him, but Maekar looks intimidating enough that the maester has to give up and show him to a dimly lit room. There's a Kingsguard in the door and he lets Maekar in with a weary look.
Maekar wonders if the knight fears he come to finish the job. He grinds his teeth together so strong he feels they might crack.
In the room there's a bed, and there's a Baelor laying on said bed, and there are half a dozen people of no consequence fluttering around him, like ants. Or flies.
Maekar creeps closer. He can't see his brother's face, the sight obscured by three grey clad figures, but at least, he can see his chest. Rising and falling. Rising and falling, slow and steady. Alive.
Maekar could collapse with relief. They weren't hiding a corpse from him. He sits down in the corner of the room, unwilling to hinder whatever healing work they might be up to and stares out at the sliver of the outside world that he can see from behind the drawn curtains.
Strange, that the world would be so bright. Strange, that the sun is shining and the birds are singing.
He waits for hours, rooted in his spot. He will be here, wether Baelor lives, or dies. He will.
Valarr gives him a cup of honeyed water around noon. Maekar looks after him as the young man leaves the room after speaking to the maesters quietly. The boy is all Baelor at his most distressed. Fluttering around, trying to find and solve any problem, trying to take care of everyone all at once. Maekar closes his eyes.
Just let Baelor live. Maekar will let his brother fuss at him all he wants, just let him live.
It's getting dark outside when the maesters reluctantly leave, having done all they could for now. They tell Maekar to send for them if Baelor as much as moves a finger.
As he pulls a chair next to the bed staring down at his too still brother, he comes to the conclusion that Baelor doesn't seem keen on doing much of anything.
The bandages are all around his head, his face is bruised and his breaths are slow and shallow. He looks cold.
Maekar lifts the covers higher around him, tucking him in as he would a child.
He takes Baelor's hand in both of his, pressing his forehead to the familiar, clever fingers. They look strange, to be so unadorned. To be so still. Baelor's hands are never still.
...
There is no change come morning. Maekar eats half a piece of bread and a slice of a green apple.
He writes letters. One to his father, one for Matarys. One to Summerhall, for his little daughters. One for Aemon. One for Rhaegel.
He's informed that Aerion is out cold, but stable. He will make a full recovery. Daeron is apparently already going around camp, his leg be damned. Maekar doesn't have the energy to go after him. If the fool boy wants his leg to hurt, who is Maekar to stop him?
Baelor continues to slumber. When they change the bandages on his head, Maekar manages to get a closer look. He wish he didn't. He vomits up his breakfast, drinks some water and continues to sit with a sore throat.
...
The second day Aegon comes around.
Maekar looks at him. The child is so bald. Why is his child so bald. He truly looks like an egg now.
Aegon pesters him about the hedge knight. Maekar only huffs and says that Aegon may take a maester to him. That seems to confuse the child, peering up at Maekar with large, suspicious eyes.
He thinks the boy will leave, but the opposite happens. Aegon tugs on his sleeve. Aegon brings him bread and meat and eggs put together, apparently just as he and his knight ate it. Aegon pouts and tells him to drink water.
Maekar is perplexed but eats his bread and gets even more perplexed when Aegon nudges on his knee until there's space enough for the boy to sit next to him. Listens in silence as his child tells him about the expert training methods he used on a horse named Thunder.
When the boy falls asleep against his shoulder Maekar lets out a deep sigh and allows Aegon to take a nap. It's not like he's going anywhere.
Baelor doesn't move.
...
On the third day Maekar intends to keep watching over his brother, but at some point during his sullen silence and staring at the bed and the bandaged head and at the wall, he falls asleep.
He wakes slowly, his back and neck aching, his face smushed into something warm. Somewhere from the depths of his memory, so long ago, so far buried that he never ever fathomed remembering, he recalls being a child. Soft, big rooms, coloured gold by time, far away laughter. Falling asleep on the floor between toy knights, not knowing a single worry. A warm hand in his hair.
A warm hand in his hair.
There is a warm hand his hair.
He wakes slowly, his nostrils full of the smell of healing herbs, his neck aching and a clumsy, warm hand patting his head.
His eyes open and he stares in wonder, even though most of his vision is obscured by blankets, a burgundy sleeve and what he can see of a tan wrist.
Oh, but he would know that hand anywhere.
He sits up as if lighting stroke him, eyes wide. The hand previously on his head falls at the blankets. "Baelor!"
His brother looks up at him, squinting and frowning. "Mae... Maekar. Why... so loud?" his words are halting, but his tone is entirely unimpressed.
Maekar doesn't know what to say. Or he does, he has so much of it, but the how eludes him. He stares at Baelor.
He helps Baelor drink a few sips of water, mute.
Horrifyingly he can feel his eyes start burning and his throat closing up. Before he can muster up just the barest dignity, just enough to pull himself together Baelor speaks again.
"You should... shouldn't sleep... like that. Will hurt... your neck. Not good." says the elder prince sagely and it is sufficient to destroy all of Maekar's breaking resolve.
His neck. He broke Baelor's skull open and his brother is worrying about Maekar's sore neck. How dare he.
First it's his face that crumbles, distorted by the beginning of a soundless sob and soon his whole body follows, falling forward until he is on his knees by the bedside, Baelor's hand held in both of his, pressed to his forehead.
There are tears in his eyes, not yet falling, and his chest hurts and his throat burns as he tries to swallow. He doesn't make any noise for a few long seconds. Baelor lets him.
"Fuck... Fuck my neck! What? I almost killed you, you almost died, fuck my neck! What are you talking about? What, Baelor..." He whisper yells, careful to not be too loud again.
Baelor lets out some soothing noise, his hand twitching in Maekar's hold. "I'm... alive. It is... alright. Brother. Little brother. It will... be... alright."
Maekar lifts his head. Whatever is on his face must be terrible, because he can see Baelor's eyes tear up too. He speaks, his voice hoarse as gravel, but he must. "I'm sorry. Baelor, I'm so sorry."
Baelor hums, his face pained and a little dazed. His eyes are strange too, not quite looking at Maekar. "Not angry... Accident. You are... strong." he says with the ghost of a smile.
"Baelor. Please."
"Nothing... to forgive. But. I... forgive you. Always. Stealing... my best... wines. Cheating... in cards. Bonking... my... head." Baelor says, his voice soft even as he trip over his words. He blinks more now, though he seems to fight it. "I want... nap."
"Then sleep." huffs Maekar, arranging the blankets again.
"No. I... forgetting... something. I know... my, my man..." he babbles, but Maekar cannot make any sense of his words.
"You will remember. Now you just sleep." he says instead, smoothing out Baelor's frown with his thumb.
Just as Baelor falls asleep Maekar jumps to his feet with a muted curse, remembering that he was supposed to summon the maesters. He curses up a storm silently as he sets out to find them.
...
Apparently Baelor is a miracle. Such thing could have been told to Maekar by any number of people who've met his brother over the years and he would have (and had) rolled his eyes at the notion before. He's never been so glad to hear such a thing than he is now, from the mouth of the maesters.
The tell him, very carefully, that they expected Baelor to be much less himself. They never could have fathomed the man holding a conversation on the day he woke up.
Well, that is just Baelor for them.
Maekar is there when his brother wakes again the next day. This time he doesn't hesitate to summon the maesters and afterwards he feeds him a bowl of soup himself. Baelor wrinkles his nose after four spoons and lays back down, refusing to eat more with a tired shake of his head, followed by a wince.
He has it in himself to smile at his little nephew when Aegon comes to visit, but Maekar can see how it drains him. He sends the boy away.
Baelor is just about to fall asleep when his eyes suddenly snap open again. "Trial... Maekar. The trial...? The knight..."
"...the hedge knight won. He's alive." says Maekar, feeling rather like biting into a sour lemon. He doesn't truly mind that the man is not dead, but why must Baelor worry his too soft head over him, while not even being able to handle soup?
"Good... That's... good. Good... man. Mine." murmurs Baelor and then he's out cold.
"What the fuck. Do you mean. Baelor." he receives no answer at all.
...
On the fifth morning Maekar is informed that the hedge knight showed up asking after Baelor every day since the trial, swaying on his feet. He shakes his head. Persistent. Sticky, even. He tells the guards to shoo him away.
In turn, Valarr sends him on his way with a determination so alike to Baelor's that Maekar is too weak to resist it. Or perhaps his compliance is a testament to how bone weary he feels. But Valarr wants to watch over his father and speak to him when he wakes and Maekar would not deny him.
He visits all his children present. They are as exasperating as ever.
He takes a bath.
He takes out the tiny spice cabinet from his luggage and makes for the kitchens, at this point rather uncaring of how he may be perceived.
It's an old recipe, but a staple for this new generation of Targaryens, straight from the hands of Myriah Martell and many a Dornish mother before her. Dyanna liked to add more sugar, but he makes it the way he knew it from his childhood.
The night finds each Targaryen in Ashford castle with an empty cup, the scent of honeyed milk and cinnamon guiding them to sweeter dreams.
...
On the sixth day Baelor stands up, under the awed eyes of the maester. He has to sit down very quickly.
Valarr sits down next to him on the bed, weeping into his shoulder and thanking the Gods. Maekar kisses the top of his head and leaves, but not before Baelor's surprised huff of laughter could reach his ears.
...
On the seventh day Baelor is seated up at a table, in a nest of pillows. And once Maekar sees him try to fight off a shiver a blanket is added. He wraps his brother up until Baelor wiggles to get his hands free, frowning at the indignity. "Maekar. I'm not a babe... to be swaddled."
He looks rather like one, Maekar doesn't say. Instead he tries to entice him to eat by having the cooks prepare each and every one of Baelor's favourite dishes. But he only gets grimace even at the offer of honey cakes.
Baelor sighs and looks at Maekar. "Brother. I wish... to speak with Ser... Duncan."
Maekar knows better than to argue with Baelor when he's like this, so he stands, shaking his head. He almost says "Fuck Ser Duncan!" but his mind helpfully provides the memory of Baelor calling the man his, half delirious as he was, and thinks better of it. He feels that Baelor might misunderstand his meaning.
He really, truly does not wish to think about it.