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The wound to Baelor Breakspear’s skull is a terrible one, no one will deny that - not even him, to spare his brother’s prickly feelings. Maekar rages over it, at himself and at Ser Duncan the Tall alike, but Baelor quiets him as best he can from his sickbed.
His skull feels all staved in, weeping blood and clear fluid through the linen bandages the maesters have wound around his head. They shaved him as bald as little Aegon, too, as Maekar’s boy, and Baelor feels the breeze something terrible on what of his head is bare of bandages.
“Come now, little brother,” he says to Maekar, waving his brother down from his pacing and into the chair by his bedside. “Consider it thusly - now, you may be the handsome one.”
That draws a smile from ever-somber Maekar, a talent that has long been the sole province of Baelor and of Maekar’s younger boys and his girls, ever since Dyanna’s death.
“Nay, brother,” he says, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, “it is the back of your head I caved in, not your fine, unsullied face.”
From habit, Baelor touches two fingers to his twice-broken nose, and laughs until his head hurts too much to continue.
Wounds heal, and even if the blow robs him of half his sight as the maester says such blows sometimes do, well, Lord Bloodaven manages well enough with his one eye, although Baelor does not know if he has it in him to find and maintain one thousand spares.
“War wounds are one thing,” their lord father says, when Baelor enters his solar leaning on Maekar’s arm, “but this... This is something else altogether.”
Baelor cannot help but smile - his head is an ugly thing now, Jena assured him of that, but he has his sight and his hearing, and he has his wits, too. The King would not say something so pointed were it not for his relief at Baelor’s survival.
“My dear boy,” the King sighs, rising from his seat to embrace Baelor, sweeping Maekar just to the side as he did so often, so easily. Baelor so wishes that others would see Maekar’s true value, that they might see past his temper and his sensitivity to his honour and his sense. “Sit, sit, both of you - show me this mess, before we show your mother.”
Maekar at least has Mother on his side, she who sees the truth of him, of them all, and she will not blame him even a little for Baelor’s injuries. She may rage at him for allowing little Aegon to run off and squire with the self-same hedge knight who caused the trial in which Baelor suffered those injuries, but that, at least, he deserves to be blamed for.
Well, mayhaps not blamed. Baelor half thinks that Ser Duncan will be the making of Maekar’s little lad, and will tell their parents as much when he defends the choice on Maekar’s behalf, just as he will defend their decision to exile Aerion and trap Daeron in Summerhall for his own safety.
Aerion... Oh, now there is a dangerous one. Baelor will never admit his relief in seeing his nephew gone from the Seven Kingdoms, will never admit his fears that it was not Bloodraven but Brightflame who stole from Valarr his sons, not even to Jena. The King did not understand his more martially-minded sons and grandsons, and so thought it simply youthful vigour, but there is madness in Aerion, one that frightens Baelor.
But that is for later. For now, there is Father prodding at the uneven surface of Baelor’s head, and Maekar attempting to swat him away.
The dizzy spells do not take him often, but when they do, they are devastating.
Jena helps him hide them, as do the boys - and Rhaegel, and Maekar, but not Aerys, who is weak in ways, and relishes seeing his stronger brothers weakened in a way that displeases Baelor and Maekar both. Aerys is too reliant on his book-learning, and on Lord Bloodraven, and not reliant enough on his brothers.
They come on him sometimes during small council meetings, the dizzy spells, and Maekar seizes his forearm to ground him, diverting the conversation as ably as any more charming man in the realm, to his work as master of laws or to some other business, just until Baelor regains his senses.
Jena has a ferocious strength in her, something he has always found terribly charming, and can swing him through a dance as though it were nothing, and Rhaegel is always prepared to drown him in airy chatter when he is forced to take his seat, so he can appear tolerant and kind rather than weakened and sick.
And the boys, ah, they are his brightest lights in the shaking darkness of those dizzy spells, Valarr playacting in the yard so he has an excuse to land flat on his back, sweet-natured Matarys who has so much of Rhaegel in him bursting into sudden movement that leaves everyone around him staggering for walls, not just Baelor - even poor drunken Daeron, Maekar’s eldest and silliest boy, who has sufficient control of his drunkenness to use it to his advantage.
Bloodraven sees, of course, but there is little Brynden Rivers does not see.
When Matarys dies, Baelor feels as though the whole world has turned upside down.
Jena screams, so loudly that his ears ring, and he can only hold her as the screams turn to soft, thick sobs. Valarr is there as well, close at hand as he always is, watching over Matarys as he always has, leaning on his Kiera like a crutch - but keeping his distance, for fear of catching this sickness from Matarys’ remains, for fear of pregnant Kiera catching the sickness spreading through the city and the realm.
Mayhaps, with Aerion gone from the city... But no, it is possibly, likely even, that they might all die, that only Maekar and his boys at Summerhall and Aerys at Dragonstone might be spared this illness. Already there is a sheen of terrible, telling sweat on Valarr’s brow, on Jena’s as well, but Baelor cannot bear to think of it. He cannot bear to think of losing them, too.
Valarr is already sick in his bed, Kiera fled to Dragonstone where she will be tended by Aerys’ army of maesters to ensure that she and the babe in her belly live where Baelor’s sons and wife will all die.
At least Maekar is safe, and Aerys. Rhaegel is well enough, having run to the Vale with Alys and his children, and Baelor is only hopeful that the gods will satisfy themselves with his wife and children and parents and half his realm, and that they will leave his brothers be.
The sickness ends, and the city is cleansed, and Baelor’s brothers come home.
Aerys, in his pious, knowing smugness, has all manner of explanations for all that has befallen them, but Rhaegel offers only a tight embrace, with gentle fingers brushing through the short scrub of Baelor’s hair as he weeps on Rhaegel’s fine black-and-Arryn-blue tunic, and sings a soft hymn to the Mother, asking her to guide the ways of their parents and Baelor’s family, and to bring them safely into the heavens.
Maekar... Maekar says nothing at all, only pours two glasses of strongwine as the sun sets, and then he sits with Baelor in his solar, so recently their lord father’s, and keeps his cup full until the moon begins to dip low in the sky.
The small council begins pressing potential wives on him almost as soon as they reconvene after the city is declared free of illness.
Baelor is more interested in reshaping and rebuilding his small council, however, wrapping Maekar’s pale fingers around the iron pin of the Hand, calling on Lord Bloodraven and asking him to continue his work as Master of Whispers, albeit more discreetly. Ser Roland Crakehall is raised to Lord Commander, and Aerys’ Aelinor has a brother, Ser Harys, who will make an excellent master of coin.
Masters of law and ships, though...
Aerys thinks he ought to be Hand, as the elder brother, but gods in heaven, having Aerys as Hand would mean having Lord Bloodraven as Hand in all but name. He has the book-learning for master of laws, though, would be ill-suited for Hand even without his reliance on their bastard uncle.
Ships would go to Lord Farman, save for his trouble with the ironborn and his need to remain at Faircastle, so it is to Gerold Lannister Baelor looks, finally drawing the stubborn bastard from the Rock - mayhaps now, without his brother’s long shadow, Tybolt might grow into an able lord.
Mayhaps Aerys would do the same, if he were not so... Him.
The grief never goes away. Never ceases to hurt, even for a moment.
Baelor aches for Jena’s strong arms and lightning-sharp laugh, for Valarr’s support and Matarys’ sweetness. He misses his father’s wisdom and his mother’s goodness, too, and wishes to have met the child Valarr’s Kiera lost on her jouney to Dragonstone.
But gods, he misses Jena the most, and between the guilt of missing her so much more than his boys and the grief he feels for them all, it is as if he will choke.
When the Blackfyres make another attempt, it is so pathetic that Baelor cannot help but laugh.
He and Maekar ride for Whitewalls on Lord Bloodraven’s advice, banners flying and not truly expecting anything, so to find that there were plans for an uprising, but that little Aegon and his Ser Duncan have already done much of their work for them, is enough to shock a laugh out of Baelor, for what feels like the first time since last he laughed with his sons.
“I may someday raise you to a white cloak, Ser Duncan,” he threatens in jest, not knowing how Maekar’s Daeron would flinch to hear those words.
A dizzy spell takes him when he climbs from his marriage bed to wash what feels like an infidelity from his skin.
The small council worked for near six years to convince him of the right of this, that he needs an heir of his body rather than just his blood - Aerys’ continued refusal to bed his sweet Aelinor, the loss of Rhaegel and his twins, leaving Maekar and then stupid Daeron or mad Aerion as his heirs? No, if it were just Maekar and his younger boys, Baelor would continue in his mourning, but that is not to be.
Daena Celtigar is nearer thirty than twenty, old enough that Baelor does not feel that he is stealing her life from her, and proven fertile - widow of one Lord Velaryon and mother to another, she is a sensible woman with more of a Valyrian look than Baelor has himself, more than either of his boys had.
“I do not seek to replace Lady Jena,” Daena says quietly, helping him sip from a cup of sweetwine and then dabbing a cool cloth at his brow. “She was of surpassing loveliness, and it was clear to all how you loved her, and your sons. I seek only to do my duty, Your Grace. Allow me that, and we will have a peaceful life together, I promise you.”
When Bittersteel pushes Haegon Blackfyre into open rebellion, Baelor’s dizzy spells do not allow him to lead his troops.
Maekar, though. Maekar is as the Warrior himself, and the Third Blackfyre Rebellion dies nearly as quickly as the second, under their guidance and with Lord Bloodraven’s extra eyes.
Baelor never knows if the rumours that Bittersteel had truly been disarmed when Bloodraven took his head from his shoulders are true or false, but wonders if it is wrong not to care when Maekar kneels before him and presents him with Blackfyre, taken from Haegon’s corpse, hilt first.
Daeron, Aerion, Aerys too, so much loss and grief that Baelor can hardly stand it.
His first son by Daena he names Jaehaerys, thinking of a Good King who did not weep to his death in Baelor’s own arms, his second Rhaegar, in Rhaegel’s honour, and he has Maekar swear to protect them as his own should Baelor die before Jaehaerys is of age.
“I do not wish to die,” he says, pressing two fingers to his twice-broken nose, “but I am not biddable enough for Lord Bloodraven’s tastes - protect my sons, and yours, if I fall.”
Ser Duncan the Tall and little Aegon both are raised to white cloaks, and Baelor presses Blackfyre into Aegon’s hand and has a fine new longsword into Dunk’s.
Jaehaerys is a fine, tall boy, ten years old and his mother’s image with a nose already half as broken as Baelor’s own from fights on the practice yard. He reminds Baelor of his father, just as Rhaegar has Aerys’ bookishness and Rhaegel’s sweetness.
They are so like Valarr and Matarys that it breaks his heart, and he needs Ser Duncan and little Aegon, who the commons call the White Dragon, much to Bloodraven’s displeasure, to guard his sons. He cannot stand to lose his boys again.
Daena guides him with hands as gentle as Jena’s were strong when his eyesight disappears, and he is as grateful to her for that as he is for their boys.
"I believe that I am dying,” he tells Maekar, on a whisper in the great sept. “I have made a will, little brother. I would have you stand regent, just until Jaehaerys is ready - regent and Hand, and call your Aemon here as grand maester, if he will come. Egg can be Lord Commander, if he will accept it - trust him and Aemon, on your small council.”
“And our uncle?”
Baelor walks his fingers across the pew between them until he finds Maekar’s hand, winding their fingers together as he did so long ago, when Father came from Dragonstone to claim his crown before Daemon could and the crowds in King’s Landing scared little Maekar so.
“Send him after Daemon’s spawn,” Baelor breathes, leaning his head to Maekar’s waiting shoulder. “Let him crush them, and then decide what to do with him yourself.”
Lord Bloodraven sees all, except when it comes to his brothers.
He starts a war in Pentos, and Maekar dies to win it.
For that, Baelor sends Bloodraven to the Wall, to the rejoicing of many.
“I was the oldest,” he tells Daena, who he has never loved as he did Jena, as she deserved, but who has been his greatest friend and comfort since Maekar’s death, “and here I am, the last.”
“At least there is no need for a regency,” she says gently, running her fingers through his hair, which she tells him is as silver as Aegon the Conqueror’s now. “Jaehaerys and Rhaegar both are men grown, and as fine of men as their father. Do not worry for us, my love.”
“I will try,” he sighs, and as he falls asleep, he thinks that he sees Ashford Meadow again, and Maekar fretting over Daeron and little Aegon.