WIDE AWAKE ( part 3 )
š”ļø BAELOR TARGARYEN X FEM!READER
summary : you survive a plane crash ā only to wake up in a world that isnāt yours. they call it Westeros. lost and alone, you try to surviveā¦ until a joust goes terribly wrong and you save the heir to the Iron Throne, changing the fate of the realm.
words : 15k ( yh I yapped too much again )
warning : maekar catching strays ( I promise I love him yāall), b-heading, s-icidal thoughts, valarr being the brat and sweetheart he is, mentions of aerion, blood and graphic violence, sexism and misogyny, medieval-typical attitudes, political intrigue, power imbalance, and other classic ASOIAF themes ect ect...
a/n : well, here we areā¦. this is my gift for tonightās finaleā¦ plz, as always, drop ur thoughts in the comments section ;)
part 1, part 2, part 3 (you are here)
That's what you get for helping the heir to the Iron Throne instead of minding your own damn business like a proper little maid.
You might have kept your head bowed and your hands folded, as any other servant is meant to do : tending fires, pouring wine, minding only the small, safe corners of her own world. But no. You had to step forward. You had to play the fucking savior.
All because your soft heart would not be stilled, because the thought of a man as good as he was (aye, good in a world that grinds such men to dus) falling beneath steel and treachery turned your stomach. You could not stand aside and watch him bleed into the dirt.
And now you do not even know if he will live.
The blow he took was a cruel one. You have seen wounds like that before ā on bright white tables beneath harsher lights, with steel instruments laid out in neat and gleaming rows. In another life, with another world's knowledge, you might have saved him without trembling. You are a healer trained in the mysteries of the mind and the delicate labyrinth of flesh and nerve.
Even then, even in your own world, it would have been hard. You've seen cases like this before. Motorcycle crashes, high-speed impacts, or a blow to the head like that.
Most of them didn't make it.
No matter the flashing lights, the trauma teams, the sterile operating rooms ā sometimes the damage was simply too severe : swelling, hemorrhaging. The brain shutting down under the weight of the impact.
And that was with modern medicine.
Here? In a world of steel swords and muddy battlefields? The odds feel even thinner.
This is Westeros. Here there are no humming machines, no careful sutures spun of miracle thread, no vials of clear salvation. There are only rough hands, boiled wine, and prayers whispered to distant gods. They dwell in an age of leeches and poultices, while you carry the knowledge of centuries yet to come ā and even that may not be enough.
You tried to save him. Yet in this twisted, blood-soaked realm, even the wisdom of a future age may break against the hard stone of fate.
But It doesn't matter now... No, it doesn't.
You are in a dungeon, and the world has narrowed to stone and filth.
The air is filled with the stink of rot and old water. Rats move bold as courtiers through the straw at your feet, their pink tails trailing through the muck. Somewhere close, unseen sewage crawls sluggishly through the dark, and the smell of it clings to the back of your throat like a sickness.
A single window, narrow as a coffin slit, is cut high into the wall. Iron bars cross it like the ribs of some great beast. No sky can be seen from where you sit ā only a smear of black. Night, perhaps. Or only the belly of the castle swallowing what little light remains.
You wonder if Prince Baelor still breathes.
God, you hope so. Not their gods ā the Seven with their painted smiles and judging eyes. You have seen enough of this place to know their gods are cruel, or else deaf. You whisper to your own, to a heaven far away and centuries ahead, and pray he lives.
You pray you were not thrown down here for nothing.
Outside the cell, guards linger. You hear them in the dark ā the scrape of a boot, the low mutter of bored men. Their voices drift through the bars, thick with suspicion.
Witch,Ā one of them says.
Maybe,Ā says another.
You scream that you are not, your voice breaks against the stone, so desperate you might sound mad. You tell them you are a healer, that you tried to save him.
They tell you to fuck off.
So you keep your silence, because what is left to say? In the dark, you begin to hate yourself.
Your wretched empathy, your need to fix what is broken. In your own world it had been praised ā dedication, compassion, brilliance under pressure. Here it has earned you straw for a bed and iron for a sky. You could have stayed back! You could have let the maesters mutter their prayers and bind his head in linen and leave the swelling to the mercy of their Seven. You could have told yourself he was only a prince, not your responsibility.
Instead, you knelt in his blood. He might wake... He might not...
The thought is a blade that cuts both ways.
He might wake ā clear-eyed, breathing, the worst behind him. And you might already be ash by then.
Or perhaps you will live, only to watch him pass you in some bright corridor without recognition. A prince does not keep account of every pair of hands that touch him in crisis. Servants blur together, healers are tools. Necessary, replaceable.
Princes' do not weep for maids thrown into cells, lords do not argue with gaolers over nameless women.
You tell yourself this because it is safer.... yet memory betrays you.
He had asked your opinion.
Not once in passing (not a distracted hum meant to soothe his own pride) but truly asked. He had tilted his head when you spoke, as though the answer mattered. His voice had been warm, low and earnest, stripped of courtly edge in that quiet chamber. There had been curiosity in him. Gratitude, even.
You remember the way he held your gaze, with his mismatched one... but then another voice rises, much more colder : Ā He was raised to charm.Ā To disarm, to make the lowborn feel momentarily lifted by the illusion of importance. A prince's kindness costs him nothing. A soft tone here, a question there ā it binds loyalty more surely than chains.
Perhaps you were simply dazzled. Starved for respect in a world where you are forever smaller than the men around you. Perhaps you mistook polished courtesy for something personal.
You spoke to him twice! Twice in all your time in this castle...
A harsh voice in your mind counts it like a sentence passed: two conversations. A handful of exchanged words. No promises, no vows, no reason for him to remember the sound of your voice once the pain fades.
You press your forehead to the stone.
He likely does not even remember your name.
The rats do not care what you are, the dark does not care either.
And so you sit, in the stink and the silence, and wait to learn whether you saved a prince ā or doomed yourself for nothing at all.
Soon enough, the bolts scrape back. Instead, it is Lord Ashford who steps into the cell.
You don't even recognize him at first.
He looks as though he has aged a decade in a single night. His grey curls, usually so carefully kept, hang loose and disordered about his temples. His fine yellow and orange doublet is wrinkled, stained at the cuff. The heavy chain of office he so often wears is absent from his shoulders, as if he had come in such haste he forgot the weight of his own rank.
He looks ashen, drawn thin with worry even.
"What have you done, girl?!" he demands.
The words are meant to scold ā but beneath them you hear something else. Not fury, not quite. There is strain there. Fear, perhaps? And something that feels dangerously close to concern.
You cling to that.
Lord Ashford loves his daughter, that much is plain to any who have eyes. He spared no expense for her nameday tourney : banners dyed in costly pigments, knights summoned from leagues away, musicians and cooks and falcons and fools. He strained his coffers thin to impress the royal family, to ensure Lady Gwyn's celebration would be spoken of for years.
He had been kind to you, kinder than most nobles. Yes, there is arrogance in him (the easy pride of a man born to command) but in this world, that is almost gentleness.
"My lord," you begin hoarsely, forcing yourself upright despite the protest of your abused knees. "I swear on my life, I have never practiced witchcraft. I would not ā "
He lifts a hand quickly, motioning you down.
"Speak lowly," he mutters, glancing back toward the corridor. "I am not certain I am meant to be here."
You lower your eyes at once.
"My daughter is worried sick for your safety," he adds, shaking his head faintly.
Gwyn. Oh poor, sweet Gwyn!
All of this ā all of it ā began on her nameday. She should have been wrapped in silks, laughing from her balcony as knights shattered lances in her honor. She should have been crowned Queen of Love and Beauty, roses laid at her feet, songs composed in her name.
Instead, her celebration curdled into blood.
The heir to the Iron Throne struck down in the melee. Whispers of a Trial of Seven already stirring like storm clouds. Lords choosing sides. And in the midst of it, you (her favored maid, her odd little foreign servant) dragged to the dungeons and branded a witch.
Because you tried to save him, because his brother swung a mace too hard and now must blame someone for the ruin of it.
You swallow the bitterness before it shows on your face.
"I was only trying to help him," you say, softer now. "He would have died without intervention. The swelling in his head ā "
You stop yourself. What use are words like hemorrhage, intracranial pressure, compression of the brain to a lord who has never seen the inside of a skull? To him it would sound like more witch's prattle.
You swallow the rest.
You know Prince Maekar did not mean it.
From what little you witnessed, the brothers were close : anvil and hammer, the stories said. One steady and bright, the other hard and unyielding. They balanced one another. Fought beside one another. Loved one another, in the way men raised on battlefields do.
He struck because his son's life was on the line... Any father who loved his child would have done the same.
You lower your gaze to the filthy rushes.
"I am sorry," you whisper, wiping fresh tears from your cheeks with the back of your uninjured hand.
God.... You have never wept so much. Not even after the plane crash ā the screaming metal, the smoke, the bodies. You swore then you would never cry before strangers again. That you would be composed... And yet here you are, shaking in a dungeon before your lord, tears falling unchecked.
Lord Ashford looks as shaken as you feel. After all, the heir to the realm nearly died (or has died, for all anyone truly knows) under his roof, during his daughter's tourney. His carefully planned splendor turned to scandal and blood in a single heartbeat.
"I never meant to ā " Your voice breaks. The sob rises and lodges hard in your throat. You cannot finish.
"I cannot promise you anything," the old man says at last, his tone heavy. "If what you claim is true, it will fall to Prince Maekar... and to his father, King Daeron in King's Landing."
The words seem to drain the warmth from the room.
"The ravens have flown back and forth without rest," he continues. "They argue even now, I am told. They mean to summon the greatest maesters from the Citadel. But such men are not at their beck and call. It may take days."
Days.
"If it takes that long," he adds grimly, "the prince may already be dead by ā "
"He's alive then?" you cut in before you can stop yourself. "Prince Baelor is alive?"
Lord Ashford studies you.
"He still breathes," he says at last. "That is all I can swear to."
Relief and terror crash together inside your chest.
He lives... but he does not wake.
It is normal, your surgeon's mind insists through the haze of fear. After trauma like that, the brain retreats. It swells.... It protects itself the only way it can. It could take days ā a week, even! ā before he opens his eyes. Longer still before he can form words that make sense.
Comas are not death, you cling to the thought.
In truth, it is a miracle he is breathing at all. After a blow like that, most never do...
Lord Ashford closes his eyes briefly, as though the truth pains him to speak.Ā
"The prince yet lives," he repeats more quietly. "But he does not wake." The fragile hope that had kindled within you flickers, uncertain. "And until he does," he goes on, words tightening, "there are those who would rather lay blame at your feet than elsewhere."
His gaze drops to your red eyes.
"Gods help us all, girl," he murmurs. "You may have saved him... or doomed us entirely."
His words haunt you through the long, sleepless dark and into the grey hush of morning.
You do not know when night ended ā only that the black beyond the barred slit has paled to a thin, colorless light. You have not slept. Each time your eyes closed, you heard again:Ā He lives... but he does not wake.
The bolts scrape back agonizingly slow, and then, two guards step inside ā and these are not the dungeon rabble from before.
No, you recognize the white at once : kingsguard.
Their armor gleams pale even in the miserable light, enameled plates catching what little dawn seeps through the barred slit. White cloaks fall straight from their shoulders, unstained, severe. When they move, metal whispers and settles with disciplined precision.
These are men sworn to the king, to the royal line ā loyal unto death.
Surely they would not soil their white cloaks with injustice... right ?
A fragile, desperate hope stirs within you. Perhaps they have come to their senses, perhaps the prince still breathes, and in his silence someone has remembered the foreign healer who cut to save rather than to kill. Perhaps they mean to loose your chains and bring you back to his bedside.
Perhaps they will let you tend him.
Your heart dares to lift, thin and trembling as a candle flame in a draft.Ā
And yet ā there is no prince with them.
No maester robed in chain, no lord bearing reprieve. No gratitude. No judgment spoken aloud.
Only iron and leather beneath the white. Only the faint sour scent of men who have stood long vigil in stone corridors, their boots marked with dried mud and darker things. Their faces are carved from restraint, stern and unreadable.
They have not come as saviors.
They have come with an horrific purpose, and your stomach drops at the realization. Fuck, oh how you're so fucked.Ā
Hope, foolish and persistent, dies a quiet death in your chest.
And for one shameful heartbeat, as they approach you where you sit hunched against the wall, you wish you had not survived the plane crash at all.
You lift your head slowly from where it rested against your drawn knees, hope rising sharp and foolish in your chest.
"Is the prince alive?" you ask, the words tripping over themselves in their haste.
They give you nothing. Why would they? You are a prisoner now ā no healer, no savior. Whatever you were before has been stripped away with your freedom. For all you know, the prince is already dead.
One of them moves without warning, seizing you by the arm and wrenching you forward. Your legs, stiff from hours curled on the stone, fail to steady you. You stumble, a startled cry escaping as your feet slide through the foul, damp straw.
The second guard sweeps your legs from beneath you with a brutal kick.
You hit the ground hard enough to bite your tongue. Warmth floods your mouth at once, the taste of blood spreading slow and coppery across it.
"Please," you start again.
The word leaves you before pride can swallow it.
You know what is coming. Oh, you know. You try to tell yourself otherwise ā that white cloaks mean justice, that vows mean mercy. That perhaps, for once, being a woman in this brutal world might grant you some small shield. A measure of pit, a hesitation.
You cling to that foolish thought for the span of a heartbeat, but you see it in their faces.
Not cruelty, not kindness, butĀ duty.Ā And duty does not bend for tears.
The slap comes quick and open-handed. Your head snaps to the side, the stone floor swims.
"Quiet," one of them growls.
They wrench your arm out, forcing your palm flat against the cold ground. A boot pins your wrist. You twist, horrified, but the pressure only increases.
"We've questions," the taller one says. "You answer true."
"I told you, I'm no witch ā "
The second guard crouches, bringing a torch down from the wall. The flame gutters and flares, close enough now that you can feel its breath against your skin.
"You lie," he says mildly. "Or you don't answer... we'll see how your pretty healer's hands fare in the fire."
The heat licks nearer.
"If you deny us," the first adds, tightening his grip, "or refuse to speak, we burn it. Slow."
Your heart hammers against your ribs like it means to break free.
In another world, those hands held scalpels steady over open skulls. In another world, they saved lives. Here, they are something to be tested in flame.
The torch dips lower.
You feel it before it touches you ā the dry, searing breath of it, close enough to prickle the fine hairs along your skin. Your body jerks on instinct, but the boot grinds harder into your wrist. Stone bites into your cheek.
"Please," you whisper, the word small and frayed.
"Start speaking," says the taller guard. "What spell did you lay on him?"
"No spell," you choke. "There was blood in his skull ā swelling. I was trying to ease the pressure. If it is not relieved, the brainā"
The slap comes again, sharper than the first. Your ears ring, you curse them in your head.
"Listen to her," the man with the torch says with a crooked grin. "Skull blood. Brain swelling. Witch-talk."
"It's not witchcraft," you insist, panic rising fast now. "It's knowledge. Where I come from, we study the body. We cut to heal. We ā "
The flame kisses your palm.
Not fully, not yet, but just enough.
The pain is instant and monstrous, a white flare that devours thought. You scream despite yourself, the sound scraping raw out of your throat. The smell comes next ā faint and sickening : scorched skin.
The guard pulls the torch back, watching you with idle curiosity, as if gauging the doneness of meat.
"Next time," he says evenly, "I will not be gentle."
The torchlight wavers against the white of his cloak.
"Aren't you a knight?" you grit out through tears of pain. "Aren't you sworn to protect women and the innocent?"
Something flickers in his eyes ā not doubt, but irritation.
"You are no innocent," the other replies coldly.
You laugh then, a broken, breathless sound. "I tried to save him ā "
"Enough," the first snaps.
He steps closer, and now it is not the torch that threatens but the steel at his hip. His hand rests upon the pommel, casual as a man leaning against a wall.
"Hold your tongue," he says, voice low and deadly calm, "or it will not be fire that takes your hand, but my blade that takes your eye next."
The words fall without heat, that is what chills you most.
You force air into your lungs, try to drag your mind away from the agony blooming across your hand. First-degree burn, you think wildly. Maybe partial thickness. God, no sterile dressings. No antibiotics. Infection here is a death sentence.
"Did someone send you?" the taller one presses. "Rebels? Was this meant to kill him?"
"No!" The word rips out of you. "If I meant to kill him, I would have done nothing. I was trying to save him."
They exchange a look.
The torch lowers again, hovering just above your skin. Close enough that you can feel the promise of it.
"Then pray he lives," the crouching guard says softly. "For if the prince dies, we'll not stop at your hand."
Your heart stutters.
If he dies.
You cling to that ā the unspoken truth beneath the threat. They do not know, he still breathes. Or at least, he did when they dragged you down here.
The torch comes down again, this time it does not merely kiss your skin.
It lingers.
Your scream tears out of you before you can stop it, raw and animal, echoing off the stone in a way that does not sound human at all.Ā
"Speak," the taller guard demands.
You gasp, words breaking apart in your mouth. "I ā I told you ā "
The torch presses harder.
You thrash, but the boot grinds bone against stone. White explodes behind your eyes. You are dimly aware of your own voice begging, promising, swearing by gods you do not believe in.
"Where are you from?" he snarls.
For one mad, fleeting moment, you think of telling the truth.
Another world, another century. A place of bright lights and humming machines and surgeons who wash their hands before cutting into flesh. A place beyond their understanding... but that would only damn you further.
Witch,Ā they would say.Ā Demon. Spawn of shadow.
So you choke out the first place-name that comes to mind.
"Ashford Meadow," you sob. "I was born in Ashford Meadow."
The men pause.
The one with the torch studies your face, as though weighing something. Then he rises and mutters to the other. They leave you shaking on the floor, your hand a screaming mass of agony, and for a brief, foolish heartbeat you think perhaps it is over.
It is not.
They return what feels like an age later ā though time has dissolved into pain ā and their expressions have changed.
"No such name," the taller one says flatly. "We sent to the steward. Had the birth rolls brought from Ashford Meadow."
Your blood runs cold.
"They keep records," he continues. "Every babe born, every death. Your name does not appear."
Your breath stutters.
"I ā I could have been born elsewhere," you try weakly. "Perhaps the septon miswrote it, perhaps ā "
The torch flares again.
"Liar."
This time they do not pause between questions. They do not pretend at patience, they burn. They strike, they wrench your arm until your shoulder screams. Each denial is answered with fire or fist.
You scream until your voice frays into nothing, until the sound scraping from your throat is no more than a broken rasp. You taste blood and salt and smoke, your vision swims.
Outside the cell, other guards stand watch, and even through the ringing in your ears, you hear one of them shift uneasily.
"Gods,"Ā he mutters under his breath.
The screams coming from within are not the cries of a scheming witch, they are the sound of something breaking.
Your hand is a ruin.
The skin has split and blistered, stretched thin and shining in places, bubbled in others like something boiled too long. Blood slicks your palm and fingers, running down to stain the stone. The burns sit atop it all, raw and furious. You would think the nerves long dead ā that mercy, at least, would have come in numbness.
But no. Oh, no. The pain is alive.
You search their faces for enjoyment and find none. Only grim resolve, and strain. One of them does not quite meet your eyes. You tell yourself that means they are not monsters, that they take no pleasure in this.
Perhaps you are only trying to salvage some fragment of humanity in the cell ā if not in them, then in yourself. At last, the boot lifts from your pinned wrist.
You sag forward, certain it is over. It is not...
A hand seizes you by the throat and slams you back against the wall. Stone bites into your spine. Your burned hand scrapes uselessly against his wrist as he lifts you half off your feet.
The pain in your back is nothing, nothing compared to your hand, compared to your ribs, your shoulder, your raw throat.
His fingers tighten, and your vision swarms with black.
"Tell me what you did!" he roars, his voice echoing through the dungeon like a struck bell. "Tell me!"
"Iā" You try to speak. Nothing comes. Your lungs claw for air that will not come. You grasp at his wrist, but your strength is gone, spent somewhere between fire and fist.
He slams you back against the wall again.
"You're going to be the one we blame," he snarls. "There must be a reason for all this fucking nonsense."
"Roland." The other guard's voice cuts through, sharp. "She's fading. You're killing her."
He does not release you, not until your sight tunnels and your eyes begin to roll back.
Then suddenly, you are dropped.
You crumple to the floor in a heap, gasping, your body no longer certain how to breathe. Air tears into your lungs like knives.
"Prince Maekar told us to torture her for information," the man with the torch snaps, anger replacing whatever restraint he once held. "Not to kill her, you imbecile."
Roland shakes his head, breathing hard. "You saw she wasn't cooperating. She wouldn't tell us ā "
Footsteps pound down the corridor, another guard appears at the door, flushed and winded. "Prince Maekar wants to see you."
The air in the cell shifts, they do not need to be told twice.
White cloaks turn and sweep from the room, leaving you broken on the stone, the echo of their armor fading ā and a new kind of dread settling into your bones.
Maekar stood in the dim, high-ceilinged hall, listening to the knights' hurried, clipped report.Ā
His hands gripped the edges of the rough wooden table as though it could anchor him against the chaos roaring inside his head. His short, pale hair was tousled from the night's restless pacing, and his eyes, hardened and purple like winter ice, did not lift from the stone floor.Ā
Two days ago, he and Baelor had sat at this very table.Ā
A minor castle, a minor tourney, a display to keep appearances for the lords and ladies of the realm. It was beneath them, truly, and yet it was duty ā and Baelor, ever dutiful, had accepted without complaint, smiling politely, even as Maekar muttered darkly about how hunting would have been far more fitting. Aerys and Rhaegel had declined, or more like been declined entirely, leaving the two of them alone to navigate the lowly tournament their father deemed essential.
The gods, it seemed, had no patience for his complaints.
And now... now the world had narrowed to two doors, one table, and the suffocating weight of tragedy.Ā
The journey had already claimed two of his sons, in a way, though not in death. One had wandered off to play at being a commoner's squire, lost to him for days, and the other had been drinking himself half to death, caught in folly and recklessness, staggering through inns and taverns, heedless of danger or duty.Ā
Maekar had been forced to track him down like a shepherd retrieving a stray lamb.Ā
He had found his eldest first, far from the path, and returned him, bruised and shivering, to the Ashford tourney where their family had gathered for the days' festivities, celebrating a nameday ā a lady's name Maekar could no longer remember in the haze of grief and fatigue.Ā
Only later did he discover the truth of the second: Aegon, his youngest son, had been squiring the very hedge knight who had struck Aerion, training at his side all this time, unseen and unnoticed, while Aerion had declared this knight an enemy of the crown over some petty slight, determined to prove the dragons were not so easily bested.
Aerion, his second son, still lived, though he was bloody and battered, as foolish and proud as ever, willing to throw himself into danger for vanity, for glory, for a notion of honor that made Maekar's teeth grit.Ā
The boy bore his father's face (pale hair, sharp cheekbones, the same set of eyes that had haunted Maekar in his own youth) yet none of the restraint, that Maekar had learned through years of survival and sorrow. His boy was cruel when he wished, selfish when he wished, reckless when he wished ā and yet he was Maekar's blood, and instinct demanded he be protected, regardless of reason or consequence.
When Aerion had insisted upon this ridiculous trial against a hedge knight, Maekar had felt a cold dread coil around his chest. Aerion insisted the man had insulted the dragons' honor, and in the boy's mind, the insult could only be answered with steel.Ā
He had declared the hedge knight an enemy of the crown itself, demanding battle to prove that Targaryens were not so easily bested, regardless of truth, law, or reason. Maekar had known ā from the very first ā that this display would end in blood, in humiliation, and in some unforgivable mistake.Ā
Yet, perhaps it was pride that clouded his judgment for a heartbeat.Ā
Perhaps he had clung to hope, imagining that the knight was nothing more than an awkward boy, stammering and without a sigil of his own, a lowborn who could never truly best his son or any knight of the dragon's blood.
That hope shattered the moment he saw Baelor.Ā
His elder brother, usually steady at his side in every battle, his shield and his protector, now aligned with the hedge knight, standing against him.Ā
Maekar's stomach had turned to lead.Ā
All sense of strategy, of composure, of control, seemed to slip through his fingers like smoke. He remembered the words he had spoken to Baelor before the trial, trying to warn him of the danger, of the foolishness. But Baelor had only smiled, and said that it was the right thing to do, that the gods would see whose demise was deserved.
It hurt, deeper than Maekar had expected.Ā
To see the brother who had always been his anchor now placed against him, a living reminder of how fragile order and loyalty could be when pride and honor collided. And then came the cruelest realization ā that all of this, the tension, the recklessness, the impending disaster, had been set in motion by his own son.Ā
Aerion, in all his blood and arrogance, had thrust them into this chaos, and Maekar could feel the burden of it pressing down on his chest like a stone.Ā
The gravity of the situation, the recklessness of his blood, the potential ruin of both his sons and his brother, struck him fully in that instant, and he understood that nothing in his careful life had prepared him for the consequences of pride running wild in his family.
And so, as Maekar watched the events unfold, helpless to stop them, a sickness had settled in his gut.Ā
The fear, the anger, the love for a son who was so achingly alive and yet so foolish, curled together into a single, hot coil that left him trembling and rigid at once. The world had narrowed to the two of them: Aerion, headstrong and alive, and the consequences of letting him run unchecked.
The memory of the joust came in violent fragments: the scrape of steel on shield, the thunder of hooves against earth, the yells of men caught between honor and survival. Aerion, reckless and hot-blooded, had thrown himself into combat with all the arrogance of youth, and Maekar had moved instinctively to intervene.Ā
Ser Duncan, the hedge knight, had struck with brutal precision, and in the scramble to shield Aerion, Maekar had not seen Baelor move into the path of the swing.Ā
And yet, even if he had seen it coming, even if he had recognized the danger to Baelor in time... would he have stopped it? Perhaps not. For Aerion, foolish, cruel, and reckless as he was, was his blood. The boy had been his late wife Dyanna's gift, a piece of her legacy, and Maekar would not allow another piece of her to be taken so carelessly.Ā
He would protect him, even if it meant striking down his own brother to do so.Ā
Love and blood did not bend for caution, did not wait for propriety or rules. It demanded instinct, demanded survival.
Now Baelor lay two doors away, breathing but unresponsive, and Maekar's chest ached with a mixture of guilt, fear, and relief.Ā
Relief that his brother yet drew breath.Ā
Fear that he might not wake.Ā
Guilt that his son's recklessness had set these events in motion, that his own actions to protect
Aerion might have endangered the prince, his own blood, his own brother. The table beneath his hands creaked as he squeezed it, nails digging into the wood until it seemed to protest.Ā
His thoughts were a tangle of blame and love. He cursed the tourney, cursed the small, lowly castle, cursed the Andals who had dictated such meaningless tests of honor.Ā
Yet he could not curse his son entirely.Ā
Aerion was what he was, and he would die before he allowed anyone else to strike him down for it. And Baelor... his steady, brave, foolish brother... he had nearly lost him.Ā
His heart had ached in the silence when he first saw him unmoving, when he thought death had claimed the one who had always been the quieter shadow to his own fire. And now, all that remained was waiting, and fear, and the impossible task of ensuring that no further blood would stain this day.
Maekar closed his eyes briefly, letting the burden of the hall and the silence press around him.
The knights spoke, their voices tense, their hands resting nervously on their hilts, but he could not answer.Ā
His mind was elsewhere, replaying the events in agonizing loops, imagining each possible misstep, each terrible outcome. The prince yet lived, and for that he should have been grateful.
But what did it matter? Alive, and yet so fragile ā so terribly, heartbreakingly fragile.Ā
Perhaps soon dead.Ā One wrong word, one misjudged action, and everything could collapse.
He tightened his fists against the table, forcing himself to stand tall even as his chest ached with the burden of fatherhood, brotherhood, and the endless, merciless weight of being a prince of the blood.
He kept telling himself to be hopeful.Ā
His sons were alive ā as alive as they could be under the circumstances. Aerion was responsive, at least in part, though beaten nearly to a pulp, bruised and battered so that he could barely rise to his feet.Ā
Egg pleaded with him constantly, his voice with fear, begging Maekar to listen, to give mercy, to spare her ā the girl who had intervened, who had supposedly used her strange, foreign "witchcraft" to stabilize Baelor.
But worst of all was his brother. Baelor. Lying there, pale and still, though the maesters swore he breathed. And yet the probability of him dying loomed like a shadow over Maekar's heart, a constant, gnawing threat.Ā
Every calculation, every consultation, every raven sent back and forth to King's Landing, every query to the maesters of the Citadel, had left him with the same gnawing certainty: nothing could undo what had already happened.
He went every night to sit beside Baelor, watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath the linen gauze. The same gauze that she ā the healer, the witch, the girl ā had applied, the one the acolytes of Maester Yormwell insisted had stabilized him, though none could say for certain.
"She babbled nonsense," they claimed. "But she held him together. Or not." No one could be sure.
And now, even that was under threat.
"She won't reply," Ser Donnel of Duskendale said flatly, the words slicing through the tense silence of the chamber. "We burned her hand, tortured her ā whatever we could ā and yet she refuses to confess. She will not admit to heresy, nor to the crimes we accused her of."
Maekar's jaw tightened. His hands clenched at the folds of his doublet, knuckles whitening. "Nothing?" he asked, voice tight, hollow, betraying the strain he had fought so hard to contain.
"Nothing," the knight repeated, grim and unwavering.
Maekar muttered under his breath, though no one seemed safe from the sound.Ā
"This isĀ fuckingĀ nonsense!" He slammed a hand against the table, the wood rattling under the force. "She must be held accountable! Whatever she has done, whatever sorcery she claims ā it cannot go unchecked. She may have stabilized him... or perhaps made him suffer more. Yet she sits silent, and the prince still lies there, unmoving!"
Perhaps he was a coward, afraid to shoulder the blame, afraid to see what had truly been done. And yet, he had already taken the burden upon himself. The burden of responsibility pressed him down, heavier than any armor, heavier than any sword he had ever carried.Ā
And this servant girl had intervened in ways he could neither fully understand nor control. She had acted, and now the consequences teetered between salvation and ruin.
"The girl must answer for whatever sorcery she has wrought," he said aloud. His gaze swept across the knights, who knelt silently, unwilling to meet his eyes. "The maesters tell me she kept babbling, issuing orders that made no sense. Commands, nonsense... yet somehow she stabilized him. And if she did not, if her actions only worsened his condition..." His voice trailed off as his fists clenched tighter.
Ser Donnel, spoke up from the shadowed corner where he had lingered. "Your Grace... she kept insisting she is a healer. That she was working to relieve the compression on his head. She was... speaking in terms we could barely understand, but she meant no harm, I think."
Maekar's eyes narrowed, scanning the grounds outside. The tournament had ended. The tents were being struck, the banners lowered, and the air of celebration had vanished into dust and sweat and regret.Ā
His mind churned with what-ifs and oughts and consequences that had already begun.
Maekar's hands remained braced against the rough wood of the table, knuckles white, as he looked between the knights and the gathered maesters. His jaw was tight, every muscle in his face coiled with the weight of what he knew he must decide.Ā
"If she will not speak," he said again, voice low but iron-edged, "if she will not confess, then we will deal with her."
He turned first to Lord Ashdrow, who stood silent, eyes cast down at the cold stones, clearly uneasy at the burden of what was to come. Then he looked to the maesters, seeking counsel.
"How are heretics... dealt with?" His gaze fell first on Maester Yormwell, the oldest among them, whose chain rattled softly as he shifted under the prince's scrutiny.
Maester Yormwell hesitated. His long, thin fingers fidgeted with the chain of his medallion, eyes flicking toward the chamber's door as if it might open to answer for him.
"Well?" Maekar insists.Ā
Yormwell hesitated, frowning as though the answer itself pained him. "Tradition... customary practice... heretics are burned, Your Grace," he said carefully. "We strip them of worldly protections, and fire is used to purify and punish both body and soul. The Citadel's records are full of examples."
Maekar's eyes narrowed.Ā
"Fire," he muttered, lips barely moving.Ā
Another acolyrtes, younger man with a hawkish nose and thin spectacles, spoke up, voice quivering slightly. "Your Grace, tradition is tradition. A heretic who refuses confession cannot remain at liberty. To show leniency might be taken as weakness. The King, should he hear of it, would not forgive hesitation."
Maekar leaned back slightly, rubbing his temple.Ā
His mind raced. He could send a raven, consult his father before acting... but time was slipping like sand through his fingers. Baelor remained unconscious, his life dangling between breath and silence.Ā
His mother, in King's Landing, would already be beside herself with worry ā her letters had been anxious, desperate.Ā She must not know yet...Ā He could not afford delay, not with Baelor's life on the line.
"Suppose," Maekar said slowly, eyes flicking back to Yormwell, "that she did act with skill. That she stabilized Baelor... perhaps prevented his death. Would the Citadel sanction burning her for something that saved a prince? Could they?"
Yormwell's shoulders tightened. "The Citadel holds no authority over royal blood, Your Grace. If she is declared a heretic by the Crown, it is the Crown's will that matters. We can offer counsel, guidance on procedure, but it is the prince who decides."
"And if she has done more harm than good?" Maekar pressed, voice rising slightly with the tension coiling in his chest. "If her so-called healing is blasphemy, if she has meddled with forces beyond comprehension, what then?"
The younger maester shifted nervously. "Then... she must be judged. Swiftly. By the laws of the realm, the punishment is severe. Fire is customary. Heads have been cut for lesser offenses, yes, but heresy... fire is..." His voice faltered, unable to finish the sentence.
Maekar slammed a hand on the table, wood rattling under the blow. "I have no time for this indecision! Baelor lies unconscious two doors away. Every moment I waste, the risk grows. If she has done wrong... she will answer for it. But if she has done right, and yet my father or the realm hears of delay, what then? The court will never forgive me. They will not forgive her. They will not forgive Baelor if he dies waiting for their counsel."
Yormwell's gaze softened for a moment, but he spoke firmly. "Your Grace... sending a raven first would be the proper course. Inform the King, seek his guidance. The Citadel will advise. Fire is final, irreversible. There may yet be a way to preserve life without defying tradition."
Maekar closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose.Ā
He could hear the faint murmur of activity outside, the striking of tents and lowering of banners as the tournament came to its bitter end. He knew his father's reply could take long ā too long for Baelor. And even now, the risk that delay might kill his brother clawed at him like talons.
"I cannot wait," Maekar said finally, rigid with decision. "Send no raven. There is no time. She will answer for her deeds, yes... but not by fire. Not yet. Bring her outside. Behead her swiftly. Let it be done before nightfall. Let the people see, if they must. The world will know that her actions carry consequence, and we cannot squander time with ceremony or counsel."
The maesters exchanged glances, tension tight between them.Ā
Yormwell hesitated, lips pressed thin, before inclining slightly. "As you will, Your Grace. But know that history may judge this day harshly."
Maekar did not respond. The words barely touched him; the weight of Baelor's still form two doors away pressed on him far more than speculation about legacy or judgment ever could.
The maester tried again, voice quieter this time, hesitant. "And... what of Prince Valarr, Your Grace? Baelor's son. The boy... he will be heir should anything come to pass. Should he not have a voice in this matter?"
Maekar's eyes tightened. Valarr. His nephew, so young, yet already sharp with the shadow of responsibility that would one day crush him if he lived long enough to wear the crown.Ā
The boy's resemblance to Baelor was uncanny : the same violet eyes, the same pale hair, yet somehow mismatched, as if the blood of the Targaryens could never perfectly repeat itself. Maekar did not see him now. Could not bring himself to.Ā
He exhaled slowly, forcing the steadiness back into his voice.Ā
"Prince Valarr's opinion," he said finally, "cannot alter what is necessary here. He is too young to bear the burden of counsel in such matters. The decision rests with me. It is final."
Yormwell inclined again, slower this time, as if weighing the consequences of obedience. "As you command, Your Grace. But may the gods watch over us all, for this day may not soon be forgotten."
Maekar said nothing.Ā
His gaze drifted to the far window, where the last of the tournament tents were being struck, banners lowering in silence.Ā
Baelor still lay unconscious, Aerion was battered and bruised beyond repair, and the girl in the dungeon below remained defiant, silent, untouched by fear or confession.
He could delay no longer. There was no council, no letters, no second opinions to be had. The decision was his alone ā irrevocable, final. And he would see it carried out.
He only stared toward the closed door, toward the dungeon below, toward the girl who had defied them all, and toward Baelor lying two doors away. The decision was made, there was no turning back.
The knights, stiff and silent in their white cloaks, waited for the command. Maekar's fingers relaxed slightly on the table.Ā
"Bring her out," he said. " And do what you are ordered to do."
Somewhere in the dark of the dungeon, barely conscious, you clutch your hand to your chest, pressing it as if the pain there could anchor you to life.Ā
Your thoughts keep circling the same question:Ā why not just give up already? Why not let the pain and exhaustion have their way?Ā And yet your body refuses. Some stubborn, stubborn part of you will not surrender, even as every muscle screams and every heartbeat feels like it might shatter.
Your thoughts were shattered by a soft, almost hesitant sound:Ā "Pst... pst..."
You looked up slowly, squinting through the dim light that crept in from the tiny barred window.
There, crouched against the barreled stone, was Ser Duncan. He looked taller somehow, though battered, his shoulders slumped, a limp tugging at his gait. His eyes were red and puffy, the remnants of the trial still marking him, but there was an urgency there that made you focus despite your exhaustion.
He crouched closer to the small window, lowering a scrap of bread and some cheese through the bars.Ā
"You eating yet?" he asked quietly, voice roughened.
"I... barely," you whispered back, voice hoarse.
He dropped the food into your lap, muttering, "I'm sorry... it's my fault you're here."
For a moment, your hunger outweighed everything else. You tore at the bread and cheese like a starving rabbit, ignoring him, not because you didn't care, but because it had been days since your stomach felt even half full.Ā
"It's... not yours," you croaked between bites.
He flinched, ashamed, then glanced down, voice tight. "Still... you tried to help. It shouldn't have happened."
You swallowed hard, looking at him through the shadows.Ā
"They accuse me of witchcraft," you said, voice low and bitter. "Because they think I bewitched the prince."
He stiffened. "Why? is he -- is he dead?"
"I don't know," you admitted, teeth gritted. "They've beaten me, burned my hand... starved me. And he ā he lies still, unmoving."
Duncan's eyes widened. He looked every bit the young, naĆÆve boy he was, and yet even through his inexperience, something in him bristled with outrage.Ā
Before he could linger, the door to your cell creaked open again. You turned, weary and wary, and whispered through clenched teeth, "Go away."
Even Ser Duncan, for all his concern, hesitated. He knew he was powerless here, and the cold, unyielding walls of the dungeon seemed to swallow both hope and outrage alike.
The guards seize you roughly by the arms, hauling you to your feet.Ā
Chains bite into your wrists, cold and unforgiving, clinking with each forced step. You stumble forward, struggling to keep your balance, your chest tight, your breath shallow. One last glance at the tiny barred window of your cell ā the faint light spilling across the stone ā and then it's gone.Ā
Darkness and chains replace it.
You thought, for a moment, that you might be brought before Maekar first, that perhaps he would speak to you, judge you personally. But no. The guards march you onward, and the truth presses down like a stone: you are being led outside.
The air hits you with its harsh, bitter edge. The tournament grounds are mostly quiet now, tents half-struck, banners lowered, the smell of straw, sweat, and dust thick in your nostrils.Ā
And yet people have gathered.Ā
You recognize some of them: maids you worked alongside in the castle, knights who jousted in the lists days ago. They watch silently, their eyes following you, a mixture of curiosity, pity, and something colder.
Your chest pounds.Ā
This is it,Ā you think.Ā This is how it ends.Ā And yet, a small, stubborn part of your mind refuses to surrender. Perhaps it's a mistake, perhaps this will be corrected.Ā
Perhaps you'll live.
Your mind clings to that thought desperately, stubbornly, like a shard of glass you refuse to let go. You haven't survived all of this (the months of surviving after the plane crash that should've ended you, the endless service) for nothing.Ā
No. You cannot go like this. Not now. Not yet.
Your gaze sweeps over the gathered crowd, desperate for something familiar, something human.
You see Briena, the fifteen-year-old maid who served alongside you. Her face is pale, lips trembling, eyes wide and horrified as she catches sight of you chained, bruised, bloodied. Esthis, the head maid, always strict, butt his time she didn't dare to look at you.Ā
Then you see them ā Lady Gwyn, held protectively in her mother's arms, both of them shaking and sobbing, her mother pressing her close as if she could somehow shield her daughter from what is about to happen.
So much for a nameday tourney.Ā
And that is when your own tears begin to fall, hot and unrelenting, streaking down your dirt-stained cheeks, smudging the grime and blood that covers you.Ā
The chains bite at your wrists, the harsh sunlight catching the clink of metal, the murmurs of the crowd and the shuffle of feet fading into a distant hum beneath the roaring of your heart.
The sun hung low in the sky, golden and cruel, mocking your fate even as evening edged closer. Its light poured over the grounds, bright and relentless, as if the world itself refused to hide from the horror about to unfold.
Some part of you wants to scream, to call out to Lady Gwyn, to beg her to make it stop. Another part clings to hope : the tiny, ridiculous hope that perhaps this is a misunderstanding, that reason, mercy, or even the faintest flicker of decency will intervene.
Then you see it: the wooden stage, stark and unforgiving. And on it, a figure stands tall, a sword catching the sunlight. Your breath catches in your throat.Ā
No... No, fuck no.Ā
This isn't supposed to happen. This isn't how it was meant to be. Your eyes burn, and new tears streak down, blurring the scene.
The guards forcibly press you forward. Each step rattles the chains around your wrists, each metallic clink echoing like a hammer striking your chest. Beside you, a maester walks silently, expression unreadable, while behind him a white knight ā older, steadier ā restrains a guard who pushes too hard, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
The stage creaks under your feet, the rough wood scraping against the soles of your shoes. You hear the hush of the crowd, the faint murmur of voices, the shuffle of boots. Your eyes are drawn automatically upward, and you see the sword glinting in the sunlight, the figure standing tall and waiting.
The maester steps forward, voice cutting through the tense hush.Ā
He says your name, and you do not resist. Then he pronounces the words that make your heart seize:
"...are sentenced to death for witchcraft. Guilty as charged. By order of Prince Maekar, you shall be executed by beheading."
Your knees threaten to buckle, but the knights gripping your arms do not allow it.
You glance at the crowd. Faces stare, blank or filled with curiosity, some pity, some cruel satisfaction. In the back, you see Duncan struggling against Raymun, silent, frustrated.
"No..." you manage to rasp, the word scraped from your raw throat. "I swear, I did nothing!" Tears sting your eyes, already running low from exhaustion and pain.
You glance at the crowd. Some watch with pity, others with satisfaction, and in the back, you see Duncan being held back by someone you recognize as Raymun.
The maester ignores your protests. "Do you have anything to say in the sight of the gods?"
Your chest heaves, tight with panic and grief, but you force yourself to shake your head, to gather what defiance remains. You look to the assembled faces, then toward the castle, and finally to the tower where Prince Baelor lies.
"I confess my innocence before your gods," you declare, voice trembling but firm, "old or new, existent or not." Gasps ripple through the crowd at your words, but you no longer care. "I did no witchcraft. I only tended to Prince Baelor. He allowed me to do so." You pause, swallowing over the lump in your throat. "And if he survives, becauseĀ IĀ saved him," a pause, "I hope my soul will haunt every one of you who thought I would do such a thing!"
The maester only nods and gestures with his hand.Ā
You are forced to kneel, wincing at the pressure on your bruised body. Your chest heaves, your hair is pressed into a lined coif by a lady in black beside the stage. A sob escapes your lips despite yourself, but your pain does not stop there.
Your eyes dare not meet the silent crown above.Ā
Instead, they drift back to the tower where Baelor lies, fragile and still. Then the blindfold is drawn, covering your vision, and the cloth is pulled tight. You tremble violently, unable to control your body.Ā
Anyone watching could see, anyone could know the fear and desperation coursing through you.
And yet, even bound and broken, your thoughts cling stubbornly to him : Prince Baelor.
Your hand scrabbles forward in desperation, searching for anything ā the edge of the block, a chain, a piece of rope ā anything to hold onto. Fingers close around something hard, and you feel the firm grip of a guard steadying you. They press you down onto a rough wooden plank, forcing your shoulders against it, and turn your neck just so, tilting your head sideways.
You close your eyes briefly, heart hammering. You hope, desperately hope, that it will be quick.
In med school, you'd read about it: beheadings in the medieval ages weren't always instantaneous.Ā
Some survived for moments, their brains still firing, nerves still twitching, before the final darkness claimed them. You think bitterly of Marie Antoinette, of the queens Henry VIII sent to the block.Ā
Was this how they felt?Ā the thought claws at your mind.
God... maybe you'd be back home now, alive, in a world that made sense. Maybe you'd wake from this nightmare.Ā
You try to reassure yourself, whispering it internally:Ā Either this, or you die. Either way, it ends.
Your throat tightens. Your chest rises and falls in ragged, shallow breaths. You don't know if it will be the first or the second.
A low, murmuring voice breaks through the ringing in your ears. The maester is speaking prayers, words you barely catch, carried on the edge of panic and the echo of wind over the banners.Ā
Old gods, new gods... whatever gods exist...
His voice feels distant, hollow, almost swallowed by your own racing heartbeat.
Your hand twitches again, useless, as it rests against the plank. You can feel the rough wood under your cheek, the scrape of the rope around your wrists. Everything narrows to a point: the line of the axe, the cold grip on your shoulders, the way your neck is forced into place.
And then... stillness, taut as a drawn bow.
Meanwhile, in Prince Baelor's chambers at Ashford Castle,Ā the air was thick with the scent of herbs, spilled wine, and the faint copper tang of blood.Ā
He lay on the bed, pale and motionless beneath the fine linens, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. His son, Valarr, sat rigid at his side, twenty years old but feeling every inch like a boy again, unable to shake the panic twisting his gut. He stared at his father, memorizing the lines of his face, the way the pale light caught the sharp cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows even in sleep.
Valarr's own armor rested beside him, dented and scorched from the battle. He had given it to Baelor willingly, though the prince had protested.Ā Maybe if I hadn't... maybe...Ā he thought, the thought cutting him like a knife. He had meant to protect him, but now the armor lay back on the floor, cracked and useless, and he hadn't dared touch it to see if it bore a trace of blood.
Every glance made his chest tighten.
Valarr read aloud to him, as his father used to do for him when he was a boy, the sound of his own voice trembling in the quiet chamber. But worry never left him; it clung to his chest like iron.Ā
He should be with his uncle, he knew that. His uncle, who had struck his father ā accidentally or not ā and whose presence would surely bring counsel and action. But grief pinned him to the floor, stole his courage, and left him staring at Baelor's still form, wishing desperately for the sound of life, for any sign that his father would wake.
Valarr gripped Baelor's hand with both of his, feeling the faint pulse beneath his fingers. It was fragile, weak, but it was there.Ā
Still here. For now,Ā he reminded himself, though each shallow breath felt like a lie. He thought of the strange lady who had intervened ā the one some whispered bewitched Baelor, the one others claimed had saved him.Ā
Did she save him? Or had she cursed him?Ā
Gods, I cannot even be certain she acted rightly.
His mind drifted to what he had lost before. His mother, long gone, a figure he barely knew, vanished giving birth to his youngest brother, Matarys. Matarys, so far away in King's Landing, probably pacing frantically, praying, waiting for word.Ā
Only a single raven had come, saying that Baelor still lived. That was all. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Valarr's own duties pressed on him, the burden of the realm waiting, calling him to act.Ā
He could barely meet his own eyes in the mirror, knowing how disappointed Baelor would be.Ā Duty always came first, his father had told him,Ā the realm above all elseĀ ā yet now, the realm could wait. Not when Baelor's life hung in the balance.
Yes, he had been trained to put the kingdom above his own fears, to place duty before all else. And yet... how could he attend to the matters of the court, the politics, the endless demands of the lords and knights, when his father (his flesh and blood, the man who had taught him everything he knew) lay in peril?Ā
He could not. He would not.Ā
A small, gnawing fear whispered that he ought to.Ā
The room was silent except for the soft rasp of Baelor's breathing and the occasional distant murmur from the castle halls. Shadows from the low sun stretched long across the floor, falling over Valarr and Baelor alike, gilding the chamber with a cruel, mocking light.Ā
The young prince's thoughts twisted in every direction:Ā what if Baelor never woke? What if the lady who had interfered had done harm instead of good? What would he say to Matarys? How could he justify his own fear in the face of the realm's expectations?
He leaned closer to his father, resting his forehead against the cold linen, pressing the hand of the man who had once lifted him, disciplined him, guided him, into his own.Ā
He whispered quietly, almost to himself, almost a prayer:Ā Wake. Please. Just wake.
The hours dragged. The castle's sounds faded, replaced by the rhythm of Valarr's heartbeat and Baelor's faint, uneven breathing. Outside, the world moved on (tents were struck, horses stabled, lords and ladies attending to the aftermath of the joust) but here, time had stopped, suspended between life and death, hope and despair.
The door to the chamber opened slowly, hinges groaning in the heavy quiet ā but Valarr did not turn. He kept his gaze fixed on his father's face, on the faint rise and fall of his chest, as though looking away might stop it altogether.
A figure lingered beneath the archway before stepping inside.
"I ordered the lady who attended your father to be beheaded."
The words fell flat and cold into the room.
Valarr turned then. His brown hair ā streaked faintly with silver that spoke of his Velaryon blood ā caught the dying light. His eyes, red-rimmed but steady, fixed on his uncle.
"What?"
Maekar stood stiffly, jaw tight. "She would not cooperate. She denied every wrongdoing. Claimed she was born here, yet no record bears her name. She lied. Who knows what else she lied about? And look at your father nowā"
"You struck him," Valarr said quietly.
The words did not echo, yet they seemed to fill the chamber.
Maekar looked down.
"And now," Valarr continued, voice tightening, "you place that blame on someone else. A poor woman who may have saved him." His fingers tightened unconsciously around Baelor's hand. "Or at the very least tried."
"I do not remember striking him," Maekar muttered.
"I do not care," Valarr snapped before he could stop himself. His voice cracked at the edges, grief bleeding through the anger. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, ashamed of the sharpness in his tone ā he was not usually so cold with his uncle. "It does not matter what you remember. My father lies on the verge of death. He was the future of the realm, and now..." His voice wavered. He swallowed hard and looked away.
He released Baelor's hand only to rub at his eyes, steadying himself. "What did Grandfather say? Or the council?"
Maekar's jaw clenched. "I have not told them. There is no need. She is a lowborn servant. This is not a matter for the council."
Valarr's stare sharpened. "So you will behead her on your own authority? For witchcraft? That is your plan?"
"She is a liar," Maekar shot back. "Someone who may have worsened your father's condition after the ā " He stopped himself abruptly. After I hit him. The words hung unspoken between them. "It does not matter. As we speak, she is being led outside."
Valarr rose to his feet so abruptly the chair scraped harshly against the stone floor. "This is not justice. We do not know what she did."
Maekar's voice rose in turn. "We do not have the luxury of theories! I spent the night questioning her ā pressing her ā trying to understand what she did so we might help your father. She would confess nothing. She remained stubborn as a mule. And now she must answer for it."
Valarr shook his head slowly. "You sound like Aerion when he was struck by that hedge knight. Pride before reason." His voice dropped lower, sharper. "The apple does not fall far from the tree, it seems."
Maekar's expression hardened at that.
"I command you," Valarr began, stepping forward, every inch the heir despite the grief trembling in his chest. "As second in line to the throne, I order ā"
A small sound cut him off.
A faint, rough groan.
Both men froze.
Then they turned at once toward the bed.
Baelor's fingers twitched against the sheets. His brow furrowed slightly, as though fighting through a distant dream.
Valarr was at his side in an instant, dropping back to his knees, clutching his father's hand again. "Father?" His voice was barely more than a breath. "Father, can you hear me?"
Maekar stepped closer too, all anger drained from his face, replaced by something raw and desperate.
Baelor's lips parted slightly. Another shallow sound escaped him ā weak, but unmistakably alive.
The door creaked open with a tired groan, but Valarr did not turn. He sat beside the bed, elbows braced upon his knees, his father's limp hand clasped between both of his own as though warmth might be forced back into it by sheer will.
The room smelled of milk of the poppy, of boiled linens and herbs steeped too long. The brazier burned low. Outside the narrow windows, the last light of day bled orange across Ashford's towers.
"I ordered the woman who attended him to be beheaded."
Maekar's voice did not rise. It did not need to.
Valarr's fingers stilled. ... For a heartbeat he said nothing. Then he turned his head slowly, as though the motion cost him.
"What?"
Maekar stood just inside the threshold, helm tucked beneath his arm, face drawn and hollow-eyed.Ā
"She would not confess. She denied every charge. Claimed she was born within these walls, yet no steward, no septon, no record could name her. A servant with no past is a dangerous thing."
Valarr stared at him. "So you kill her for lacking a childhood?"
"For lying."
"You do not know that she lied."
Maekar's jaw flexed. "I know that your father rode into the lists whole and strong. I know he fell. I know she alone was permitted to tend him. And I know that since she laid hands upon him, he has not opened his eyes."
"You struck him," Valarr said again, more quietly.
Silence stretched between them.
Maekar's gaze flicked to Baelor's still form upon the bed, then away again, as though he could not bear the sight for long. "I do not remember the blow."
"You remember the anger," Valarr replied.
The words landed truer than any accusation. Maekar's nostrils flared, but he did not deny it.
"Aerion is the one to blame in this, if anyone is," Valarr went on, his voice tightening despite his effort to keep it measured. "He is the one who ordered that grotesque masquerade over a puppeteer's jape. A prince playing at dragons and trials like a sulking boy." His jaw hardened. "And you struck him for it. Or so the whispers say. I did not stay to watch that farce of a trial."
His fingers flexed at his sides.
"And when Father fell ā " He paused, the memory catching in his throat. He forced himself onward. "When he fell, I was told he named you. That he spoke as though you had done it deliberately."
Valarr did not look at his uncle. His mismatched eyes (one darker, one pale with that faint wash of violet) remained fixed upon his father's face.
He looked so much like his father.
"Did you?"
Maekar's eyes flashed. "Mind yourself."
Valarr rose slowly to his feet. He was not as broad as Baelor, nor as thick through the shoulders as Maekar, but there was something in him all the same : steel drawn thin and honed sharp by expectation.
"I have minded myself since childhood," he said, "I have minded my tutors correcting my posture, my grandsire measuring every word I speak, the council weighing my silences more heavily than my speech. I have minded lords who smile at me while counting how far I stand from the throne." His gaze lifted at last to meet Maekar's. "I will not mind myself now."
Maekar stepped closer, boots heavy against the stone. "You speak boldly for one who did not stand in the dust with a mace in hand."
"And you speak carefully for one who did."
"I rode to defend my son," Maekar said at last, his voice roughened not by anger but by something older. "Aerion was humiliated before half the Reach. Mocked. Struck. Your father stepped between us. " A pause. "I swung as a knight."
"You are a prince first."
"And a brother always," Maekar shot back. "Do you think I do not know what it would mean if I had meant it? Do you think I could stand in this chamber if I believed I had?"
Valarr held his gaze. "I do not know what you believe."
Silence crept back in, broken only by Baelor's uneven breathing.
Maekar stepped further into the chamber. "You truly think I wanted this? You think I wished to strike my own brother?"
"And so you ease your conscience by killing a servant girl?"
Maekar's temper flared again. "Careful, boy."
"I am not a boy," Valarr said. "Not anymore."
The words were not boastful, they sounded tired.
"She is no mere servant if she meddles in arts beyond her station."
Valarr laughed once ā short and humorless. "Witchcraft." He tasted the word like sour wine. "We are Targaryens. Half the realm calls us witches for less."
"That is different."
"How?"
Maekar opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Valarr stepped closer. "Did she curse him? Or did she clean his wounds? Did she chant spells? Or did she beg the gods he might live?"
"She would not answer."
"So you tortured her."
Maekar's silence was answer enough.
Valarr's face tightened. "And still she denied it?"
"She was stubborn," Maekar said. "Too stubborn."
"Or innocent."
Maekar's voice sharpened. "You were not there."
"No," Valarr agreed. "I was here. With him."
He gestured to the bed.
Baelor lay pale beneath the linen, dark hair damp against his brow. The cracked visor rested upon a table nearby, its dent catching the firelight like a wound that would not close. Valarr had not looked inside it. He did not dare.
"She may have worsened him," Maekar pressed on, quieter now. "Your father's breathing changed after she left the chamber."
"It changed because his skull was split by a mace," Valarr shot back. "Not by a girl's hands."
Maekar flinched at that.
"Grandfather must be told," Valarr said. "And the council."
"There is no need. This is contained."
"Contained?" Valarr's temper broke through his grief then. "You think executions remain contained? Half the tourney still lingers beyond the walls. Knights gossip like washerwomen. If you kill her and Father wakes ā "
Maekar stiffened.
"If Father wakes," Valarr continued, softer now but far more dangerous, "and asks for the woman who saved him, what then?"
Maekar did not answer.
Valarr's voice dropped. "What if she did save him?"
The question lingered in the dim air.
Maekar looked at his brother again. For a moment the hardness left his face, replaced by something older, something worn thin by regret.
"As we speak," he said, "she is being led to the yard."
Valarr's breath caught. "Then stop it."
Maekar hesitated.
"I command you," Valarr said, the words coming steadier than he felt, "as Prince of Dragonstone and second in line to the Iron Throne ā "
"You are not king."
"No," Valarr agreed. "But I will be soon, if he dies."
The brazier snapped softly.
Maekar's voice rose. "I will not have sorcery near my brother!"
"And I will not have blood on our hands for fear!"
"I questioned her through the night," Maekar said, anger flaring again. "I pressed her for truth. If there was some remedy, some knowledge ā "
"And if there was?" Valarr demanded. "If pain did not loosen it from her? If fear did not?" His jaw clenched. "Father would not have done this."
Maekar's expression darkened. "Do not presume to lecture me on your father."
He drew in a sharp breath through his nose and rubbed at his beard, the strands more white now than black. For a moment he looked every year of his age. Then he stepped forward and placed a heavy hand upon Valarr's shoulder, leaning in as though the weight of what he meant to say required closeness.
"Listen to me, nephew," he said, lower now. Not shouting. Not a prince addressing a subordinate. "I know this seems cruel. I know it sounds monstrous to your ears. But this is our duty. And sometimes duty is bloody."
Valarr looked up at him. Maekar did not quite meet his gaze. He could notānot when one of those eyes was so like Baelor's that it felt like standing before a younger ghost.
"Father used to tell me," Valarr said slowly, "whenever I quarreled with Matarys, that the septons preach we must love our brothers. That blood binds tighter than pride." He swallowed. "Do you love him?"
Maekar's head snapped up at that, anger flaring quick as tinder. "Of course I do, you foolish boy. He is my dearest friend. My better half." His voice roughened despite himself. "He was the first to hold me when our mother died. He stood between me and our father's temper more times than I can count. He taught me the sword. Told me I swung too hard, too wild." A humorless breath left him. "Said I was strong. Too strong."
His hand tightened on Valarr's shoulder.
"I am doing this for him," Maekar insisted. "For his safety. For the realm he was meant to rule. If there is even a chance that woman meddled in dark artsā"
Valarr cut in quietly. "Or if there is a chance she did not?"
Maekar's jaw clenched. "If I err, I err on the side of protecting my blood."
"And if your protection costs him his honor?" Valarr asked. "If he wakes to learn that while he lay helpless, we slaughtered the one person who tried to save him?"
Maekar's gaze faltered then. Only for a flicker. But Valarr saw it.
"You think me a butcher," Maekar muttered.
"I think you afraid," Valarr replied.
That struck harder than any insult.
Maekar withdrew his hand. "You know nothing of fear."
Valarr's composure cracked for the first time. "I know that I have sat here counting every breath he takes, wondering which will be his last. I know that I gave him your armor because he asked it of me, and I did not think to refuse him. I know that if he dies, the realm will look to me before I am ready." His voice dropped. "Do not tell me I know nothing of fear."
The older man stared at him. The boy was gone from his face. In his place stood something thinner, sharpened by grief.
Maekar spoke more softly. "If he dies, you will not stand alone."
Valarr almost smiled at that, though there was no warmth in it. "That depends on what you do next."
Maekar's lips pressed thin.
Outside the chamber, faint and distant, there came the low hum of gathered voicesāwind carrying sound from the yard below. The murmur rose and fell like uneasy surf.
Maekar's head turned slightly toward the window. "It is already done," he said, though there was the slightest hesitation in it now. "Or near enough."
Valarr stepped back from him. "Then pray you are right."
Before Maekar could answer, a sound split the air.
A rough, fragile groan from the bed.
Both of them turned as one.
Baelor's fingers twitched against the linen. His brow creased faintly, as though troubled by some distant dream. A breath left himāshallow, but stronger than before.
Valarr was at his side instantly, dropping to his knees. "Father?" His voice trembled despite his effort to steady it. "Can you hear me?"
Maekar stood frozen for half a heartbeatāthen he too moved forward, all arguments forgotten.
"Baelor," he breathed.
Baelor's lips parted. A faint rasp escaped him. His lashes fluttered, not fully opening, but stirring.
Valarr bent close, his ear near his father's mouth. "Say it again."
The next word came broken and thin as thread.
Maekar's expression darkened. "Do not presume to lecture me on your father."
He drew in a sharp breath through his nose and rubbed at his white beard. For a moment he looked every year of his age. Then he stepped forward and placed a heavy hand upon Valarr's shoulder, leaning in as though the weight of what he meant to say required closeness.
"Listen to me, nephew," he said, not shouting, not a prince addressing a subordinate. "I know this seems cruel. I know it sounds monstrous to your ears. But this is our duty. And sometimes duty is bloody."
Valarr looked up at him. Maekar did not quite meet his gaze. He could not ā not when those eyes was so like Baelor's that it felt like standing before a younger ghost.
"Father used to tell me," Valarr said slowly, "whenever I quarreled with Matarys, that the septons preach we must love our brothers. That blood binds tighter than pride." He swallowed. "Do you love him?"
Maekar's head snapped up at that, anger flaring quick as tinder.Ā
"Of course I did," he pauses, correcting himself. "I do, you foolish boy. He is my dearest friend. My better half." His voice roughened despite himself. "He was the first to hold me after our parents. He stood between me and our father's temper more times than I can count. He taught me the sword. Told me I swung too hard, too wild." A humorless breath left him. "Said I was strong.Ā TooĀ strong."
His hand tightened on Valarr's shoulder.
"I am doing this for him," Maekar insisted. "For his safety. For the realm he was meant to rule. If there is even a chance that woman meddled in dark arts ā "
Valarr cut in quietly. "Or if there is a chance she did not?"
Maekar's jaw clenched. "I am on the side of protecting my blood."
"And if your protection costs him his honor?" Valarr asked. "If he wakes to learn that while he lay helpless, we slaughtered the one person who tried to save him?"
Maekar's gaze faltered then. Only for a flicker, but Valarr saw it.
"You think me a butcher," Maekar muttered.
"I think you afraid," Valarr replied.
That struck harder than any insult.
Maekar withdrew his hand. "You know nothing of fear."
Valarr's composure cracked for the first time. "I know that I have sat here counting every breath he takes, wondering which will be his last. I know that I gave him my armor because he asked it of me, and I did not think to refuse him. I know that if he dies, the realm will look to me before I am ready." His voice dropped. "Do not tell me I know nothing of fear."
The older man stared at him. The boy was gone from his face.Ā
Maekar spoke more softly. "If he dies, you will not stand alone."
Valarr almost smiled at that, though there was no warmth in it. "That depends on what you do next."
Maekar's lips pressed thin.
Outside the chamber, faint and distant, there came the low hum of gathered voicesāwind carrying sound from the yard below. The murmur rose and fell like uneasy surf.
Maekar's head turned slightly toward the window.Ā
"It is already done," he said, though there was the slightest hesitation in it now. "Or near enough."
Valarr stepped back from him. "Then pray you are right."
Before Maekar could answer, a sound split the air.
A rough, fragile groan from the bed, both of them turned as one.
Baelor's fingers twitched against the linen. His brow creased faintly, as though troubled by some distant dream. A breath left him ā shallow, but stronger than before.
Valarr was at his side instantly, dropping to his knees.Ā
"Father?" His voice trembled despite his effort to steady it. "Can you hear me?"
Maekar stood frozen for half a heartbeat ā then he too moved forward, all arguments forgotten.
"Brother," he breathed.
Baelor's lips parted. A faint rasp escaped him. His lashes fluttered, not fully opening, but stirring.
Valarr bent close, his ear near his father's mouth. "Say it again."
Baelor's lashes fluttered ā not fully opening, but stirring. His breathing hitched, uneven but stronger than before.
Valarr gripped his hand. "I am here," he whispered. "You are safe."
Maekar leaned forward despite himself.Ā
Baelor's lips parted again. A low sound slipped free ā half groan, half breath dragged over stone. His eyes moved beneath their lids before they opened, slow and uncertain, as if the world beyond them were too bright.
For a moment he only stared at the rafters, then his brow creased.
Maekar went still as a man before judgment. "Baelor?"
The name was barely more than air.
Baelor's throat worked. His mouth opened. Nothing came. He swallowed, winced faintly at the effort.
Maekar lurched toward the door. "Maester!" he bellowed, voice cracking against the stone.Ā "MAESTER, NOW!"
The shout tore down the corridor.
Instead of the shuffle of an old man in chains, it was quick, uneven footsteps that answered. Egg burst into the chamber, pale and wide-eyed. He had been in the tower, drawn despite himself by the swell of voices in the yard below. He had seen the stage, the black figure, the raised steel catching the dying sun.
Then he had heard Maekar shout.
He took in the scene in a heartbeat ā Baelor upright against the pillows, eyes open, Valarr bent close.
"Where is the maester?" Maekar demanded, already half moving.
Egg swallowed. "In the yard. He's ā he's saying the prayers before the beheading." The words tumbled over themselves. "Father, you must stop it."
For a fraction of a second Maekar did not seem to understand.
Then he did, the blood drained from his face. He did not argue, did not command. He just ran.
Boots thundered down the corridor. His voice followed, hoarse and urgent, ordering guards aside, calling for the execution to halt.
Egg stepped forward at once, taking Maekar's place beside the bed.
Baelor's gaze drifted sluggishly, trying to focus. His eyes found Valarr first.
"What..." The word rasped, thin as paper. He swallowed again, wincing. "What... happened?"
"You were struck, Father," Valarr said carefully, keeping his voice low and even though his hands trembled. "During the trial." His throat tightened. "But you are awake now, that is what matters."
Baelor blinked slowly, as if sorting through broken pieces of memory. His hand twitched, seeking. Valarr caught it at once.
"My son," Baelor murmured.
"I am are here," Valarr said, leaning close enough that his father could see him clearly. "All of us."
Baelor's breathing hitched. He frowned faintly. "Maekar."
"He has gone to fetch the maester," Valarr replied quickly. "Rest, Father. You must not strain."
Baelor's fingers tightened weakly around Valarr's. There was more strength in it than either of them expected.
"The s ā " His voice failed. He swallowed, jaw working. A shadow of urgency crossed his face, pushing through the haze of pain and confusion.
Valarr bent closer. "Easy. Take your time."
"The servant..." Baelor forced out.
Valarr's stomach turned to ice.
Baelor's eyes sharpened ā only slightly, but enough. Enough to show that this was no wandering thought.
He dragged in a shallow breath. "Where... is she?"
Neither son answered.
Baelor's gaze moved between them, confusion giving way to something more lucid, and more fearful.
He gathered what strength he had left and shaped the next words with visible effort. He spoke your name.
It was broken and hoarse, but unmistakable.
Egg felt the sound of the crowd outside then ā a swell, not of cheer, not of silence either, but something unsettled. Waiting.
Valarr's grip tightened around his father's hand.
"She saved me," Baelor whispered, the words thin but clear enough.
And in the yard below, the sword had already begun to fall.
You feel it before you understand it : the cold kiss of steel resting against the back of your neck.
Not pressing yet, just there.
The headsman adjusts his stance behind you. You hear the faint scrape of his boots against the wooden boards, the soft exhale through his nose as he measures the distance. He is close enough that you can smell old oil, leather, and well ... the metallic tang of blood spilled by those who knelt here before you lingers thick in the air.
The blade shifts slightly, aligning.
Your breath comes shallow and uneven. The block beneath you smells of sap and old blood baked into grain. Your cheek presses against rough wood. A splinter digs into your skin but you barely feel it.
You let out a broken sob when the metal leaves your neck for a fraction of a second ā not in relief, but in terror. He is drawing it back.
Why must they make it last so long?Ā Just do it,Ā you think bitterly, jaw clenched against the trembling you cannot stop.
Around you, the yard is silent in that unnatural way crowds become silent before violence. Not quiet ā never quiet ā but held. You hear whispers skittering like insects.
"Seven save her ā"
"She looks barely alive ā"
"Witch."
You think of your father's laugh, the way it filled small rooms. Of your mother's hands kneading dough at dawn. Of friends whose faces blur now behind tears. Of home. Of the sky before the crash. Of months surviving what should have killed you.
You think, absurdly, that maybe you will wake up in your own bed.
Maybe this is the moment before waking, maybe this world was the dream.
Your heart pounds so violently you wonder if the blade will feel it through your skin.
You brace.
The sword begins to rise.
There is a shift in the air ā a tightening. You hear the faint intake of breath from dozens of throats at once.
Then :"HALT!"
The shout cracks across the yard like thunder, the blade stops, not mid-swing, not yet falling, but held high.Boots pound against packed earth, shouts follow.
"Hold! By order of the Prince!"
The headsman hesitates. You feel it in the way the air behind you changes, the way the blade trembles slightly in his grip.
Your ears ring so loudly you barely register the rest.
"Stand down!" another voice bellows, closer now, hoarse with strain. "In the king's name, stand down!"
The murmur of the crowd breaks into confusion. Gasps, questions, someone laughs nervously.
The blade lowers a fraction.
Hands grab your shoulders, not roughly this time but urgently, pulling you upright from the block. Your legs nearly give beneath you.
You blink against the light. The blindfold has slipped half loose; through tear-blurred vision you see armored men forcing their way through the gathered crowd.
At their center : Prince Maekar.
His face is ashen, hair unkempt, chest rises and falls like a man who has run for his life.
"Stop this at once," he commands. "The execution is stayed."
The maester, still holding his prayer book, stares in confusion. "Your Grace, the sentence was ā "
"Is revoked."
You sway where you stand. The world tilts, for a terrible second you think you are about to faint.
The crowd's silence fractures into a roar of speculation :Ā "Revoked?" "Why?"
Maekar's gaze finds you, not angry now.
Your heart is still hammering, still braced for death. But the sword is no longer at your neck.
The headsman hesitates, glancing toward the maester as though unsure which authority now holds. The maester's prayer book trembles faintly in his hands.
"I will not repeat myself," Maekar roars, his voice carrying across the yard and striking the stone walls hard enough to echo. "Unbind her."
No one moves at first.
Maekar steps forward, fury sharpening every line of his face. "Let her go."
The guard at your side fumbles with the knots at your wrists. The rope bites once more before slackening. Blood rushes painfully back into your fingers. Someone pulls the black cloth from your eyes; the light hits too bright, too sudden.
The yard is no longer silent.
It churns.
"What is this?"
"Has he gone mad?"
"The sentence ā"
Maekar turns on the crowd, his voice cutting through the rising noise. "The prince has woken."
The headsman lowers his sword fully.
Your knees nearly give way as the reality begins to seep in. Not safety ā not yet ā but reprieve. Fragile and thin as glass.
The stage beneath you still smells of old blood. The crowd still watches.
But you are breathing, and the blade has been stayed.
Most importantly: Baelor is alive.
A/N :
absolutely feral and mildly terrified for tonightās finale, by the way. I am not emotionally prepared
shameless self-promo while weāre all spiraling: if anyoneās interested, Iāve got a Valarr fic up on Wattpad (featuring an OC who is basically Lady Gwyn Ashfordās eldest sisterā¦ oops) and also a Baelor fic because clearly I enjoy suffering, its a bit more tragic than this one so... yh
that said, I finally posted the fully fleshed-out version of this fic on AO3 as well, and I'd love to hear y'all thoughts on it š
and hereās a completely unnecessary fun fact that nobody asked for: the reason we didnāt really need to ālearnā the Common Tongue in the story is bc I imagine it as essentially medieval English ā not a distinct fantasy language like Valyrian. from what Iāve read, George has apparently mentioned in interviews that itās basically meant to be English, just known by a different name in-universe (the Common Tongue = medieval!English for us). Itās diff from smth like Tolkienās world, where the languages are ātranslatedā for the audience.
anyway. Iām unwell about tonight....( and dont forget to drop comments !!!)
( taglist : @crazyfangirln1 @luvmeadow @pretty-fairy23 @qardasngan @bluepvnkrocker @cassiyuhh @pancitoconjam @baeylei @condemnedchild )
