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Maekar looked up from the latches of his armor as Baelor approached.
He could have had someone help him with the armor, but after everything that had happened Maekar had wanted a moment alone to himself. Still, he did not mind Baelor's presence. Though he was still upset that his brother had chosen to side with that hedge knight over Aerion, Maekar never turned his brother away from his side.
Baelor was still wearing Valarr’s armor, dented and covered in blood and mud. He seemed mostly unharmed, to Maekar’s relief. None of the Kingsguard would have dared hurt the Crown Prince, but Maekar himself might have gotten a few hits in when he was fighting off Baelor and Lord Lyonel – his memories of those moments were vague, drowned in the fear that had gripped his heart when he had seen Aerion and Ser Duncan fight.
He had not been able to think of anything else but the need to get to his son in time.
To protect Aerion.
He could have lost him today, or Daeron.
He could have lost two of his children today.
Dyanna would never forgive him if he sent their boys to her so early, and neither would he forgive himself if he had failed to keep them safe.
"How is Aerion?", asked Baelor.
His voice sounded slightly off, but Maekar could not tell why that was.
"He'll live", Maekar said curtly, though he knew it would not fool his brother.
Maekar loved the boy – as all parents were meant to love their children, with little say that he had in the matter – but this whole affair had left him severely disappointed in the boy. Aerion should have never allowed that damnable hedge knight to become such a problem. Trial of Seven. Trial of the goddamn Seven, indeed! The Gods only knew what foolishness possessed the boy at times.
"And Daeron? I saw him fall."
"Only an injured foot."
Maekar had no idea how that alone had knocked the boy out for the rest of the battle. He was quite glad for it now, for it had kept his eldest out of the worst of it. During the Trial, however, he had been out of his mind with worry for Daeron. When he had seen his son fall to the ground and not get back up, Maekar had feared the worst.
"That's good to hear", the relief in Baelor’s voice was overshadowed by the way he slurred the words.
Maekar frowned in concern.
"Brother?"
"My helm - if you would be so kind -?"
Maekar rose immediately to assist Baelor with the borrowed helmet. It had become quite damaged during the fight, and had not fit correctly before. Little wonder his brother would struggle to take it off now.
"Visor’s - visor’s cracked", Baelor continued.
Maekar blinked. That . . . the visor was not even . . .
"My fingers feel like wood."
Baelor sounded so far away, his words blending together as the pounding of Maekar's heart grew louder in his ears. He hurried to pull at the helmet, gritting his teeth as he saw the extent of the damage at the back.
"It's crushed at the back, brother."
"That was your mace, most likely."
The words hit Maekar like a punch to the gut. He had not meant to hit his brother, certainly not that hard . . . He could not even remember hitting him.
"I'm sorry."
"You are strong", Baelor said with a slight chuckle, the words filled with pride.
Maekar only felt dread instead of the usual warmth at his brother's affection. Something was really wrong, something was off. There was a tension in the air, like the sky growing grey before a storm hit.
He removed the helmet.
Maekar heard the squelching splash before he saw it - his brother’s brain spilling down his neck and onto the ground.
He might have made a sound of terror, might have sobbed, he was unsure. He did not register anything but the gaping hole in Baelor’s skull. It was as though his brother’s head had fallen apart beneath his hands.
The room was spinning around Maekar.
For a moment, Maekar could not move or speak – merely watch frozen in horror as Baelor reached up to feel the back of his head with his hand. He slowly began to sway, his expression dazed. Maekar barely managed to get his body to move again in time to catch Baelor as he fell backwards.
"Lēkia!"
Maekar must have screamed, for the world outside fell silent in an instant. In the distance, there was the faint sound of steps growing nearer. Running. It might have been one or ten or a hundred men out there, he would not know and could not tell. Nothing truly reached past the weight of his brother's body in his arms, or the smell of Baelor's blood that numbed Maekar's senses to all else.
"Please . . . lēkia - daor."
Baelor’s eyes grew empty, and Maekar started desperately shaking his body. He felt like a little boy again, back in the Red Keep when they were young and he would tug at Baelor.
"Leave him be", the Septon would scold him. "Your brother is older, and he has much more important things to do."
Though implied, Baelor was rarely called an heir in those days, not with their grandfather’s obvious favour for Daemon and the many whispers about dornish blood. Still, Baelor’s tasks and expectations were those of the second in line after their father. But Baelor would always find the time to indulge Maekar later.
Maekar’s vision grew blurry. He had not cried in a long time. Not even when Dyanna had died. She had been suffering so very much at the end, and the Stranger had brought but a merciful embrace to her when he took her away. This was not a kind embrace nor relief from agony, it was a wrong and cruel jape by the Gods – but surely only temporary. Surely this was not real. Merely a horror story like the tales of monsters beyond the Wall. His brother could not die like this, struck down by Maekar's own hand in some bloody foolish trial – to defend some penniless knight who had been soft enough in the head to get in Aerion’s way.
"I’m sorry . . . I'm so sorry", he repeated, "brother, daor, please -"
Surely Baelor would rise now, would tell him that it was not his fault. That those things happened in battle sometimes. Baelor always understood, and he was always there to reassure Maekar. Or perhaps he would rise and curse Maekar for his deed – Maekar would welcome it.
Someone's hand was on his shoulder now, trying to pull him away. There were horrified gasps and shouts in the background.
"I didn't mean to, lēkia, I'm so sorry", Maekar whispered the words into his brother's wet and sticky hair, clinging to his body and ignoring the people attempting to get him to move away.
He had just been trying to get to his boy. Aerion – Aerion had been in danger. Baelor had to know. He could not be dead, Maekar had not meant to hit him . . . But Baelor remained still, and his eyes remained lifeless, and he did not respond to Maekar's pleas and apologies.
They would believe he had wished for this, Maekar realised, a stray thought piercing through the bottomless horror. He was clinging to his dead brother, Baelor's blood and brain matter on his hands, and people would think he had wanted this to happen.
What a song that would make, the anvil crushing the hammer.
He began to weep properly, and the insistent hands finally succeeded in separating him from Baelor's remains.
Baelor, at least, had to know. The Gods would know, and Baelor would know – even if the Realm would assume otherwise. But how could Maekar ever have meant to lay a hand on his brother? He would have sooner died himself. Only that would not bring Baelor back. Neither would slaying that hedge knight, though for a moment his fingers itched to do so.
Maekar sat there and wept, and nobody dared to disturb him.