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He wakens first to a sharp, unrelenting pain at the back of his head. His throat screams in agony, yet he cannot hear the sound of his own voice.
Baelor does not remember when the stabbing at the base of his skull stops, nor when he drifts back into unconsciousness. The next time he wakes the stabbing has dulled to a heavy throb. He is more aware now — the bright light of the sky pushing through the window on the far wall.
His eyes squint against it, a fresh wave of pain following as he tries to turn his head away. The motion sparks the stabbing again and he stills at once.
The third time he wakes, his eyes do not open. His thoughts drift in and out of focus, nothing forming fully — until fingertips brush against his own. The warmth of the touch makes him aware of how cold he is, and the realisation brings a belated shiver.
Then he hears it — a sharp inhale, and the feather-light touch tightens with a certainty he can only imagine belongs to his brother.
“Mae… Maek…”
Baelor tries his best, but his voice betrays him and the name refuses to come out right.
“Brother! Forgive me. Forgive me, please.”
Baelor hates it. The pleading tone sits wrong in his brother’s mouth. He wants to shush him, to tell him there is nothing to forgive, but he cannot bring himself to open his eyes — never mind say the words he desperately wants to say.
At a loss for what he can do, Baelor searches again for the hand in his. Where there had been only stiff, wooden weight, there is warmth now. He gathers the fingers and squeezes.
As he drifts back into unconsciousness, Baelor feels a weight settle on his chest, and a stray thought enters his mind — his brother resting his head there, as though they were boys again.