Chapter Text
Maekar has never felt such fear as he feels now. Once, he thought Redgrass would be the most terrified he’d ever be in his life, and he had been terrified then. So certain that he was going to die, that Baelor would arrive, because he’d never doubt that, but he had doubted whether he’d be able to hold out long enough for Baelor’s arrival to mean anything to him. Then, Brynden had taken the ridge and made his fateful shots and Maekar had withstood until Baelor came to save them.
There is no saving them, now. Not from Baelor, not from Brynden, either, for Baelor is here with him, and Brynden… miles too far away to be of any use to them at all. He’s not sure what will be worse. They die here, or they live and get sent back to their father in pieces, a means to demoralise their father, before trying to force him to surrender. Not only them, but they have no guarantee any of their boys made it to Ashford. If they got ambushed, then who is to say their sons didn’t, too?
“Mae-kar,” Baelor’s voice cracks over his name, the two syllables seeming to take everything from his brother just to utter them. Maekar sucks in a breath and slowly finds the strength to raise his head, to meet his brother’s purple eye, the brown one swollen shut. His brother swings gently from his bound wrists, the tips of his toes just barely touching the floor at all, more a whisper of touch than anything of use to him in relieving the pressure from his shoulders. They’d already worked his brother over good, if they survive this, his brother’s going to be pissing blood for a few days, at the very least.
“Baelor,” Maekar whispers. His throat aches, raw from his pleading. His pleas had all gone unheeded, as he’d known they would, but how could he not plead for Baelor’s life? How could he not plead for them to hurt him instead? How could he not plead to take his brother’s place?
“If there is a chance,” Baelor says, pausing for a moment, his purple eye closing as his face scrunches in pain. “If you can escape… brother, please?” Baelor asks, that purple eye opening once more to look at Maekar with such desperation. Maekar swallows thickly and exhaustedly shakes his head.
“No,” he says, watching the moisture form in his brother’s eye, his head slumping. “Baelor. Please. I am not leaving you. Wouldn’t. And if… if only one of us can escape, it should be you. You’re the heir. The Hand. I’m just… I’m just one of many spares.”
“You’re not just a spare,” Baelor snaps, groaning in pain as he listlessly shakes his head. “You’re my valonqar.” And he always would be, wouldn’t he? Baelor’s youngest brother. The youngest of their parents’ children, the baby. Coddled and protected even as he’d made himself strong, so they wouldn’t need to defend him, so that he could defend them, instead. Fat lot of good that strength did him or Baelor when they needed it most.
“Brother-“ he cuts himself off when he hears footsteps and the creaking of the stairs beyond the door. He swallows, struggles with the ropes holding his arms tied around the wood beam behind him, but he knows already there won’t be any give. He sighs, letting his head slump back against the beam.
The door opens, and Ser Adelard Costayne steps through the door. One of the various Costayne cousins that had fled across the sea with Aegor, when Redgrass went ill. The man had always been one of Daemon’s favoured sycophants, back when they were all boys. Ser Adelard’s sister and youngest brother are hostages still, in the care of the Red Keep. Maekar wonders if Brynden has already killed them, if the ravens have already flown declaring House Costayne of open treason, or if their uncle does not yet know of what’s befallen them.
“What do you want, Costayne?” Baelor asks, somehow managing to sound bored and uninterested. Costayne huffs at him, an amused sound.
“Still so high and mighty, your grace,” Costayne says, sneering the title. “If only we had the time to break you properly, Breakspear, could have you licking my fucking shoes when all was said and done… but we don’t have the time for that. I’ll just have to take what little pleasures I can get.” He grabs Baelor’s nipple in a pinching grip, twisting it. Baelor sucks in a breath, jerking in his bonds. His brother breathes out slowly, lifting his head.
“Let’s not pretend that you could ever break me, Costayne. You don’t have the balls,” Baelor says, still with that bored drawl, though it wavers slightly. Maekar cringes as Costayne’s fist buries itself in Baelor’s stomach, his brother grunting in pain, swinging on the ropes.
“Don’t!” Maekar yells, not even sure if he’s yelling at Baelor or Costayne, maybe both, as Costayne rains more blows down on Baelor’s exposed chest and back as Baelor spins. Blood dribbles from Baelor’s mouth as his brother must have bitten his tongue trying not to voice his pain. Baelor spits on the ground, his back towards Costayne, else Maekar’s sure his brother wouldn’t have stopped himself from spitting on the man.
“That all you’ve got, Costayne?” Baelor asks, his voice ragged. He laughs, the sound hitting Maekar’s ears like a metal point against a writing slate. He shivers, wishing his fool brother would just shut the fuck up.
“You couldn’t handle what I’ve got,” Costayne says, turning Baelor to face him again. He grips Baelor’s face in his hand, his fingers squeezing, nails digging into the flesh of Baelor’s cheeks. Baelor glares, his purple eye burning with such hatred it’d give a man pause to see it… if Baelor weren’t strung up like a puppet. He pulls his hand back, only to backhand Baelor across the face, snapping his head to the side, splitting his lip, and cutting his cheek on the ring on Constayne’s hands. Baelor strangles a whine in his throat and slowly turns his head back to meet Costayne’s eyes. “Maybe I’ll just kill you right here. Say my hand slipped. Say I got a little carried away.”
“Aegor’d kill you for that carelessness alone,” Baelor says, his lip curling into a smirk. “Even I know that.”
“Perhaps,” Costayne says, turning away from Baelor to instead fuss with the ropes holding Baelor to the rafters. He pulls on them, hoisting Baelor higher into the air and off his toes completely. Baelor sucks in a breath, bites down on a strangled scream as Costayne smiles. “That’s better.” Costayne draws his hand back, and punches forward, into Baelor’s stomach, sending Baelor swinging backwards. Costayne follows with a flurry of blows, some catching Baelor as he swings back towards him on the ropes.
“Stop it! Please. Just… stop!” Maekar yells, as Baelor lets out a broken whine, the air wheezing between his lips.
“I haven’t forgotten about you, little Maekar,” Costayne says, a dark look in his eyes as he turns towards Maekar. “You always did trail about after Baelor’s coattails, didn’t you? Well, never fear, I’ll give you yours.” The man takes a single step towards Maekar before Baelor spits in his face, the blood and spit spatters across his cheek and Costayne snarls, turning back to Baelor immediately, Maekar forgotten as he fists his hand in Baelor’s hair and wrenches his head backwards. The sound that’s drawn from Baelor’s throat is more of a whimper than anything else, though his brother doesn’t acknowledge it at all, glaring with so much hatred in his lone eye at the man. The hand shifts from Baelor’s hair, moving down instead to fist around Baelor’s throat, squeezing tight. Baelor goes still, the response isn’t immediate, but soon enough Baelor bucks in his restraints, his face swiftly turning red. Gods. Costayne is going to kill him! Maekar’s watching Baelor die right in front of him.
“Don’t! Please. Stop! Please, please!” Maekar begs, his chest heaving as he thrashes. “Please!!” Something shatters in another room in the inn, and Maekar has to believe this is the only thing that saves Baelor, given the way Costayne’s head turns swiftly towards the door, his hand dropping away from Baelor’s throat almost as an afterthought. Baelor’s gasping breath is audible to Maekar’s ears, the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard as he slumps in his restraints.
“Next time,” Costayne snarls, throwing one last punch at Baelor’s stomach, before he turns and stalks from the room, the door slamming shut behind him. Baelor swings from the ropes as he struggles to reclaim his breath, tears streaming down his face that Maekar knows his brother must hate.
“Lekia. Please, don’t fucking do that again,” Maekar pleads, tears in his own eyes. “Please. Please. I don’t… I can’t fucking watch you die, brother, please.”
“So-rry,” Baelor manages to say, anything more is halted by the sounds of fighting somewhere beyond the doorway. Baelor struggles to turn his head towards the sound, as Maekar desperately tries not to hope. There is no one to rescue them, even if the Kingsguard and their household guards survived the ambush, it would have taken time to regroup and find their tracks, and Maekar has little hope that’s what’s happened.
The sounds of fighting go on for what feels like an age until all too suddenly there is silence. Maekar strains to try and hear anything, to tell if their captors had merely fought each other or if there’s the barest chance that they’re being rescued.
“Brother,” Maekar says, uncertain. Baelor’s head lolls, his purple eye still on the doorway, but his strength is so clearly ebbing, like a candle in the wind. There is a creak on the stairs beyond, but no footsteps. Costayne wouldn’t have bothered to be quiet on the stairs, he’d never bothered with it before. Maekar tenses as the door starts to open. There is nothing that he or Baelor can do. They’re entirely at the mercy of whoever it is that’s about to step through the door; friend or foe.
The door opens fully to reveal the tip of a sword first, and then Maekar follows that up to the tallest man he thinks he might have ever seen, dressed in rough spun clothing, with a literal rope belt tied around his waist. He has a wound sluggishly bleeding on his large bicep, a nick under his cheek, and there is blood dripping from the top of the sword in his hand. The man pauses as he takes in the room, his too blue eyes roaming over everything before slowly stepping forward.
“You Blackfyres?” the man asks, the accent of a rat of Flea Bottom unexpectedly falling out. Baelor giggles at the question, but it’s a breathless, exhausted sound. Not relief, not yet, but its vaguely hysterical cousin.
“Fuck the Blackfyres!” Maekar snarls, utterly incensed that anyone could ever mistake him for one of those traitorous bastards. The man narrows his eyes at them, his gaze seeming to linger for a moment on Maekar’s hair and eyes, and Baelor’s purple eye, before he seems to make some sort of decision.
“Not Blackfyres?” the man asks, inching towards them, the sword still raised, ready to strike or defend as needed. Maekar keeps his eyes on it, though he knows there is nothing he could do if the man decides to simply lop both their heads off here and now.
“Not Blackfyres, ser,” Baelor says, his voice rasping. There are bruises starting to form on his throat, lovely companions to those that have already blossomed across his middle.
“Not a ser,” the man grunts, looking around the room again. “How’d you come to be here?”
“We were travellers on the road to Ashford,” Baelor rasps. Maekar would dearly love to tell his fool brother to shut up and let Maekar do the talking, but Maekar knows himself well enough to know he’s just going to make this worse if he tries to take over. “Our party was ambushed and we’ve been imprisoned here.”
“Ashford?” the man says, straightening up, and gods, how has he become even taller than before? Ridiculous! “You knights?”
“Yes,” Baelor answers, wriggling in his bonds, making it obvious to Maekar that his brother doesn’t know what to make of this situation, and that if he were free to, he’d be fidgeting with his hands, his rings, whatever that was to hand. “Please, we are not Blackfyres, we have done you no harm. Please, release us. If you see us safely to Ashford, it could be worth your while.” The man pauses, tilting his head to the side as he appraises Baelor. There is a spark of something in his eyes, that makes Maekar’s breath catch, just for a moment.
“You lords? You sound like fancy lords,” the man says, frowning. “What’d the Black Dragon want with you?”
“Chaos and desolation, I imagine,” Baelor answers, tiredly. “Isn’t that what they always want?” the man snorts, his sword lowering. “And yes, my brother and I are nobles.”
“Hmm.” The man licks at his lip, before he sighs, shaking his head. “Wish my ser weren’t dead downstairs, he’d know if I were making a mistake letting you free.” His ser. He’s a squire?!
“My… my condolences,” Baelor murmurs, the words so very faint Maekar almost misses them. His brother is fading, fast. The man heaves another sigh, stepping forward towards Baelor. Maekar tenses, his eyes wide, his heart hammering in his chest, but the man merely grabs Baelor around the middle and uses the sword to hack the ropes securing him to the rafters. Baelor moans in relief, as the weight on his arms disappears and he slumps forward, even as his feet hit the ground with a small thud.
“You alright to stand on your own?” the man asks, as he steadies Baelor on his feet. Baelor gives a small, jerky nod that Maekar doesn’t trust at all, but the man doesn’t know Baelor as Maekar does. The man takes a step back, turning towards Maekar, only for his sword to clatter to the floor, his entire bulk turning to catch Baelor as his brother’s feet give out beneath him. Baelor lands in the man’s arms, staring up into face.
“Hmm,” Baelor hums, given the angle, Maekar can only just make out the dopey smile that’s forming on his brother’s face. “Pretty,” Baelor murmurs, reaching up his still bound hands towards the man’s face, before they fall as his brother passes abruptly into unconsciousness. Maekar sucks in a breath, his heart still hammering in his chest. It would be easy, for this unknown man to take Baelor and abscond with him, leaving Maekar here to die a long, slow, painful death.
“Please,” Maekar whispers, and it burns, but this won’t even be the first time that he’s begged just in the last hour. Whatever pride he had, he surrendered it on the muddy track, watching a knife press far too close to Baelor’s throat.
“One second, ser,” the man says, gently lowering Baelor down to the floor. He unties Baelor’s wrists, and then down, to untie the ropes binding Baelor’s ankles. The man is so gentle, tender, Maekar has no idea what to make of it. “Right,” the man says, turning his too blue gaze to Maekar. “Let’s get you free, I suppose,” he says, standing up to his full height and stepping around the beam to consider the ropes binding Maekar’s hands. He hears the snick of a blade cutting through fabric, then all at once the pressure around his wrists eases. He slumps forward, painfully bring his arms around to his front, dropping his hands into his lap as he tries to work the feeling back into them.
He tries to stand, but his legs feel like jelly, instead he hauls himself forward, towards Baelor, on shaking hands, his ribs protesting with every movement. He knows they shouldn’t linger here, knows they should leave as soon as they possibly can, even if that means he must let the giant carry his brother from this place, but he wants… needs to feel Baelor’s skin beneath his fingers, feel the rise and fall of his chest, hear the beating of his heart.
They linger at the inn longer than Maekar wants, but their saviour, Dunk, refuses to leave until he’s buried his old Ser. While he’s been busy digging a grave, Maekar tries to find his and Baelor’s things, among the items scattered about the inn, but either their captors hadn’t bothered to bring their things with them, or they’d already sent them on elsewhere. There are no rings, no Hand of the King pin, their swords are missing, hells even their fucking clothing is missing, aside from their braies and hose. Maekar unhappily searches through their captor’s things for upper garments that will somewhat fit him and Baelor, coming up with a pair of, thankfully, black tunics, followed later by a pair of surcoats, also black.
A low whine sounds somewhere in the inn, like a wounded animal and Maekar startles, rushing back down to the tavern hall, where he and Dunk had left Baelor resting atop one of the tables. He finds Baelor weakly struggling to roll towards the edge of the table, his heart stutters.
“Don’t!” he calls, his brother freezing in an instant, sluggish head rolling to the side as his brother tries to find him. “It’s alright, Bael, we’re free,” Maekar says, coming to sit down on the bench at the tableside, near Baelor’s head. Baelor’s purple eye finds him immediately and he relaxes, sinking back against the wood of the table.
“Bael?” his brother asks, furrowing his brow, the movement must pull too much against the swollen side of his face for he hisses and closes his good eye, the pain clear in his expression. Maekar reaches down to take his brother’s hand in his own, Baelor clings to him as tight as he can, his nails digging into Maekar’s skin, but Maekar doesn’t dare give it away.
“He doesn’t know who we are,” he whispers. He’s still not sure if it is a relief or a difficulty, but Dunk doesn’t know who they are at all. Had easily accepted when Maekar had introduced himself as Ser Mae, and Baelor as his elder brother, Ser Bael.
“Where?” Baelor asks, tiredly bringing their joined hands up to rest over his chest, even though Maekar knows it must hurt. His brother’s torso looks like one, giant bruise, the reds, blacks, blues, and purples blending seamlessly into each other. It would be quite beautiful, actually, if it wasn’t a testament to just how close Maekar came to losing his brother.
“We’re still at the inn. Our saviour wants to bury his knight master,” Maekar says, looking across at the other table, where the old man’s body rests. The bodies of their captors had been thrown into the stable, their horses set loose. Their saviour apparently intended to set the stable alight as a pyre when they left, but his ser would have a grave.
“Help… help me up?” Baelor asks, Maekar sighs but knows if he doesn’t aid him, Baelor will just try on his own and likely end up even worse off than he already is. He places his hands under Baelor’s armpits and hauls him up, the both of them grunting and groaning as their wounds shift. It leaves them panting, but Baelor is upright, as he wishes and so Maekar takes the win. “Oh,” Baelor whispers, brow furrowing again as he looks across at the old knight. The shattered remains of the man’s shield piled beside him, still intact enough that Maekar can make out that the sigil had once formed a winged chalice. “Ser… Ser Arlan,” Baelor says, like he’s drawing the name from the very depths of his memories, and knowing his brother, he probably is.
“Ser Arlan of Pennytree,” an unexpected voice states and they both startle, turning to find their saviour standing in the doorway to the inn. Baelor smiles softly, pain and something else sparking in his eye as he looks upon Dunk.
“Yes,” Baelor murmurs, turning back to look at Ser Arlan. “I rode against him in the lists, once. We broke four lances together, before I unhorsed him. He said it was an honour.”
“Would have been awhile ago, now,” Dunk says, as he steps further inside. “My ser gave up jousting after he was unhorsed by Prince Baelor at Storm’s End.” Maekar forces himself not to react, not to throw Dunk a look out of the corner of his eye to see if the man is saying the words as a trap. Baelor just hums.
“He should have kept at it,” Baelor murmurs, Dunk snorts.
“Nah, the old man said it was the most prestigious showing he could have ever asked for, and that he’d never do better than that,” Dunk sighs, rolling his eyes fondly at the old man. “He thought the world of Prince Baelor, said the prince saved his life once, at Redgrass.”
“Oh,” Baelor whispers, his hand seeks out Maekar’s again and he clutches tight. Maekar sighs.
“Well, come on, then, suppose a knight of such standing needs witnesses for his burial,” Maekar says, causing Dunk to look at him with wide eyes.
“Oh, that’s not… that’s not necessary,” the man says, his shoulders tense.
“Please, I insist. He died saving us, though he may not have been aware of it,” Baelor says, and Maekar can just tell that Baelor isn’t going to be letting this go. Fool.
It’s slow going, getting Baelor down from the table, and helping him shuffle along out to the old tree when Dunk has dug his ser a grave. Baelor falters many times, all but hanging off Maekar to keep himself upright. But the time they make it to the tree, Dunk’s lowered Arlan down into the dirt and stands there staring down into the grave, a lost expression on his face.
“I don’t know the right words. Ought to be a Septon here. You were a true knight. You never beat me when I didn’t deserve it… fuck,” Dunk pauses, wiping at his eyes, then he scowls. “Except that time in Maidenpool, it was the inn boy ate the widow woman’s pie, not me. I told you!” Maekar swallows a guffaw, he remembers the indignation he’d felt towards Baelor, whenever his brother wouldn’t believe him, during the years he was his brother’s squire. Baelor, at least, grew to understand him better than even Maekar knows himself. Baelor’s breath puffs against Maekar’s neck, a muffled laugh, and he knows his brother is thinking the same. “Why… never mind, it don’t matter now, anyway. I’d leave your sword, but it… it would only rust in the ground,” Dunk’s words stumble, his shoulders shake with a sob he stifles. Maekar wonders, for the first time, just how old he is. He’s tall, gods, he’s so fucking tall, but he thinks, maybe, that height has masked just how young the man actually is. “I wish you didn’t die, ser. I’ll take good care of the horses.” Silence falls for a few moments but for the wind and Dunk’s muffled sobs.
“Ser Arlan,” Baelor says, struggling to push himself upright his hand clamping down on Maekar’s shoulder, hard. Maekar sucks in a breath but otherwise doesn’t give away how the pressures pulls on his wounds from being restrained for so long. “Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I had the honour of meeting you only the once, but you left an impression upon me, ser. You were not sworn to me in service, but you died doing me the greatest of them. Rest now in peace, ser, you’ve earned it. Fear not for your squire, he will be well rewarded for his and your service.” Maekar says nothing. He has nothing to say. He is grateful to the old knight, but he did not know him, and more than that, Maekar is afraid. Every moment they spend lingering here over the old knight’s grave is another moment they could find themselves returned to bondage.
He pulls Baelor back against him, and they watch, silent, as Dunk fills in the grave. The man works without complaint and does not speak further, and soon enough, the grave is filled, a mound of dirt where once there was a gaping hole in the earth’s soil. Maekar readies to start the walk back to the stables, to fetch Dunk’s horses and finally leave this place but his brother has other plans.
“Kneel, Dunk,” Baelor says, pushing himself fully upright once again, by using Maekar’s shoulder. Dunk hesitates, then slowly drops a knee before Baelor. “The sword, please?” Baelor asks, holding out his shaking hand for the penny hilted sword. Dunk looks down at the blade in his hand, then swallows thickly and holds it up to Baelor. Baelor’s hand shakes too much to hold it steady. “Mae, please,” Baelor murmurs. Maekar heaves a heavy sigh as he steps up to steady his brother’s hand as he rises the sword to rest above Dunk’s shoulder.
“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to reforge what has been broken and put to rights what has been torn asunder. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to light the way forward, a shining beacon for all to follow after.” As Baelor speaks, Maekar helps him to move the sword from one of Dunk’s shoulders to the other, then back again. All three of them are panting, though for far different reasons, Maekar’s sure. “Do you swear to uphold these commands as I have laid them upon you?”
“Aye. I swear it,” Dunk says, bowing his head.
“Then, in the name of the Stranger, I charge you to uphold these vows until your last breath leaves your body,” Baelor says, moving the sword with Maekar’s help one last time, before lowering it, point to the ground. “Rise, Ser Duncan the Tall, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” Maekar gently pulls the sword from Baelor’s hands as Dunk, Ser Duncan, slowly rises to his feet on shaking legs.
“Thank you,” Dunk… Ser Duncan says, voice cracking. “I… thank you.”
“Nonsense. You heave earned your knighthood, ser,” Baelor croaks, clearing his throat. “Will you swear to my service, Ser Duncan? I have nothing to pay you until we arrive in Ashford, but-“
“Didn’t do it for a reward, ser,” Ser Duncan says, making a face and shaking his head. “We didn’t know either of you were there. My ser just hates Blackfyres.”
“Still, you have earned a reward,” Baelor says, voice barely audible now. Maekar wishes his brother would stop talking before his injuries take the choice form him, but he knows his brother well. “Please, ser?” Ser Duncan sighs, but Maekar already knows Baelor has him.
“Yes. I’ll swear to your service, ser, my lord, once we’re in Ashford,” Ser Duncan agrees. Baelor smiles, then collapses back against Maekar’s side, whatever strength he’d found has seemingly been spent.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here!” Maekar snaps, his patience worn through.
If they were in good health, they could probably make Ashford within a day, by Ser Duncan’s estimate, but they are not in good health, and Baelor can’t sit upright in the saddle. Maekar’s own injuries keep him from being able to secure his brother against him as he wishes. With every step the horse, Sweetfoot, takes sending pain jolting through Maekar, there is no way he’d have been able to keep a proper hold of Baelor and endure that so… as much as his brother’s pride will sting, they have no choice but to settle him in front of the newly made knight.
They go at a slow, easy pace, but Baelor moans like he had when they’d been beating him. The pained noises drawn out of him, even as his brother tries to silence them. Ser Duncan bends down to speak quietly into Baelor’s ear as they pass a particularly rough spot of terrain. Whatever he says, Baelor pauses for a moment, before nodding his head. Ser Duncan turns to Maekar, a frown.
“Can you pass me the wine skin in the saddle bag?” Ser Duncan asks, Maekar makes a face at him, but starts searching through the saddle bag, coming up with a skin that he passes over without comment. “Thanks,” Ser Duncan says. Gently, he pulls Baelor upright, leaning Baelor back against his chest, as Baelor moans. “Here, ser. It don’t taste all that great, but it’ll dull the pain,” he says, popping the lid of the wine skin and offering it to Baelor’s lips. Baelor takes a greedy gulp, only to choke, clear liquid dribbling down his chin as Ser Duncan laughs, pulling the skin away. “I did say it don’t taste great,” the man says, as Baelor makes a face at him, but reaches up with shaking hands to pull the wine skin back towards his lips.
“What is it?” Maekar asks, when Baelor’s swallowed a few large gulps of the drink, making a face with every swallow.
“White Lightening,” Ser Duncan says, capping the flask and putting it into his own saddlebag. “Was my ser’s rotgut of choice.”
“White Lightening,” Maekar mutters, furrowing a brow. He has a vague recollection of Lyonel plying them all with something he called White Lightening after Redgrass, when they’d all been slumped, injured, in their cots, waiting for Baelor to decide when the army would be moving out. It had tasted horrendous, very strong, but Maekar hadn’t been worried about anything once the alcohol had kicked in… he snorts as he watches Baelor, his brother’s pained moans fading away, until his brother’s slumped in Ser Duncan’s arms, a dopy smile on his face as his head lolls. “You feeling good, brother?”
“Mhm!” Baelor hums, drunkenly patting at Ser Duncan’s arm where it’s wrapped around his middle. “Safe,” Baelor says, the word not audible to Maekar at all, though he has no trouble reading his brother’s lips.
“Yeah, you’re safe, brother. You should sleep, got nothing but a long fucking ride ahead of us,” Maekar says, almost regretting the word choice as he watches the flirty little smile his brother sends Ser Duncan, the look is hampered by the swelling, hopefully enough that Ser Duncan won’t be able to tell that Maekar’s fool fucking brother wants to climb into his fucking braies like a fucking whore at the local brothel. “Sleep, brother. Maybe your throat will feel better after.” Baelor shoots him a small glare, but does wriggle in his seat, settling more heavily against Dunk’s chest as his eyes close.
Maekar sits by the crackling fire, Baelor slumped against him, even though it won’t be good for his ribs at all, but his brother had woken with the mother of all headaches and refused to be parted from Maekar’s side. His brother was always such a clingy little bastard when hungover. Maekar chews gingerly at the ‘sandwich’ Ser Duncan had made for him. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since they last ate, perhaps two days, possibly more like three. It has been a while, anyway, so he doesn’t complain about the fare, though he can say up to this point, he’d never had hard salted beef before. It’s not terrible, actually, it’s quite tasty, but Maekar will never admit it.
Beside him, Baelor absently nibbles at his own ‘sandwich’. Between the damage to his throat and the swelling around his jaw, eating must be a painful thing, but his brother hasn’t eaten in just as long as Maekar, and with the alcohol, they’d been plying him with to keep him quiet on the ride, he needed something to fill his stomach. Across the fire, Ser Duncan tends to his sword. The shattered shield and the Ser Arlan’s armour had been buried with the man, and he’d reluctantly decided to trust Maekar letting Maekar have his own sword, originally the hedge knight’s. Baelor hadn’t been fool enough to try and argue for his own, given they all knew he couldn’t hold it, but Ser Duncan had given him a sheathed dagger, which Baelor had on his hip, even now.
“We’ll make Ashford tomorrow,” Ser Duncan says, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. “You should rest while you can.”
Rest. Maekar’s not sure if he’ll find any. There is a fear in him that he cannot speak of. That they will make it to Ashford and his sons and his nephew will not be there, that they will have been waylaid on the road, as he and Baelor were. He feels his brother brush against him, and knows that his brother shares the same fear. There were no others at the inn, not even whichever poor fucks maintained the place before the Blackfyre Loyalists took over. They’d not found any shallow graves for them, either, so Maekar hopes they’d merely been driven away, but he doesn’t know. Regardless, there’d been no one else.
Above them a start shoots across the sky. Maekar sucks in a breath as he looks at it, thinks of Dyanna. He sees the awe on Ser Duncan’s face as he watches the star, Baelor stirring beside him turning his own gaze to the stars.
“They say a falling star brings luck to those who see it,” Maekar says, having heard enough of the stories Dyanna used to tell all the children. He’s not sure if he believes it, but… they could do with all the luck available, now.
“Let’s hope that’s true,” Ser Duncan says. Baelor nods his agreement.
Maekar’s not sure what he’s going to do if the boys aren't there at Ashford. Seven, let his sons be where they're supposed to be.
Let one fucking thing go right on this trip.