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It started as it always did. From one moment to the next, Baelor found focusing his eyes on the letters in front of him to be suddenly quite difficult. He sat back, dug his fingers into the bridge of his nose, then tried again. There was a distortion in his vision that had him squinting in an effort to combat it.
Ah. Damn. There were things he wanted to get done today.
Instead of immediately getting up and heading to his rooms to take his tinctures, as he should have done, he kept reading, brow twisted in effort. The Master of Coin, or rather dear cousin Eleana, had given him a long and involved report, and it would eventually demand a response. He intended only to finish the paragraph. He planned to mark his place with a note and hasten to his rooms, but he ended up reading ahead a few more to make sense of the problem, and by the time he was making that note his vision had developed what he called the ‘glimmer’.
The phenomenon was like sunlight gleaming off of rippling water, glittering and constantly moving, impossible to see through and painful to look at. It took up a good quarter of his vision, making him squint all the harder. He knew, from experience, that if he did not take his tinctures right this very moment, he would be in excruciating pain within the hour. As it was, there was a dull ache in his brow and on the back right side of his head, getting sharper by the minute.
Just as he made to get up from his desk, there was a knock on the door. “Your Grace?” Lord Butterwell, the Master of Laws called. Baelor sighed and sat. The man likely had more complaints about the Flea Bottom Reforms. Unfortunately he had enough influence in the Riverlands and at court that Baelor couldn’t simply throw him from the ramparts, but the urge was there, even on his good days.
By the time he was done placating, soothing, and twisting dear Butterball around until he was doing what he was supposed to, the glimmer was nearly gone but the ache had intensified, pounding in time with his pulse. The furrow in his brow was involuntary, as was his clenched jaw, and he couldn’t relax either for very long. When Butterwell left, he put his head in his hands and nearly wept. It was far too late for tinctures now, he would have to ride out the worst of it.
Getting up was an unexpected trial. A wave of dizziness nearly put him back in his seat, and the pounding in his head was all he could feel or hear. He swallowed repeatedly against the sudden nausea.
The journey to his rooms was long, and terribly bright and loud. Every footstep, every clink of armor, was like cracks of thunder. Gods forbid anyone spoke. The corridor was well lit by sunlight streaming in the windows, and every beam was like a knife being taken to the inside of his skull. Every new sound, every flash of light, sent a new wave of nausea through him.
He marched stiffly but swiftly, taking the most efficient route possible. He realized his face must be pulled into a truly fierce scowl when he saw a few servants scurry out of his path. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
“I don’t want to be disturbed,” he growled at both Kingsguard and servants as they approached his rooms. He couldn’t quite bring himself to modulate his tone. Poor Ser Donnel bowed respectfully and gave him his space. Finally, he slipped into the dimness of his quarters. Duncan was not home, he was out meeting with the architect of the new Flea Bottom orphanage, so the solar was blessedly quiet. He missed his love’s presence, but his gentle knight would be back before the supper hour.
He went through to the bedroom, and managed to gather his tinctures. He sat on a chair before the fireplace to take them, cringing from the pounding in his head as he did so. The medicines Maester Yormwell made for him would not truly ease the pain, not at this point, but they could possibly file down the sharpest edge of it.
The drops went under his tongue, and then a swig of watered wine to wash down the bitter taste. Baelor sat in the dark and quiet, and prayed this was over soon.
His stomach rumbled. Bile rose. Saliva flooded his mouth. Fuck.
He lunged for the empty chamberpot. It was so sudden and violent that he had tears flowing down his face by the time he was done.
He sat there on the floor, exhaustedly wiping his face with the linen that he had snatched from the side of the washbasin. He leant back against the foot of the bed, and just breathed for a while. He was too exhausted to even feel all that sorry for himself.
Happily, the pain receded for about five minutes after he was sick. Baelor used the time to haul himself off the floor, rinse his mouth and shed his clothes. He crawled under the covers and groaned, as laying down prompted the feeling of a pickaxe to his skull to start up again.
And there he hid, for countless hours, utterly still, curled up under his blankets. The pain pierced through him and he breathed shallowly into the silent, dark room, waiting for it to be over.
It was nearing supper hour when someone entered the solar. Heavy, steady footfalls. He knew who it was, and would have wept in relief if that wouldn’t have hurt.
Duncan entered the bedroom carefully, quietly. “Oh, darling,” Baelor heard him murmur. He peaked out from under a pillow, braving the extra spike of pain in favor of watching his love remove the chamberpot of sick from the room. He fetched an extra pot from the bathing room to replace it before he came to Baelor’s side.
“A bad one, huh?” Dunk whispered, nudging the pillow aside and running his huge palm over his hair.
“I didn’t make it to the tinctures in time,” Baelor croaked. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. His knight’s hands were so warm.
Duncan made a sad little hum, half reproach, half sympathy. “Do you want me to leave you be? Or I could hold you?” he offered.
Baelor couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed about how he pulled back the covers and held out his arms. “Hold me,” he all but demanded.
Duncan smiled and shed his boots and trousers before climbing in. Baelor buried himself in his embrace, forehead dug into his collarbone and hands fisted in his tunic. Dunk’s hands came up, one to where the nape of his neck met his shoulders, the other to the back of his head. Carefully, he dug his fingertips into his scalp and the knotted muscles along his spine. Baelor sighed and relaxed for the first time in hours as the tension that had only made his condition worse was soothed away.
He must have fallen asleep that way, because the next he knew he was snuffling awake to the sound of his manservant leaving a platter of finger foods in the solar. They must have missed supper.
He was much improved. There was still an ache in his brow, and a mild pounding at the back of his head, but it was no worse than a headache he might have had before he had gotten acquainted with Maekar’s mace. I should finish that report, he thought muzzily to himself. He started shifting, feeling suddenly quite restless. He had meant to finish that report, respond, and get to another from the Master of Ships…
Dunk grumbled and pulled him in tighter in his sleep. Baelor smiled and rubbed his cheek against his chest. Or I can just stay here with my man, he thought. The pain would return if he left the dark and the quiet too soon, anyway. He let Duncan’s deep, even breathing lull him back to sleep.
In the morning there was bright sunshine and loud laughter, and the pain was nearly nonexistent. What was left was easily ignored, buried in the warmth of their bed.