Work Text:
“So,” Baelor says, the morning of what is to be their wedding. If they’ve planned everything correctly, and he’s relatively certain they have, then they’ll be reaching the weirwood grove by nightfall and then… well.
“So?” his soon to be lady wife asks, settling her mare beside his stallion as they ride, her eyes watching Ser Duncan and Egg riding ahead of them. His nephew eagerly talking Ser Duncan’s ear off, but the Dragon’s Knight doesn’t seem to be bothered at all. Baelor is bothered.
Not by them, but by the moniker that had been applied to Ser Duncan ever since word had gotten around of Ser Duncan’s very emotional pledge to be Baelor’s man. Baelor stands by what he said, and he stands by his decision. He needs good men, the realm needs good men, and Ser Duncan is a good man, but they both must now weather the storm of ribald songs and gossip. Gods, so much gossip. He’s certain he has Lyonel Baratheon to blame. The bloody Laughing Storm indeed. If it wasn't the Dragon's Knight then it was the Hammer and his Knight, and he thinks he's even heard someone singing about the Prince and his Man. Maybe his wedding will cool some of that off, but he really rather doubts it.
“Baelor?” he startles, turning at the sound of his name to find Lady Lyanna frowning at him. “Are you back with me?”
“My apologies, my lady, I was lost in thought,” he says, shooting Ser Duncan and Egg one last look before turning his full attention on his, still very secret, betrothed. “I was going to ask, what do Northern Weddings comprise of?”
“Oh,” Lyanna says, her eyes lighting with joy and amusement. “It depends on how far North you’re talking about,” she says with a little hum. “But bellow the Wall, our ceremonies are quite simple. There are no Septons, high or otherwise, and there are no priests or priestesses. Just a bride, a groom, their family, and the gods.”
“How does it work?” Baelor asks, intrigued. So far, it sounds very simple. He almost wishes he could have wed Jena in a Northern Ceremony. The Ceremony in the Sept of his namesake had taken what felt like an age.
“Northern Ceremonies happen after dark, when our gods are awake,” Lyanna answers, looking around them. They’re far enough away from the others to have some relative privacy. She explains to him the traditional words. There are no vows. It will be easy enough to pass on to Maekar his responsibility for the evening, but Baelor is discomfited.
“What’s wrong?” Lyanna asks, tilting her head to the side to appraise him.
“There are no vows,” he says, she nods like that was something she expected him to say.
“The vows are between yourself and the gods,” she explains, though seeing the confusion on his face she smiles. “When you kneel before the hearttree, you say your prayer to the gods. Women often pray that they will give their husband many healthy, strong children and that their husband will be faithful. They also make their promises to the gods at that time. A promise to be faithful, a promise to be kind, a promise to be their husband’s shelter in the storm, a promise to think of him first in the morning and last at night. A promise to be his in life and his in death. A promise to share all things with him and him alone,” she says, her voice drifting off a little, and Baelor wonders if she’s thinking of that other prince. The one who was not Baelor. The one who sang to her and crowned her and defended her honour. Baelor has none of that, well, a crown will come in time, but for now? For now, he can't help but compare himself against this specter, this unknown relative of his and find himself wanting.
“I know not what the men pray, nor what they vow, but it is between you and the gods," Lyanna says, jolting him from his thoughts. "You can vow anything and everything. If you break those vows, only the gods will know,” she says, wistful as she seems to come back to herself, smiling at him.
“I think I might like that,” Baelor says, thinking it through. In a way, it seems like it may be more of a spiritual experience than the wedding in the Sept. The vows so traditional by now that none truly even give them thought beyond the saying of them. But, to swear your vows to the gods alone, to know that none will judge you for them but your gods, who you will face at the end of your life… he likes that. He likes that a lot. You can lie to anyone, living or dead, but you cannot lie to the gods. "I think I like that a lot."
“Well, gods be good, don’t let anyone hear you saying that!” Lyanna hisses, her eyes wide as she looks around again. “Don’t want anyone trying to say I converted you to the Old Gods, Baelor the Unblessed,” she says, and he can’t help but laugh.
“No, gods no. I am still a follower of the Seven, have no fear. I just… have found an appreciation for the Old Gods I didn’t have before,” he assures her, even as he privately thinks he might start to take some time out of his day to visit the godswood when they return to Kings Landing. He will always follow the Seven, especially after Ser Duncan’s Trial, but… well, it wasn’t just the Seven who saw him through the Trial. If it hadn’t been for Lyanna, a devout follower of the Old Gods, he wouldn’t have walked away. He’s not stupid. He won’t slight the Old Gods just because they are not the gods of his childhood, or the gods he’s sworn to defend.
“The fuck are we doing here?” Maekar demands, when Baelor has called them to a halt for the night and dismounted his horse. The weirwood grove shades their campsite perfectly, though they hadn't quite timed this correctly. There's still some time left before nightfall.
“Ah, brother! Just the person I wanted to see!” Baelor exclaims, reaching out to grab his brother’s arm and pull him off, into the trees. Their kingsguard shadowing their steps, though keeping a respectable distance between them.
“Baelor!” Maekar growls, though he doesn’t even try to pull his hand free of Baelor’s grip. Baelor drags them through the grove to the centre, where Lyanna told him there’d be a hearttree if this had once been a godswood. The tree he finds there has a laughing face carved into it. It’s slightly unsettling, but he’s seen more upsetting hearttrees before, so he puts it from his mind as he releases his brother and spins to face him.
“The Lady Lyanna and I are to be wed this evening,” Baelor states, looking around them. “In this grove, actually, before the hearttree,” he says, turning to look at his brother when he doesn’t hear him say anything. He finds Maekar staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “What?”
“You?” Maekar finally exclaims, a vein on the side of his head pulsing. “You are going to be wed? You who almost challenged father’s Small Council to your own fucking Trial of the Seven for having the audacity of suggesting you remarry? You are going to wed?”
“Yes,” Baelor answers, flushing. “And I didn’t almost challenge them to a Trial of the Seven, Maekar, don’t be so outrageous.”
“Father says you almost drew steel!”
“I did not!” Baelor replies, he hadn’t had his weapons on him that day, for fear of him turning the blades upon himself, else perhaps he would have drawn steel. Thankfully, though, there had been no steel to draw, on himself or otherwise. “I did not almost draw steel and I did not almost demand a Trial of the Seven. I merely… made my thoughts clear,” he says, tilting his chin up even as his brother sends him a judgemental side eye and hums disbelievingly at him. “Anyway, that’s not important.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. What is important is that you’re giving Lyanna away,” Baelor says, wrenching things firmly back on track before they get drawn into discussions he most sincerely doesn’t want to have.
“What?”
“Yes, we discussed it,” he says, as if that will explain everything, when he’s well aware it doesn’t. “Lyanna’s mother is a Royce. Aemma Arryn’s great-grandmother was a Royce, her grandmother a Stark, so you see-“
“Baelor!”
“You’re really the best choice here, brother. Since it would need to be her nearest male kin, and-“
“Brother!” Maekar snaps, swinging his hand down firmly in the air between them, Baelor stops talking immediately. “What has gotten into you?”
“What?”
“First you stand by some no name fucking hedgeknight, not once, mind you, but thrice!!!” Maekar yells, jabbing a finger in Baelor’s direction, his face red with his indignation. “Including, fighting as one of his bloody Seven!!” Maeker snaps, Baelor would like to point out that standing by Ser Duncan was the right thing to do, but his brother is on too much of a roll to get a word in. “And!!!” Maekar yells, emphasising with another jabbing of his finger, as if he knew Baelor was going to try and interrupt. “And sending my son with him! Then you send Aerion to the wall, despite my vehement refusal, and now?! Gods, brother. Now you’re going to wed some Northern maid?”
“First, I stood for Ser Duncan because it was the right thing to do. I swore vows as a knight and I am ashamed to say that I have largely ignored them since the day I swore them, but no longer,” Baelor says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Secondly, Aegon and Duncan travel with us for now. It shall give you a chance to get a read of Ser Duncan, since you seemingly haven’t already. Thirdly, the less said about Aerion the better. Lastly, yes, I intend to wed the Northern maid.”
“Baelor.”
“As for what’s gotten into me? Well, I almost died, brother. It’s like to leave a mark upon anyone,” he says, turning away from Maekar to look into the laughing eyes of the tree. Blood red sap runs down the face as if it’s newly carved, but Baelor knows differently. The Old Gods were said to see all from their weirwood trees, but Lyanna had said the gods woke up at night. He’s not sure which is true, but he also knows the other rumour. That you cannot lie before a hearttree.
“What? What do you mean you almost died? You told me you were only bruised!” Maekar yells behind him, but Baelor barely hears it, staring into the eyes of the tree. He wonders what happened to his brother, in that other life where he didn’t live. Where he didn’t have the warning and so he didn’t wear a helmet properly fitted for him.
He thinks, sometimes, that Maekar would prefer it if Baelor weren’t there. Always trying to nudge him and his sons back into line, back into the Targaryen ideal, even though they seem to fit it far more than Baelor ever has. He thinks, sometimes, that his brother would be relieved if he were gone. But the thoughts are uncharitable, for he knows how Maekar loves. His brother loves with his whole being, and his brother loves him. He knows that. If he’d died at Ashford from his brother’s blow, it would have devastated Maekar. He knows that. But still there’s that voice that whispers, that doubts. Perhaps that is his own madness?
He stirs as he feels Maekar’s hands gently running over his shoulders, down his arms and he frowns, turning to look at his brother. The look on Maekar’s face can only be described as concerned determination, and he doesn’t understand why.
“Brother?”
“Where are you injured? How have you been hiding it? Do I need to get Yormwell?” Maekar asks, still intent upon his gentle probing, but Baelor smacks his hands away and steps backwards, shaking his head.
“I’m fine. I’m all right. I truly was only bruised, brother, I swear it,” he says, holding his hand out as if to wave away Maekar’s concerns. “I was going to wear Valarr’s tourney helm,” he says, clearing his throat at the confusion on his brother’s face. “If I had done so, I would be dead.”
“Why?”
“Well, for starters, Valarr’s head is smaller than mine. Secondly, the tourney helm doesn’t have the proper padding,” he says, but there is no recognition in his brother’s eyes. No understanding. “Brother,” Baelor says, uncertain whether he even should. His brother doesn't know. His brother doesn't remember and now Baelor doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know whether this is something he should never tell another, something he should take to his grave, hopefully years from now, but well, he’s already started and he won’t lie before the gods of his soon to be wife, whether they’re slumbering or no. “Brother, you struck me with your mace,” he says, reaching up to press against the back of his neck, where even now there is a lovely bruise still working its way through healing.
“I what?” Maekar demands, suddenly going so very pale, it’s like the blood has fled from his body.
“You struck me,” Baelor says, forcing himself to lower his hand, to stop poking at the bruise and sending a spark of pain through his head with every touch. “Had I worn the tourney plate…” he trails off, even as Maekar snarls.
“Don’t. Don’t say it!” Maekar hisses, his eyes wide and wild, his skin still such a pale colour. “I-I don’t remember, are you certain it was-?”
“Aye, brother. I remember the blow,” Baelor answers, stepping forward to grip his brother’s shoulder, but instead he finds himself with an armful of his baby brother.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I do not hold it against you,” he says, before he smirks. “Besides, the Hammer is, after all, supposed to be struck against the Anvil,” he jokes, trying to bring some levity, but instead he just ends up with Maekar sobbing in his arms. The first time since Redgrass Fields. Ever since then his brother had always done his best to prove his strength. Until now. “Oh, brother,” he murmurs, maneuvering them down to the ground, so he can properly cradle his brother in his arms, as Maekar sobs his apologies against his chest.
He shouldn’t have told him, he decides, as he strokes his brother’s hair. Even that stupid, mad part of him that had ever doubted Maekar’s love for him seems to agree. But he can’t undo what he has done. He doesn’t try, he just waits.
Waits for Maekar’s sobs to subside. Waits for his brother’s desperate apologies to wither away into silence. Waits for his brother’s crushing grip around his middle to ease. He just waits, humming a lullaby their mother brought with her from Dorne that they’d all passed down to their children.
“Brother,” Maekar grumbles, though he makes no attempt to pull himself from Baelor’s arms.
“Brother,” Baelor answers, bending to press a kiss to the top of Maekar’s head, smirking when it makes Maekar snarl at him.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, and yet, I blame you not at all,” Baelar says, shaking his head. “If it had been Valarr…” he trails off, sighing. “I know you, brother. You don’t have it in you to kill me. Not on purpose. If it had happened, it would have been an accident. I don’t forgive you, for there is nothing to forgive,” he says, squeezing his arms around Maekar, to reinforce his words. Part of him is worried he’s going to set his brother off crying again, but Maekar only huffs, and rubs his face against Baelor’s chest. “Are you rubbing all your tears and snot on my clothes?”
“No,” his brother says, in a tone that definitely means ‘yes’.
“You can’t lie in front of the weirwood!”
“Can’t see them, so they can’t see me,” is his baby brother’s most fabulous rebuttal. He can’t help but remember a four-year-old Maekar, being scolded for stealing pies from the kitchen for Rhaegel, but his brother had been adamant it wasn’t him, for he’d not seen anyone on his way back from the kitchen, so how could anyone have seen him? Unknowing that was all the confession anyone needed to know it had been him.
“Brother,” Baelor breathes, pressing another kiss to Maekar’s hair, unbelievably fond and so unexplainably sad. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? I’m the idiot who almost fucking killed you.”
“For putting us in that position in the first place,” Baelor answers, even though he knows he’d do it all over again. Gods, even with Lyanna’s warning that he was to die in the Trial, he’d gone anyway.
“As you said, brother. You are a Knight, you did what you had sworn to do,” Maekar says, before he heaves a great sigh and pulls away from Baelor, and he feels bereft of the loss. “Come on then, brother. Tell me of my role in your wedding.”
“Thank you,” Baelor says, and it’s not just for agreeing to give Lyanna away at the wedding. It’s for surviving the Trial. For forgiving him sending Aerion away. It’s for not holding it against him that he stood against them, against their house, against Maekar for a no name hedgeknight.For not hating him for letting Ser Duncan take Egg as a squire. It’s for being here. For continuing to be there.
Maekar smiles at him and Baelor knows he’s understood without another word needing to be said.
“Alright,” he says, clearing his throat. “Here’s how this is going to work-“