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She rushed in and at the sight of her husband, she halted as if shot by an arrow, an unnatural jolt backwards, stumbling in her steps. Her eyes welled up. She did not permit such a thing, but they did so involuntarily.
Maekar was there, barely looking at her, sitting vigil by her husband's side. There was another man, also, a big hulking figure who sat in the corner and looked almost as pale as Baelor did.
She covered her mouth, but no sob came to stifle. She was going to be sick; no, she could take it, it was merely the ground underneath her shaking and she had faced enough earthquakes in her lifetime to find her footing. She felt everyone's eyes on her, waiting for hysterics no doubt, perhaps an excuse to escort her out. But she held on, with all of her being, sinking her claws to sanity even as it begged her to let go and succumb to darkness. She stopped at the end of his bed. Didn't touch him, just looked. Just looked. As if it would help.
She knew the figures by Baelor's sickbed – it was his murderer and the fucking hedge knight that killed him. At least Maekar had the sense to avert his eyes. It had been Maekar's letter that had reached Dragonstone first. He had confessed to the deed himself, written in his own damned hand, and on the way here she had planned many things, to say and to do to him as they reunited. Violent, peaceful, vicious, cold, her plans capricious and uncertain; and as she stood here now she found that she had nothing to say to him.
The hedge knight was staring, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His eyes were sunken and dark, his skin had a sickly pallor to it and she wondered briefly how gravely he had been injured in the trial as well, to look like this. Or perhaps it was just a performance of penance. Loyalty mattered to Baelor, always had. He would have appreciated this man by his bedside, she had no doubt, both of these men, but she only felt a cold rage that threatened to brittle her. This hedge knight, the reason her husband had thrown away all reason and risked his life, gone against his family... here he was, for her to tear apart and punish. And yet in his eyes she saw the only emotion that mattered: blind devotion.
For both of these men their penance and atonement lie here, in these sweaty sheets. Her whole world. Aerion was lucky he was off to the east. Or would her traitorous mind find a way to absolve him too? She was under siege, her heart trembling with fear and fury, but her mind forbid her from falling apart like she wanted to, from making a big scene of screams and insults and hysteric crying, all of which sounded and felt tempting but would, in the end, not help Baelor get any better.
And now she dared to truly, finally, look at her husband. He looked at peace, but she knew that to be from the sedatives, keeping him from too much pain. At least that was what Maekar had said in his letter – she was no Maester. She did not know. But she hoped it was the case, that her husband was now in some drugged up dream and not stuck inside his body, the way mortals were.
She dropped her hand from her mouth.
"You," she said to the hedge knight. "Out."
"He will not go," Maekar said.
"You have done enough," she said, not unkindly, but the meaning was still clear.
"My lady," the hedge knight’s voice a low boom, "forgive me, but—"
"He might as well be his shadow," Maekar continued, as if her word meant nothing here.
"Ser knight, I am not asking you," she talked over Maekar. "Give me a moment with my husband. Without the sight of you."
The hedge knight wavered, and then with stiff movements got up (further confirming her suspicion of a grave injury) and left the room.
"A miracle," Maekar muttered.
How he had the energy to be glib in a moment like this, she did not know. Perhaps he had already gotten used to the sight of his brother sickly pale and still as death.
She had no power to chase him out, so she picked up a stool and sat by Baelor's side, opposite Maekar.
"How is he?" she asked.
"Fuck if I know," Maekar said, though there was a gentle quiet to his tone. "The Maesters say he's getting better but all he does is lie still." He frowned. "He whimpers sometimes. In pain, I believe. He's still too weak and unwell to be properly awake but..." He trailed off.
"Was it really you who did it?" she blurted out.
He looked at her, and now that she looked closer she saw that he was in the same state of the hedge knight, dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks sunken in.
"Yes," he said. "It was my mace that found its mark."
She said nothing. Her gaze slid to her husband's still form. His chest was rising and falling evenly. She could see the sharp jut of his collarbone where he had lost weight, muscles atrophied by lying still.
"I had many things to say to you, on the way here."
Maekar did not quip back carelessly this time. "Where is Matarys?"
"With Valarr." She swallowed. "Valarr did not think it wise for him to see his father yet."
Maekar raised a brow. "And what do you think?"
"Matarys might have tried killing the hedge knight. He can have such a temper."
"I think he might have let it happen," Maekar scoffed. "He's like a dog." Said like a man who had never been fond of animals. "Thinks that sitting here will fix anything."
"Is that why you're here?"
"I am here to see my brother," Maekar said with great fondness. "I'll atone to him once he wakes. If he'll let me."
He probably wouldn't.
Maekar had been protecting his son, was all. It was her husband who had gone against him. The easy thing to do would have been to sit back, let the events run their course, let Aerion have his way. And her husband had chosen another option.
Perhaps she should be proud – and in other circumstances she would be brimming with it. Her husband had done the honourable thing, that was all everyone could talk about, and he had risked everything for this hedge knight, for honor and chivalry. And were those not noble goals, were they not virtues? And yet all she could feel was that cold, fragile rage that rattled her to the core. She could not direct it towards Baelor, had no strength to do so, so any other target would do, and Aerion was too far away now to take blame. So here was Maekar. Here was the hedge knight.
"What was the hedge knight's name again?" she asked, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
"Ser Duncan the Tall." Maekar's voice dripped with disdain, his distaste for the man obvious. "Aegon is very taken with him."
"Is that so?" She could almost muster up something like interest. "What happened there?"
"It's a long story." Maekar smoothed a wrinkle on his brother's blanket. "But it leads here." His hand stayed there and for a moment he looked at Baelor with such longing that it was painful to watch. She wondered how much time he spent here standing vigil, neglecting his duties as he looked over his big brother. They were all children, in the end, in the face of great tragedy.
"I want to speak with him."
Maekar glanced at her from under his brow. "Well you just sent him out."
"Later," she snapped. "Now I'm only concerned for my husband. I do not... wish to see the hedge knight yet. I might do unwise things in my rage as well."
Maekar stayed silent for a moment. "You hide it better these days."
She wanted to be vicious. Wanted to be cruel to him. But propriety and her affection for Maekar if only through Baelor weighed on her like a stone. She felt the shackles of the house of Targaryen tightening around her, everything she represented now that Baelor was here on his… sickbed. She had abandoned Dragonstone, that was bad enough – but to throw a tantrum in front of her husband’s brother? It was unacceptable.
“I have to,” she said.
She looked at Baelor again. His face was serene in sleep and he looked so frighteningly pale that she had half the mind to put her hand under his nose to check that he was truly still breathing and had not succumbed while they spoke. But his chest was rising and falling. Very slowly, as if a deer stepping on brittle ice, she rested her hand on Baelor’s arm.
He was warm. He was there. It was so real, suddenly, the situation finally crashing down on her, and she had to bite her cheek to hold the emotion at bay.
“Will he live?” she asked quietly.
Maekar swallowed, and nodded. “It seems so.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and clutched Baelor’s arm, her other hand fumbling to hold his lax fingers. “Good,” she managed, voice raw, and then could speak no longer.
Sitting with her husband’s murderer, she felt almost at peace for the first time in weeks.
After sitting in the room for who knows how long, she finally stood. Maekar blinked at her slowly, as if not comprehending what she was doing.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To fetch Matarys,” she said, “and then see the hedge knight.” She frowned. “He is injured as well.”
Maekar scoffed. “He is,” he said, and offered no further explanation.
“Has he refused treatment?”
“I don’t know.” Maekar sneered. “Nor do I care.”
“Alright,” she said then, promising herself to ask the hedge knight – Ser Duncan – about it. She took a final look at her husband. She wanted to caress his face, wanted to run her fingers through his hair, but she was too afraid to touch his head, in fear of injuring him again.
She took her leave, did not bid Maekar farewell as she would most likely see him soon again, there by Baelor’s side.
It did not take long to find Matarys. He was standing in the hallway, pacing back and forth as Valarr stood vigil next to him. As the door closed, Matarys looked up and paled. She tried for a smile but it fell short.
“How is he?” Matarys asked, his voice quivering.
She and Valarr exchanged a look. “He is sleeping,” she said. “He is… very badly injured, as we were told.”
“I still don’t think he should go there,” Valarr said. “It is not a pretty sight.”
Valarr had of course been there when his father had fallen. It had been his armour that Baelor had been wearing, and she had heard it speculated that if Baelor had worn a fitting helmet, perhaps…
Perhaps he would be equally bedridden then. Or dead. But she was certain that it weighed on Valarr.
“No!” Matarys argued, and then blushed when she and Valarr shushed him. “I want to see him. I do not care.”
She worried her lip and then made eye contact with Valarr. “Will you take him? I have to go find the hedge knight.”
“Was that the big man who just walked past us?” Matarys asked Valarr, and Valarr nodded.
“Fine,” he said, and turned to his brother. “Listen to what I say, alright? Do not touch him, do not make noise, and do not talk back to uncle Maekar.”
“Why is uncle there?” Matarys frowned.
“What do you think?”
Valarr’s question hung in the air heavy. She sighed and then said, “I must go before the hedge knight keels over.” She faltered. She didn’t know what to say, to these two boys who had already lost a mother, who had almost lost their sole parent. “Now we need courage, boys. Treat him gently.”
“Which one of them?” Valarr asked and she gave him a tired look.
“Whichever you like.”
They walked past her to the door of the bedchamber and she saw Matarys hesitate touching the doorhandle, glancing at her as if for support.
She swallowed and then gave an encouraging nod. Matarys opened the door. She did not stay to watch.
Summerhall was vast and it turned out to be surprisingly difficult to find such a big man as the hedge knight. She tried asking around and was pointed to different directions, and she wondered if the knight had gone mad, walking from one room to another as if in haze. She had half the mind to go back and fetch a Maester to see if anything could be done to this madness.
Finally she arrived at the inner courtyard and as she pondered where she would head next to look for the hedge knight, she then saw him sitting on a bench, leaning against the wall of the courtyard. Next to him was young Aegon, explaining something with great enthusiasm, and the hedge knight was clearly feeling out of sorts but still listening, keenly. He made comments in the middle of Aegon’s explanation which only prompted a longer story from the boy, and for a moment she just watched the two.
What had happened between those two? How had Aegon befriended an unknown hedge knight? And what did it have to do with her husband’s current state? She had many questions and none of the answers, but first she had to talk to the knight.
“Ser Duncan,” she roused his attention. Both Aegon and Ser Duncan looked up at her voice, and the hedge knight scrambled to stand up, though with such great difficulty that Aegon had to take him by the forearm and steady him. How he could do it without keeling right over with the hedge knight, she did not know, but she was impressed nonetheless.
“Milady,” Ser Duncan bowed to her as she walked over, holding the hem of her dress so it would not drag on the ground.
“Sit, please, ser,” she said. Aegon looked up at her with a dubious expression and then tugged the knight by the arm, and the knight sat down with a wince. “Aegon, would you be dear and get the good knight a meal from the kitchens?”
“But—” the young prince tried but she gave him a sharp look.
“Now, Aegon.” She looked at the knight again. “Ser Duncan here looks like he has not eaten in days.”
“He almost hasn’t,” Aegon mumbled and then took off towards the outer courtyard where the kitchens were situated. She watched after him and wondered when he had grown into such a loyal, obedient boy. She hoped he would not get distracted on the way.
“Milady, you did not have to—” Ser Duncan tried but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.
“How will you guard my husband’s bedside if you are famished and unwell?” she countered. “He would not appreciate you wasting away while he recovers.”
“His Grace…” Ser Duncan began and then his expression closed off into one of regret and guilt. “I’m sorry, milady. It is because of me that he is lying in that bed.”
She crossed her arms, fiddling her wedding ring with her thumb. “So he is.” She did not feel like sparing words, not with him. “Tell me, ser knight, what exactly happened. My goodbrother would not give me details.” He had given her a summary of the events, but she wanted the facts, wanted to know what had transpired. Wanted to know what was so special about this hedge knight that he would nearly give his life for him.
Ser Duncan sighed deeply and then began his story.
It was truly a tale – of him finding Aegon in an inn and taking him along to the tourney, the incident with the puppeteers and his talk with Baelor. Aerion challenging him to the Trial of Seven – and she felt that hatred even more keenly now – and the struggle to find the seven knights.
Her husband’s triumphant arrival. The fight. Baelor collapsing into Ser Duncan’s arms.
She listened, breathing evenly through the story. She covered the shaking of her hands by digging her fingers into the sleeves, holding on for dear life. As Ser Duncan spoke, her heart sank further and further, understanding the magnitude of her husband’s decision, the motives, the repercussions for the realm.
The chivalry he had shown. The blind loyalty he had earned with this act.
“I see,” she said once Ser Duncan was finished. “And how fare you, ser knight?”
“Me?” Ser Duncan looked confused, as if his own wellbeing had not occurred to him.
“Have you been to the Maester? To see to your wounds?”
Ser Duncan pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded.
“When was this?” she asked.
He hesitated. “I do not remember.”
She wanted to call him out on his lie, but there was a possibility that he really did not know – she knew how days could blur together, how time would disappear and slow down and quicken with each heartbeat. She had experienced it on the way to Summerhall, how the days and hours lost their meaning as she feared the worst.
She felt faint and briefly closed her eyes. Then she approached the bench and sat down next to the knight.
“Ser Duncan,” she began, “you have met my husband at his most magnanimous and selfless. I hear you have sworn yourself to him.”
“I have.”
“He is a good man,” she continued. She folded her hands in her lap, willed them to stop trembling. “He cares about justice. Duty. No matter how big or small the person, he is willing to lend his ear.”
“Yes,” Ser Duncan said with confidence he didn’t have the right to have. “He is a great prince. And will make a great king.”
She bit her lip. Her tone was colder now, “But he is a prince. He is a Targaryen. When he overcomes this,” and the crucial word here was when, “he may not always be the bastion of virtue you have seen so far. Are you willing to follow him even when he is selfish? When he acts like a Targaryen?”
Ser Duncan seemed confused. “I do not understand, milady.”
“When he has to make a tough decision and it’s the worse one.” She smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt. “When he does not choose the right thing, or decides to not act at all. When it would be safer for him to stay out of it and let injustice happen, for the greater good.” She looked at him now. “Or the good of the House.”
“Milady—”
“If he allows incest in the family?”
Ser Duncan looked taken aback.
“Surely you know,” she smiled at him, like one would to a child. “Does that not turn your stomach, Ser Duncan?”
“I—” Ser Duncan seemed to have lost his ability to talk.
“Serving this House is a sacrifice, Ser Duncan,” she said firmly. “You have to look away from certain things to be able to sleep your nights. You may have sworn loyalty to my husband but I want to know if you are truly ready to stand by his side or will you abandon him the moment he does something you cannot agree with.”
Ser Duncan frowned, as if thinking over her words. She really hoped he did.
“And if,” she continued, softer, “there comes another war? Will you take arms and stand with him?”
Ser Duncan then met her eyes.
“Milady,” he said, “I understand you are trying to scare me off. Show me a coward. And perhaps I deserve such treatment after being the reason for his Grace’s… state. But I am a knight. I swore loyalty to him and my word stands.” He sniffed, bracing himself. “And when he goes astray… I will be there to remind him of the right thing to do.”
She stared at him and then laughed, the sound escaping her unbidden.
“You?” she gasped. “You would be the one to set him right?”
Ser Duncan had the sense to look embarrassed by such a declaration, but nodded. “If that’s what it takes.”
Her laughter petered away, and she pressed her hand to her chest.
“Perhaps I should apologise,” she said. She studied him for a moment. “I am antagonizing you. I am angry at you, Ser Duncan. Because of you, perhaps irreparable damage has been done. But I cannot bring myself to disdain the loyalty you have for my husband.” She took a deep breath. “Very well. But I do mean it, Ser Duncan – you should take better care of yourself. My husband will not get better any faster by you hounding his bedside. You need to eat, to recover, to be able to serve him.”
“Yes, milady,” he said, chastened. He then looked at her for a long moment. “Is… is milady alright?” It came out so earnest that it took her by surprise, the genuine care for the acerbic princess consort.
She gave a small laugh, but it fell short. Suddenly she felt tired. Old, beyond her years. “No,” she said.
“Oh,” was all Ser Duncan had to say to that.
For a moment she feared he would try to comfort her, try to offer her kind words when she wanted none, but he just stayed quiet, watching her. Birth and status hung between them like heavy clouds, the two of them only united in grief.
That was when Aegon trotted back, bearing a bowl of soup of some kind and a loaf of bread. He approached them with a wide smile and her heart softened at the sight. At least there was one child in the castle capable of joy and cheer.
“Ser Duncan, I got your food,” Aegon pointed out the obvious and Ser Duncan’s eyes got an edge of fondness in them that she found herself appreciating.
She stood up and dusted her skirt.
“It was good talking to you, ser,” she said. “I assume we will meet again. Farewell.”
“Farewell, milady,” Ser Duncan replied stiffly and she didn’t turn to look at what kind of a guilty expression he was wearing.
She hesitated for a moment.
“Do come stay by my husband’s bedside,” she said then. “I’m certain he’ll appreciate the sight of you once he wakes. To know it wasn’t for nothing.”
With that she left, walking past Aegon and back into the castle, towards Baelor’s bedchamber once again.
A kind of certainty began brewing in her chest. Her husband would survive this. They would survive this. And at the end of it, there was a loyal man waiting for them to emerge from misery. Someone solid and dependable to support them in the storm that was still ahead.
She allowed herself a private smile. Ser Duncan the Tall, she thought, I may have some use for you yet.