Work Text:
Baelor had sent his maester to tend to his brother; he remembered after the horn had blown how hard Lord Baratheon had shoved Maekar to the ground during their tussle. His little brother most likely had a shaken head from the hit. Not that he showed it in the moment, swinging his mace like a madman and whacking Baelor himself in the back.
His brother was strong. Baelor thought fondly; his back was aching lightly as he found himself looking for Ser Duncan.
While he walked past men dragging bodies from the field, he pursed his lips. Beesbury had been slain moments after the trial had begun; three men were carting out Hardynd, and he was bleeding profusely from his abdomen. Baelor would send his maester to him after he finishes tending to Maekar.
Aerion would be alright, unfortunately. The gods always had a humorous way to go about things. His thigh was bleeding, his face seemed bruised, but he had gotten out better than others—idiot boy.
And Daeron had fallen to the floor, lying insensible in the mud, though this time it was an act.
“-We’ll get drunk, then pour boiling oil on it; that’s how the maesters do it.”
Baelor let out a breath of amusement at the words as he came across the scene. “Wine, not oil. Oil will kill him,” he said, stabbing his son’s sword into the mud.
He looked over the scene. Ser Duncan’s left eye was swollen shut, his face puffed up and bruised; the rest of him was no better, bleeding from different limbs. His nephew looked terrified. “I’ll send Maester Yormwell to have a look at him when he’s done tending to my brother.” Aegon perked up at that.
Ser Duncan, ever the knight, could not sit still while he was tended to; he shoved past his friends and kneeled in front of Baelor. “Your Grace,” he clenched out. Baelor’s eyes softened at the act. “I am your man – please. Your man.”
Baelor tasted the copper of blood in his mouth; he swallowed it away with a nod. “I need good men, Ser Duncan." He pressed a hand upon Ser Duncan’s shoulder. “The Realm—" Before he could continue, Duncan fell to the ground in pain, having held it back enough; his friends came to his aid quickly, pulling him back up on the wooden bench.
Baelor’s back ached further, his left arm feeling wooden and cold as though someone had rubbed mint paste all over it. He moved to try to lift his helm off, only for his arm to fall short. “Ser Raymun, my helm, if you would be so kind.”
Ser Raymun’s head shot up, nodding. “At once, Your Grace."
The other man, whose name he did not know, continued to help Ser Duncan. Ser Raymun moved around him. “I cannot lift my arm.” Baelor said, with slight humour.
Aegon’s eyes bounced from watching Ser Duncan to watching Baelor.
“G-goodman, Pate. A Hand.” Ser Raymun stuttered out,
Pate turned back to Baelor and Ser Raymun and moved around Baelor quickly after seeing Ser Raymun’s face. Baelor could not see the horror upon it.
“The backplate is crushed, Your Grace,” Pate said from behind him.
Baelor looked to Ser Raymun with an amused smile. “My brother’s mace, most like. He’s strong.”
Ser Raymun gave him a scared single laugh back.
The tight helm was removed from him; the cool air slapped his senses, and his neck was wet. He moved his right hand up and touched the nape of his neck. Pulling it back to see the blood upon his fingers.
oh.
Oh.
Maekar would blame himself.
He fell to the floor; shouting arose, but he could not hear a thing, could not feel a thing, and then the stone ceiling and Ser Duncan’s face faded from his vision, pulling him under.
Maekar had been rolling his eyes every time Maester Yormwell commented on his health; he should not be patching him up, he should be tending to his brother.
“His Grace has commanded me to tend to you first. Your Grace,”
Of course he did. Maekar thought, annoyed.
He could hear shouting from down the corridor, most likely his son, the idiot. He was fine.
Then the shouting rose in volume; Maekar smacked away the maester’s hand, standing up and opening the door only to be nearly barrelled into by the very reason they were all injured.
Ser Duncan.
Maekar would have nearly killed Ser Duncan if it weren't for the body in his arms.
Baelor.
No.
The shout he let out was deadly; the only reason he did not pounce upon the tower of man was because of the words he weaselled out.
“He lives.”
Then Ser Duncan proceeded to collapse the moment he placed his brother down on the bed.
“Help him!” Maekar shouted to Maester Yormwell, then turned to the guards who had entered too. “And get him out of here!” He pointed to the body of Ser Duncan.
Everyone rushed to obey.
Maekar wanted to stand right by the bed, not wanting to be away from Baelor. He had been coaxed into standing across the room. Maekar’s legs twitched at every one of their movements.
It was his fault. Maekar thought in horror when they turned Baelor over to reveal the crushed backplate. The dents of his mace were clear in the armour.
Maekar could hardly look at him after that. They had rested him on his stomach, his head turned in Maekar’s direction, and he, thankfully, breathed deeply.
How had he let this happen?
Baelor was nothing but good to him – good to everyone.
He put everyone before himself; he was kind, just, and honourable.
Even when his children were terrible, even when he was terrible, Baelor would purse his lips; he would never shout; he would talk to you and never down to you, not like Maekar did. Maekar would shout, curse, and insult anyone and everyone he could. Baelor would lightly reprimand him yet never insult him.
And now?
Now he had killed his brother.
“Why are you brooding so?” The words should’ve come out amused but were croaked and dry.
Maekar’s head snapped towards Baelor.
His eyes were open, the blue and brown eyes Maekar had been desperate to see for the past two days.
“B-brother,” Maekar choked out, scrambling off his chair and kneeling near his head. “I am sorry, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Hush now, I live,” Baelor said, with a quirk of his lips.
“I could have killed you!” Maekar exploded; tears fell from his eyes, and he did not move to get rid of them. “I could have killed you,” he said quietly. “My stupidity, my harshness, my temper could have killed you,” he insisted.
Maekar wanted Baelor to be angry, to curse at him, to throw something at him, to hit him. Something to show he was guilty of the crimes he had committed against his kin. Baelor could ask for his head, and Maekar would give it willingly.
Baelor instead smiled. “I live; all is well.”
Maekar stopped his ramblings to stare at his brother incredulously. “All is well? All is well?!” Maekar leaned in closer, his face turning a harsh shade of red. “A few inches up and I could have carved your head in! The maesters say you shall never use your left arm again! All is not well!”
“It is good I wield a sword with my right hand then,” Baelor said, used to his brother’s temper.
Now, Maekar wanted to throw something at him.
His brother was a madman.
Maekar knew it was not because of his injuries that he was acting in such a way; he did this when they were young, too. Brushing off any guilt from Maekar when he hit too hard in the training yard, or shrugging when Maekar had slammed a door on his fingers.
Maekar slumped, sitting back on his knees. He would never win this fight.
Baelor winced as he tried to sit up. Maekar rushed to help him into a sitting position.
“Let me get the Maester Yormwell,” Maekar said after he was upright.
“Stay.” Baelor grabbed his hand, pulling him to sit beside him.
“Let me get the maester, you fool.” Maekar tried to tug his hand away.
“You do not obey your injured brother’s request?” Baelor raised a brow; Maekar slumped once more. "Good." Maekar poured him some diluted wine.
Baelor kept a hold of his hand, like they were boys once more. “It was not your fault,” Baelor said after he had drunk half the goblet.
“Yes–”
“No, it was not your fault. Do you know why?” Baelor looked at him; Maekar looked away. "Because I am older and I say so."
Maekar opened his mouth, bristling.
Baelor snorted. “I mean to say, it is not your fault because you did not know where you were swinging your mace, and you were trying to get to Aerion." When Maekar did not answer, Baelor continued, “Do you not think I would have done the same if it were Valarr or Matarys?"
“Valarr or Matarys would never put you in that position,” Maekar grumbled.
Baelor held back his laugh. “That is not the point. I do not blame you, so you should not blame yourself.” Maekar again did not respond. “Do I have to command you, baby brother?”
“No,” Maekar muttered.
“Good.” Baelor squeezed his hand, pulling him down and pressing a soft kiss on his head. Maekar, in turn, hugged around his middle as lightly as he could.
“I still apologise.” Baelor rolled his eyes, knowing Maekar could not see.
“How about, as an apology, you pull your sons into shape? This cannot happen again.”
Maekar nodded and pulled back, his eyes hard. “Do not worry, this will never happen again.” Maekar was already thinking of ways to punish his sons, Aerion, Daeron and Aegon.
“Now go get Maester Yormwell; he will likely be upset at how long I have been awake without him to check.” Baelor patted Maekar’s hand.
Maekar nodded solemnly, standing up and heading for the door. Just before he opened the door, he turned. “I love you, brother. I do not say it enough."
Baelor smiled widely. “I love you also.”