Chapter Text
Daeron is unconscious for two days, Aerion for four, Baelor for nine.
Maekar loses count of the nights he misses sleep, the hours he spends beside each bed, watching over his sons or brother. Valarr, thankfully, takes turns beside both Daeron and his father, although he does not possess the same nobility as his father to stomach sitting by Aerion’s side. Maekar cannot fault the lad.
Daeron spends a further day abed for his balance and vision to properly return, with Valarr and Aegon both attending him until Maekar helps his eldest wash and redress his wounds. “How is Aerion?” Daeron finally asks, after he’s settled in bed again, the linens changed and Maekar relenting to bring his son a flask of wine.
“Unchanged,” the maesters are certain Aerion will heal, more certain than they are about Baelor, but for every day that Aerion doesn’t wake, the agitation grows. “His limbs have stopped trembling, and his wounds do not appear infected, the maesters say to wait.” Which frustrates Maekar beyond all measure, as it’s what they say about Baelor too.
“Egg said you had the hedge knight attended to?” There’s surprise to the tone, and Maekar does understand it; Aerion is in a state because of that hedge knight, Aegon is getting more wild, Baelor and his damn honour sided with the oaf, and yet, Maekar could not find himself leaving the brute to untrained hands.
“Baelor was sending Yornwell to attend him, obviously, that changed when his head injury was discovered. Lord Ashford’s maester saw to the giant.” Truly, in the chaos surrounding Baelor’s collapse, it had been an automatic request, Maekar focusing on having each Prince attended, sending Ashford’s maester to the hedge knight was an unthinking response; the battle was ended, the wounded needed attending.
Granted, it had taken several more hours before Maekar himself conceded to be treated.
Aerion finally wakes and is far more subdued than he’s been in years, something likely to do with the poppy he’s being fed to avoid strain on his ribs. Someone explains to him the outcome of the trial, however, and Aerion must realise the complications it creates.
“What will happen?” If Baelor dies is left unsaid, but Maekar hears it all the same.
If the heir to the Iron Throne dies at a Tourney for some middling Lord’s daughter’s name-day, all because a prince attacked a commoner girl over a puppet show and was struck by a knight defending that girl, well—
Maekar has never been a favoured child; he was a fourth born son, unexpected and trailing after three older boys, his mother had prayed for a girl and gotten Maekar instead. He wasn’t calm and patient, like Baelor, nor measured and studious, like Aerys, nor elegant and poised, like Rhaegel. Maekar was rude and unruly and impatient. He saw no reason to soften his observations for delicate lords, or to appease egos where it was unwarranted. The diplomacy of the family all went to Baelor, and perhaps the beauty was used up by the time Maekar appeared; his brothers all have a natural quality to them, Baelor and Rhaegel a more Dornish elegance to their looks, while Aerys has the slim, gentle appearance of a Valyrian royal. Maekar is scarred and scowling and, when compared to his brothers, lacking.
It is Baelor’s affection for him that warrants his sons the leeway they enjoy. In Summerhall they can be wild and reckless and idiotic, and Maekar can excuse it because they are his children, and he loves them. That is not a viable option at all times.
“Once you are healed, you will go to Essos.” Aerion frowns at him, but Maekar knows the realm needs a little space from his Brightflame. “I will write to Shiera, she will take you in for a time, as a kindness to a nephew.” Shiera Seastar left for Essos a few short years ago, seeking connection to her mother and her Valyrian roots, but she’d been fond of Maekar and his children before that. Perhaps with a closer connection to the old ways of Valyria, with Shiera’s guidance, Aerion can find a more productive way to channel his inner dragon.
“And if—” it’s impossible to fully give the thought voice.
“I don’t know,” Maekar doubts his parents will go so far as to call for Aerion’s head, least of all when Maekar swung the mace, but they might strip his son of his titles, might send him North, it’s not entirely clear. “It’s not solely your fault, my boy,” Maekar hadn’t been restraining himself, had lost his attention to the situation when he heard Aerion’s cry. “We shall simply have to hope Baelor recovers.”
For several more days, little changes. Daeron becomes more mobile, Maekar accepts Aegon slipping off with the hedge knight, although with the room provided and Baelor’s questionable health, the pair return to the keep each night so Maekar at least knows all of his sons are under the one roof each night. It at least allows Maekar to sit by Baelor’s bed, waiting for a sign that his brother is waking up, praying to Gods he’s long since stopped believing in.
On the ninth day since the trial, as Maekar has been ousted from Baelor’s room to sleep, eat and wash, handle a few pressing matters that Baelor had left off for the trial, Valarr stumbles into Maekar’s assigned room looking both distraught and relieved in equal measure.
“He’s awoken,” there’s no need to ask who, as Maekar is already pushing up from the table to storm towards Baelor’s room, Valarr halting him with a raised hand, “but there’s something—it’s more—He doesn’t seem to remember things.”
“What things?” The maesters did warn that there might be unknown damage, that Baelor’s memories or basic functions might be hampered, but those are things that can be fixed; Baelor can relearn things, his movements can be encouraged, they have more than enough resources at hand to assist him. But there’s something off about how Valarr says it.
“The maester says he’s aware of basic things; talking, writing, dressing, the everyday things. But he didn’t recognise me, he wasn’t sure of his name, he doesn’t know Daeron or Aegon or—” Valarr seems to shrug aimlessly, his brow crestfallen in despair.
If Baelor is without his memories of the realm at large, it does pose a problem for his position, his role, his duties. More so, it creates strife for his sons; already, Valarr has a great pressure on his shoulders, as the heir of the heir, that he is expected to one day be in the position his father is and beyond, to be ruler as his grandfather is.
“It is early, Valarr,” Maekar tries to reassure, even as panic rides up in his chest, “the maester warned that it might take some time, be patient with your father.” Maekar gives the young man a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, trying to put as much faith in the statement as he can muster.
“Will you come see him? Maybe something will—” As if seeing the person who cracked him over the skull would somehow help. But it’s not like Maekar can refuse, not when he wants to see Baelor himself.
“Of course,” Maekar agrees, allowing Valarr a moment longer to compose himself before following his nephew from the room and towards Baelor’s chambers.
Nothing really changes.
There’s no sudden burst of memories, no jolt that fixes things. Baelor is simply without understanding of the finer details of his own life. “There is little more we can do, my Prince.” Yormwell at least sounds dejected by the fact, as Baelor gradually regains his strength and begins moving again.
It’s been over a fortnight since the trial, Maekar had organised for them to prepare leaving to return to the Red Keep, stopping at Summerhall first, so that more specialised healers could tend to Baelor. Valarr wrote to the King to send news of their plans and the projected time frame.
“I can ride a horse,” Baelor has been arguing the fact for a whole day, and Maekar is promptly losing his patience. There’s a carriage for Daeron, who is still marginally nauseous each day, and Aerion, who cannot put pressure on his ribs or bear weight on his leg, and Maekar is loath to delay further by organising another carriage for a third non-rider. “I will inform someone if I feel unstable.” Despite not retaining any proper memories, Baelor is still as charming and chivalrous as ever; he smooths over things with Lord Ashford, eases Ser Duncan’s guilt, even puts Lord Fossoway in his place after the fucking idiot attempted to mock Aegon and Duncan’s role in things.
Maekar further ensured the man would struggle to make heirs any time in the next few moons. Yes, Aegon’s head is fucking ridiculous, but he’s still a fucking Prince and Maekar’s youngest boy will not become some half-wit Lord’s punching bag.
When they do eventually leave, Maekar arranges for the wagon with their possessions to trail Baelor and Valarr’s horses, so that Valarr can urge his father onto the wagon should his strength begin to fail him. Which also leads to Maekar having to handle the oaf of a hedge knight.
“Are you sure I should—” Ser Duncan has wisely kept his distance from Maekar the last several days, but there’s little avoiding it now. They’ll be on the road for several days, Aegon is all but attached to the brute, Maekar is prepared to accept that in so much as it lets him know exactly where Aegon is at any given time.
“You pledged yourself to Prince Baelor, did you not?” Maekar knows that Baelor has no recollection of the events at Ashford, that sending the hedge knight on his way wouldn’t be a difficulty at the moment. But Aegon stares at Ser Duncan in a manner Maekar once gazed upon his elder brother, and Maekar would rather have Ser Duncan close, knowing that Aegon is likely to run off after him the moment he’s not nearby. “You shall join him in King’s Landing, where you will be properly trained and fitted for a sworn sword of House Targaryen,” Ser Duncan gapes at him, stunned speechless or simply just not grasping the notion, “and your squire will see to your needs.”
Aegon beams at him, his violet eyes burning bright with the joy of being given permission, and even Ser Duncan appears pleased in the moment, turning to grin at Maekar’s youngest with a sense of pride on his face. Maekar will find a way to make peace with the situation, even if it takes some time.
The hedge knight and Aegon keep close to Baelor and Valarr, while Maekar flits between the front and back of the procession, checking on his injured sons before coasting close to Baelor and then back. There’s little time for Maekar to speak with his brother, leaving most of the discussions and questions to Valarr, aware enough that father and son need some time with each other. He notices that Aegon and Ser Duncan are occasionally pulled into the conversations, but the wild flailing motions of Aegon’s arms denote his youngest son is sharing his fanciful tales again.
They have to stop on the journey twice before reaching Summerhall; they make camp the first night, stopping at a small keep the second night, but neither situation causes significant problems. Ser Duncan happily assists with setting up the tents for the night, Aegon gleefully joining in, much to Baelor’s apparent amusement. Maekar keeps himself busy ensuring guards are properly stationed, prepared to rotate their duties and the camp is secure. He’s aware enough that Ser Donnel can manage it himself, however, Maekar feels the need to busy himself, even if it’s simply to maintain a quiet distance from Baelor.
Maekar doesn’t properly sleep until the night in the keep, which comes after ensuring Aegon and his knight have had a proper meal—Duncan was almost put out in the stables before Maekar insisted he share Aegon’s chambers—then assisting Daeron in applying salve to his stitched face, redressing Aerion’s wounds himself, and getting the pair of them to settle and sleep in a shared chamber.
“Why can’t he go somewhere else?” Aerion had whined about sharing a room with his brother, apparently unaware that Maekar would be sitting in their room to ensure nothing chaotic happened—they were meant to sleep, but Gods knew they’d find a way to make that a fucking production too.
“We’re imposing on a small enough keep as it is.” Maekar had ground out, thoroughly over Aerion’s whining during the journey, “Given that three Kingsguard, a hedge knight, you and your brother, and the heir to the Iron fucking Throne are all injured, they’re a bit pressed for fucking space.” It shut Aerion up instantly.
By the time they reach Summerhall, Maekar has been grinding his teeth so hard his jaw aches, his body is stiff from the riding, he’s exhausted, and he’s glad to see home.
The household are expecting them, so they are met with suitable actions in the courtyard. Baelor had conceded to the wagon for the last length of the journey and is promptly assisted inside by Valarr with two Kingsguard, as Maekar instructs the staff to see to a bath for Baelor and Maester Yormwell quickly follows to check him over.
Stablehands manage the horses while maids and servants assist Daeron and Aerion towards their rooms, Aegon loudly wishing to show Ser Duncan around the keep and Maekar being accosted by his steward before he can even greet his daughters.
“Letters, your Grace, from the King.” It doesn’t surprise him that father sent word to Summerhall for them, rather than wait for them to simply arrive at King’s Landing. Maekar keeps the unopened scrolls as he sees to settling his sons, ensures Valarr is close to Baelor and Maester Yormwell has an introduction to Maester Jardyn, along with ample supplies for Baelor’s continued treatment. He has barely a moment with Daella and Rhae before they too are caught up in the unexpected chaos unleashed on their home; Rhae trails after Aegon, craning her neck to look up at Ser Duncan, while Daella quickly attaches herself to Valarr and sees to peppering Baelor with questions he cannot answer.
Maekar leaves them all to it; he seeks a bath, a fresh change of clothes, allows Jardyn to check him over, and then sits in his solar to read whatever admonishments have been sent his way.
It may be the King’s hand that has written the words, but Maekar hears his mother's voice in the writing. The blame is plain to see on the parchment, although softened by King Daeron’s diplomatic approach, the accusation is easy to read.
Send your brother on to King’s Landing, tend your family in Summerhall.
There’s nothing nefarious in the wording, not truly. But the dismissal is plain. Maekar is not to join Baelor on the journey to the Red Keep, he is unwelcome in King’s Landing. He sits with that for a long time, longer than he maybe should, before a gentle knock on his door opens to a cautious looking Aegon.
“Father?” The boy is out of his orphan garb, washed and in proper clothes that will keep him warm. He could use a damn hat for that bald fucking head, but it’s continually getting lost at this point, so Maekar is giving in to the fact that Aegon will simply be a beacon of fucking light bouncing off his head. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” he cannot burden his young with matters of court, least of all when they already have much to cope with, “our time away has created more work than expected.” He leaves the scrolls on his desk, crossing to escort Aegon out of the room. “You need to go rest, you’ll only have a day or so before the journey resumes.” Baelor may need a little more rest than one night, and with Maekar not joining them for the rest of the journey, he wants the guards with them well rested.
“Will Aerion be—”
“He will stay here until he’s well enough to travel to Essos.” Maekar is aware that there’s something off between his second son and his youngest, but when pressed, Aegon simply states that he hates Aerion and will not provide details. Maekar has hopes that time apart, time where Aegon can train and grow, will level the field between the pair of them.
Perhaps time where Aerion can understand his cruelty will not be protected for long will halt his tormenting of his siblings.
There’s little time to spend with Valarr or Baelor, as Maekar oversees the supplies and fresh horses for the rest of the journey, fitting out the procession with his own guards to see them further on to King’s Landing before they’ll be set to return. Finding Ser Duncan large enough clothes is a battle in itself, but a maid has a son who’s large of build and can provide some decent enough clothes to see him to the Red Keep.
“You’re not coming?” Valarr corners him the following day, the maesters both agreeing that Baelor needs an extra day of rest before they push on. His arguments on the matter ceased when Daella and Rhae declared their desire to have a tea party with their uncle, which ended any further protests on leaving early. “I had thought you’d—Well, with father’s memory being—”
Ordinarily, Valarr wouldn’t be wrong. Maekar would like to be able to help, would like to assist Baelor with any questions, be there to support his brother, offer his contrition for the injury in the first place. Under normal circumstances, it would be Maekar that Baelor would turn to for the assistance, less he rely too heavily on Valarr. Maekar is as guilty of it himself; they’ll turn to one another before anyone else, used to relying on each other for such matters, so that they do not feel like a burden to their children. Baelor spent a fortnight helping Maekar wash, dress and eat when his shoulder was injured in a skirmish that left him without any range of motion.
But an order from the King, no matter how gently stated, is an order.
“I was planning on, but there are matters in the Marches that require attention. The King has instructed it dealt with before any bigger problems arise. And I must see to Aerion’s travel arrangements, it’s better to keep him out of King’s Landing.” He intends to keep his son as far away from the Queen as possible. “I’ve made arrangements for your journey, suitable provisions, guards, and riders have gone ahead to organise lodgings for the nights.” They’ll be able to reach King’s Landing in two or three days of riding, depending on Baelor’s condition. But Maekar still sent riders ahead so that they would have inns or keeps for the times they have to stop.
“But you’re the closest with—” Valarr seems troubled by the notion, and Maekar detests that so much is being placed on the young man’s shoulders.
In a way, Maekar feels a familiar kinship with Valarr; he has almost the same age difference with Valarr as he does with Baelor, and where Maekar had trailed at Baelor’s heels in his youth, Valarr had done the same with Maekar. While he cannot possibly understand the weight that his brother and nephew carry, nor the poise in which they manage it, Maekar wants nothing more than to help in whatever way he can.
“You are what your father needs, Valarr. Your steady support, your quiet strength. He will come back to you, have faith in him.” Truly, Maekar hopes that Baelor’s memories return more for Valarr than anything else; a selfish part of him wants Baelor to remember him, remember their closeness, the shared experiences, the history they have, the choices they’ve made together. He wishes for the shared glances, the silent observations, how Baelor can understand him without a word spoken. This last fortnight and more without the ease of quiet conversations and shared burdens with his brother has been as difficult as the missing comfort and support in private.
They just started to broach the long ignored heat between them, with Maekar’s heart gradually healing from Dyanna’s loss, with Baelor’s support crossing from brotherly to something more weighted.
And then Ashford happened.
“Your grandparents will have the most skilled healers waiting in King’s Landing,” Maekar wouldn’t be surprised if they send out to Essos for healers if need be.
“Ser Duncan and Aegon are coming with us?” Valarr doesn’t seem entirely settled by the notion, but Maekar nods.
“Yes, but Ser Duncan will be fully responsible for Aegon,” given that his boy is more than a handful right now, “You only need focus on your father, the hedge knight will handle your cousin.” Or Maekar will send all the sellswords in the realm after that idiot.
He has to trust it’ll work out somehow.