Work Text:
The world became nothing but muffled around you.
Your ears failed to hear the occasional cheers of the lords, their gasp of terror once one of the challengers fell under the dead weight of their horses, or when swords clashed between them or tore a piece of unprotected flesh. You weren't even able to grasp Egg's shouts, the boy's deep blue eyes following the almost lifeless body of Ser Duncan The Tall.
Your eyes were focused elsewhere. On your husband, Baelor Breakspear.
Allowing a member of the royal blood, let alone the heir to the Iron Throne and Hand of the King, join a form of brutal Andalry combat was indeed a gamble, for you seeing this as a way to lower yourself to Aerion's cowardly and arrogance.
The night prior to the fight you wept for Baelor, almost dropping to your knees when he made the intimate announcement to join Duncan's side, urging to reconsider his decision. Yet, he looked at you with a mix of longing and compassion, holding your hands and kissing them as if it was the last thing the gods would allow him to do.
"This honourable man protected an innocent," he claimed, voice low and soft, "What kind of prince of the realm would I be, if I stood idle while goodness was made to kneel before egotism?"
And so you let him go, the following morrow silently adjusting his armour — the one belonged to his son, Valarr, who complained about the tightness over his father's figure — kissing him goodbye and whispering a prayer for the Mother to cast a protective light on him.
You thought that it worked, that the Baelor that was fighting was indeed kissed by the gods.
Then Maekar's mace hit him, brutal but unintentional, so loud it echoed through the whole arena.
And breath failed to reach your lungs.
Maesters were fussing around after the trial, dragging the bodies of the dead and offering a standing to the living wounded. When the dreadful news reached your delicate ears, your own body almost collapsed, the strong arms of Ser Raymun Fossoway and Goodman Pate supporting you before you fell to the ground.
The helmet was severely damaged to the gorget, wound and metal melded together in a way that made their faces go carefully, deliberately blank. And when they finally managed to remove it, they watched how the prince fell on the ground, Duncan's arms steadying him before his fall could damage him further.
Your own skin went pale, mind racing to the worst case scenario. Perhaps you prayed too thin and low, the gods couldn't quite reach your tears or were just parading their cruelty, allowing the rotten apples to stand on the ground while taking away the good ones.
It was when maesters guided you at his bedside that you finally pictured what it was considered by them a miracle itself.
Baelor's face was pale, too pale for your own liking, stripped of all his warmth and gentle authority, cleansed of all the blood that coloured his skin. He was still, too still, as if he was about to be claimed at any moment.
But it was then you heard the faintest of the whimpers, his chest rising and falling slowly beneath his son's armour.
He breathes, you told yourself. He still breathes.
Your mind came back to the conversation you both had the previous night, his words to you were now calculated as a prophecy.
What kind of prince of the realm would I be, if I stood idle while goodness was made to kneel before egotism?
A kind of prince who would perish for the good, you slowly realized.
And you hated him, just briefly, for being so good.
The journey to King's Landing was long and winding, time dilated into something unreal, the ghost of a pain wrapping you like a deadly vice.
The members of House Targaryen were not the same after the Trial of the Seven, each of them dealing with the waiting in their own way: you wept when you held Valarr in your arms, eyes hurt and face drained of all his confidence, blaming himself for allowing his father to use his armour.
Egg and Daeron were genuinely worried about you, often checking beneath your cloth of righteousness, in search of any kind of crack that would let them see through the high walls you built to shield you from the pain.
Maekar was the hardest to deal with, for him looking at you with guilt and sorrow. Would Baelor be dead, Maekar's hands would carry that weight to his grave — and the knowledge of it sat between you like a wound neither of you dared to touch. You wanted to tell him it was not his fault; words were true, they simply would not leave your throat.
Instead you offered him the only thing you could manage: the absence of accusation. It was a meagre gift. By the hollowness in his eyes, he knew it too.
You felt the shadow of Duncan, following you like a lost puppy, bending his knees and muttering apologies between tears for so long you stopped counting them. A part of you would hate him, for you considering him responsible for your husband's downfall. But your heart failed to harvest such cruelty and give them to him, so you learn to forgive.
But it was the confrontation with king Daeron that was even worse than every form of punishment since the First Men. You saw how his face contorted in pain, watching from the sunset to the dusk the body of his firstborn and heir grasping for life, his veiny hands holding his son's so tight he was afraid the gods would take him.
Your presence, silent and haunted, was in the small council when a confrontation between Daeron and Maekar came, the first one bringing on the plate the jealousy the latter harbored in his heart for his brother. You vaguely remembered how you pleaded the king mercy for his son, successfully having made him see reason and preventing him from removing Maekar from his court.
With the realm dealing with the indefinite absence of his Hand and heir, you stood vigil at his side as you stood at nothing else in your life, stripped of the careful composure you had maintained through the journey and the whispers and the well-meaning prayers that felt like small, blunt knives. Rarely you were seen leaving his chambers, only to allow maesters to do their work or being summoned by the king in the small council, in place of your spouse when the realm needed a firm Hand to solve the urgent matters.
You learn to become the pillar of the family, to draw strength from your agony and wear it like armor, especially for Valarr and Matarys: those two sweet boys already lost the love of a mother, they did not deserve to be mocked by the gods by missing the comfort of a father.
But when the dusk drew his final goodbye, in the dim light of your shared chambers, you crumbled and waited.
Your hands worked carefully as you carefully wrapped Baelor's head with clean cloth. His breathing was slow. Too slow, the maesters said, wonder still painted in their faces; it was nearly impossible to survive with such a blow.
You took his hand — broad and warm, still, always so terribly warm — and held it between both of yours the way he had held yours the night before the trial. In some moments, you just stood silent. In others, you prayed for the Mother to cast her protection on him again.
"I resent you." You said one day, cheek resting on your forearm while the other hand rested on his cheek, his stubble tickling your palm. "You promised to take me to the land where your lady mother was born, so that I could explore and understand her Dornish culture. Yet, you chose to parade your chivalry soul in front of the realm and be the champion of a man you barely met. You left me quite mad."
Your tone was low and soothing, no hint of accusation laced within it. Only love, and the quiet, aching pride you carried for the man who had stood for the good and the innocent, who would make House Targaryen worthy of the loyalty it carried decades ago.
You were accustomed to his silences. But tonight the grief was louder than your discipline, rising through the careful walls you had built around yourself until it found the cracks and spilled through without permission.
You adjusted on your chair, your hands engulfing him. They were broad, calloused, of a man who saw many battlefields than royal decrees, and the contrast of them against your own soft palms undid something in you that you had been holding tightly shut for days.
You brought them to your lips, kissing his knuckles once, twice, and again, your tears falling freely now, salt-warm against his skin.
"I need you to live, Baelor." You breathed against his palm, sniffing softly, "you may not have its features but you are the blood of the dragon. From fire you are born and to fire you will return. To me. To your father and brothers. To your children."
You stood silent for a while, pain squeezing your throat in an uncomfortable vice until you found the courage to continue, "The realm needs a good man, someone who embodies the values of true chivalry, someone just and humble enough to keep the reins of the Seven Kingdoms."
Another short silence followed, then you continued. "This house will be doomed without your wisdom, your death will be a wound difficult to heal."
Your vision got blurred as you leaned close, foreheads touching and tears staining his cheeks. "Come back to me, my heart. Do not leave the Mother's hand and claim you."
His silence was too empty, too still; it made your heart shatter into pieces and believing your voice would live far enough to reach for him, that it was too late even to try to restore his life back.
You pressed your lips to his brow, lingering there as long as you could, a sigh breaking your walls and lowering your guard.
Yet, you were so engulfed in your sadness that you failed to notice his chest rising and fall, stronger than the time you found him on the verge of death in Ashford.
A weak, trembling hand reached for you, engulfing your cheek and wiping the tears that were staining your eyes. Lifting up your gaze you saw Baelor, face pale and eyes dull and unfocused, but with that faint light of recognition that made your heart squeeze in your chest.
"Baelor." you called him between tears and laughs, so low as if you were dealing with a newborn babe.
The heir to the Iron Throne looked at you, lips parted but no sound came at first. Until a faint rattle left his mouth. "My brother…" he breathed. Of course Maekar would be the first thing his mind would process, for him loving his brother so dearly. "He… Strong…"
You nodded your head, holding his hand as you kissed his palm with utterly devotion. "He is. As strong as his brother."
He smiled, or he made something that resembled a small smile, and as if exhaustion hit him again he closed his eyes.
And for the first time after days of holding your breath, you watched over your wounded husband with hope for a bright future.
Saying that maesters cried miracles would be an understatement. Their carefully composed faces fracture into something caught between the relief and misbelief as they watch Baelor Breakspear slowly coming back to life, his body regaining the strength that it had before the trial. Many of them whispered of the impossibility of surviving after such a serious blow, and the small council was privately arranging the funeral of the heir.
His family rushed to his bedside as soon as they were informed of his condition. Valarr and Matarys were the first to come, accompanied by their grandsire , the king, wrapping their arms around him and breathing words of thanks to the Seven with tears in their eyes. Daeron praised the recovery of his son, generously ransoming the maesters for having saved the future of the realm. Maekar was the last one to pay a visit, his heart still haunted by the trial and gaze still guilty, unable to look at his brother. But Baelor was quick to forgive him — he never resented his brother for taking Aerion's side — and his soft smile and a measuring squeeze of his hand was enough to ease the torment in Maekar's heart.
Behind the renewed joy, your shadow stood silent and vigilant. His sons had thanked you for your prayers, his father and brothers were impressed by the devotion you showed on Baelor. But you didn't claim public praise, nor a reward for what you did. You simply acted like a devoted wife, and their happiness was the best gift the gods could ever give to you.
The maesters had warned that his recovery would be long and complex. The first days for Baelor were a true nightmare: his eyes were still dull and unfocused, struggling to keep his focus longer than a few seconds. Words failed to form in his brain and come out from his lips, talking in a clumsy, slurred way.
Pain was constant, dull headaches that come and never go totally, forcing him to stand still in his bed. You were used to the rich scent of the milk of poppy, which you gave him in small doses and when the pain was too intense to bear.
It took Baelor more than a year to fully recover.
The wound behind his head turned into a scar, pale and uneven beneath the hair that had grown back to cover it. He was strong enough to talk again, to see things without squinting his eyes or asking for someone to describe things. The headaches became a part of him, annoying but manageable.
However, there were damages that stood permanently.
The hand that used to raise his sword was weak, shaking at every slight movement. Writing had been a challenge for him, a limitation that is an obstacle for his role as Hand of the King, as he regularly held petitions in his hands, along with exchanging letters he sent to the other Houses.
His legs weren't as strong as they had been in the past, the long hours of standing that his duties demanded leaving him completely drained. You had caught him more than once bracing himself against the stone walls of the corridors, head slightly bowed, waiting for the weakness to pass before continuing on as though nothing had happened. He never acknowledged these moments, nor did he ever ask you for help: he felt responsible for your own suffering, promising to himself he would never bother you with such discomforts.
You, on the other hand, watched every movement, and waited for any request of help.
They never came, until one day.
You heard the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, a loud thud that made your blood freeze in your veins. Reaching quickly for your chambers, your eyes widen to the scene unfolding before you: Baelor was on one knee to the floor, one hand braced flat against the cool stine floor, the other hand — the trembling one — gripping the chair in a tight vice, knuckles turning white. His gaze was low, but you caught the faint muscle of his jaw twitching, the veil of shame that covered his calm and composed face.
It hurt you to see him like this.
instinctively you reached for him, words ready to come out from your mouth when he lifted his gaze.
"I am fine," he simply replied, too plain, too steady, even when nothing else in his current health was. He groaned when he managed to stand up, the palms of his hands pressed on the cold surface of the wooden table, reaching for stability.
"Forgive me, my beloved," Baelor replied, casting a sympathetic glance, "I feel so ashamed of the spectacle you have witnessed before. You must think ill of your husband, now."
You blinked at his light chuckle, your lips twitching in disbelief. "I never thought such a thing,"you replied flatly, crossing the distance between you and reaching for him. Your hand stood on his elbow, your touch featherlight. "Let me help you, Baelor."
He casted a look on your hand, feeling the utterly devotion in your touch, the same one you showed during his convalescence. It was enough for him to feel shame building at the pit of his stomach, guilt gnawing at his soul.
"You have done nothing but help me," he said quietly, "since long before I deserved it."
"You have always deserved it." The words came without hesitation, without performance. Simply the truth, stated as plainly as you knew how.
"You survived something a common man would never, Baelor. Your father was already mourning you, Maekar was consumed with guilt and your sons were learning to stand tall in the shadow of their late father," you stated, words so honest to hit him. "I would never blame you for being hurt, nor would your family or the realm. You gave a chance to a poor man whose sin was to protect an innocent person from an ill member of the family. The small folk have sworn their loyalty to you and cheered at your return."
Baelor absorbed your words carefully. He did not argue, he could never argue with words spoken with great wisdom. He was so focused on coming back in court, to show that strong part of himself that the trial of the seven damaged permanently, casting a shadow over his weaknesses and neglecting your requests of help.
"Let me help you, Baelor," you pleaded, something in your voice cracking. "My heart bleeds every time you cast me aside. Do not let your pride poorly judge my actions. You have always been my hammer and my strength. Let me be it for you, for once."
You saw his calmness faltering for a bit, a twitch of sadness and regret crossing his dark eyes. The composed, measured man that the realm knew — that even his own children knew — quietly came undone before you, in the privacy of a room that had witnessed more of his vulnerability than any battlefield ever had.
Silence stretched between you for a few seconds. Then he sighed, straightening himself further, his trembling hand reaching for yours, rough thumb rubbing your soft knuckles.
"The small council will resume its peace terms with the Stormlands late on the morrow," he said, shoulders relaxed. "Help me reach the room, if you're so kind."
You didn't have to be asked twice. Your arm was already wrapped around his waist, your movements careful as you helped him straighten in place, stopping at every winch or discomfort he felt. Once he was ready enough to walk, you both left the chamber, crossing the vast and populated corridors of the Red Keep.
Different eyes were set on the body of the cracked Hand, but none of them dared to breathe. Servants bowed quietly, mumbling softs "Your Grace" at his passing. Members of the Kingsguard did the same, some of them relieved to see the heir alive and well. Lords just greeted with a welcoming smile, bowing at their passage.
"I did not wish you to carry the weight of this broken man," Baelor faintly protests, but you are quick to shout it.
"I want to. I married you, I swore to the Seven to serve and be devoted to my lord husband. Never you were a weight, you are anything but."
A shadow of a smile crossed Baelor's lips, proud of the woman he married and fiercely loved from the start of their courtship. He would never tell her out loud, but he blessed the Seven for sending him something like you.
"You should forgive this proud, stubborn man, then." he murmured, and soon your lips were on his cheek.
"There is nothing to forgive," you said. "The gods have given you back to me, this is worth anything else."
And you meant every word.