Guilt's Long Shadow- chapter 2.
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[Chapter 1], [Chapter 3]
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x reader
Word count: 3.5k
Warnings: angst, a break-it fic if you will, slight gore, character death, overall if you're not ok with seeing the aftermath of that maybe don't read this one
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The sound of trumpets rang out across the field signaling the trial had come to an end.
A roar erupted from the stands, cheers and relieved sighs mixed together as the last echoes of steel-on-steel faded into the dust. Y/N gripped the wooden rail so tightly that splinters bit into her palms, but she barely felt any of it. Her eyes were locked on the centre of the grounds where her husband stood. Baelor was breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling beneath dented plate, holding himself steady with one hand on his brother's shoulder. They embraced, no longer on opposing sides. Bloodied, injured, on unsteady feet, he looked whole. He was alive.
Y/N laughed, a bright, shaky sound that broke free before she could stop it. She gathered her skirts and ran, heedless of the crowds that filled the rafters and the guards who parted around her like water. The field seemed endless before she reached him, her delicate shoes skidding in churned dirt. They were half buried in it when she threw herself against his armoured chest.
“Baelor–” Her voice cracked on his name. She pressed her forehead to the cool edge of his gorget, breathing in iron and sweat. “You’re safe. You’re safe...” she repeated. His gauntleted hand found the small of her back, swaying slightly as he stood. He bent his head down until his lips brushed her temple through the thin veil of her hair.
“I told you I would come back to you,” he murmured, his voice low and unsteady. She pulled back just enough to look up at him. His mismatched eyes were dimmed with fatigue but the way he smiled reassured her he'll be okay.
“Come. You must be exhausted,” she said, wrapping his arm across her shoulders, placing her hand firmly on his stomach. As they walked off the field she observed the scene that unfolded during the trial. The bodies of the two fallen knights were removed as soon as the fighting had ended but the horses still remained. She did her best to keep her eyes off the sight of them and focused instead on the way ahead. Baelor muttered something quietly, too quietly for her to hear. “What did you say, my love?” She asked.
“Ah…” Baelor waved. “It's nothing just- Maekar, he- Got me good there at some point. A strong warrior, that one, my dear wife.” Y/N regarded him with worry.
“Baelor, do you need a maester?”
“Pshh,” He laughed. “Most definitely.” Baelor swerved his head towards her as best as the armor allowed him to and smiled. Y/N frowned and tried her best to speed up, the weight of his armor slowing them down significantly.
Y/N helped him sit down on the closest available bench. He half sat, half fell onto it with a thud and an ‘oomph’. His head hung slightly forward as he breathed. There was something strained about the way air entered and exited his nose. His eyes, half closed at all times, worried her as well, but she told herself over and over it was merely fatigue.
“Baelor…” she said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. He lifted his head slowly at the sound of her voice, the motion seeming to cost him more effort than it should.
“Don’t look at me like that, sweeting,” he rasped. “I’ve had worse in the rebellion, this is just…” he gestured at himself with a circular motion, “theatrical bruising.” Y/N didn’t smile at his attempt at light-heartedness. She knelt in front of him and inspected his body for any punctures.
“You’re bleeding,” she said flatly. It wasn’t a question.
“Everyone bleeds a little after trial by combat. It’s practically tradition.” He tried for levity again, but the words came out thinner this time, edged with a wince as she guided his head sideways by the front of the helmet.
“That dent doesn't look right to me.”
“Y/N.” Baelor exhaled through his nose, the sound wetter than it should have been. He turned his head back towards her and took her hands into his own. “Look at me.”
She did. His face was clearer now, focused on her with that unnerving intensity he always summoned when he wanted her to hear him over every other noise in the world.
“I am not leaving you today,” he said, each word measured. “Not after I made my promise. A few whacks from a younger brother are poor excuses to break an oath.” She bit down on her lips and shook her head, disapprovingly.
“You don’t get to jest about dying.”
“I’m not.” Baelor's thumb brushed over her knuckles. “I’m telling you I’m too stubborn, and you’re too beautiful, to die on a day like this.” He helped her up and guided her to sit next to him. A brief moment passed before the prince grew restless again. “Ah,” he said suddenly. “I see our champion there in the back.” Y/N looked around but couldn't see anybody familiar. “I shall go see him now.” Baelor braced himself on the bench and began to rise when his wife's hand shot up to stop him.
“Baelor! You must rest!” Her head snapped back. He held her gaze for a long heartbeat, the corner of his mouth twitching in that way it always did when he was about to do something she would hate. Then, slowly, he pried her fingers from his gauntlet. Y/N’s breath caught. “Baelor—”
“Shh.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, quick and feather-light, before letting her hand fall. “I made a promise to you, but I also promised that man I'd fight by his side. I should like to see how he feels after winning that fight.” He pushed himself upright again, slower this time. The guards standing near started forward in alarm, but he lifted a hand, palm out, gauntlet gleaming red and black.
“Your Grace—” the knight began.
“Help me stand,” Baelor said quietly. “Or watch me do it alone.”
They exchanged glances, then stepped in, one under each arm. Y/N rose too, fists clenched at her sides, lips pressed into a thin line. She did not touch him or ask him again to stay.
“Wait for me here, dearest. I’ll be quick,” Baelor said, looking back at her for a moment. “I promise.”
Her jaw tightened. “You promise too many things.”
“And I deliver every time.” He reached out and waved, disappearing somewhere behind the corner.
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Little time had passed without Baelor returning but it was enough to make his wife grow anxious in her seat and vacate it entirely. She was now pacing around back and forth considering whether or not to stand and search for him. She had nearly made up her mind when a familiar figure approached.
“Maekar,” she exhaled.
“Have you seen Baelor, sister?” He asked, frowning as was his usual.
“Yes, he was just here. He went to see how Ser Duncan’s fairing after the trial.” The corner of Maekar’s lip twisted into a scowl. He scoffed at the mention of the hedge knight, the rage-inducing memories of what Duncan did during the trial still burning hot inside him.
“I need to find him. He should see a maester at once.” He turned on his heel to walk away but she stopped him.
“No, I'll do it,” Y/N said. Maekar paused to consider her offer. “You should rest as well. I've been sitting all morning watching you men near kill each other, I cannot bear to sit a moment longer,” she huffed. He agreed with a silent nod and walked off the other way, limping.
She drew a steadying breath and set off in the direction Baelor had gone earlier, toward the far edge of Lord Ashford's castle grounds. She moved quickly, skirts gathered in her hands, eyes scanning every tall figure in plate, looking for the royal black armor of her husband. Suddenly, as she walked, Maekar's youngest son, Aegon sprinted past her, a look of fear painted on his face but before she could even think to stop him and ask what was wrong, he was gone and out of sight. She turned the corner into a hall from where her nephew came and crossed paths with two men with their backs turned towards her.
“Excuse me Sers, have any of you seen my husband?” The man closest to her jumped at the sound of her voice and whipped around. They locked eyes, her confusion and his terror crashing together in a moment. Y/N furrowed her brows and forced out a nervous smile. She looked to the side at the other man in the room, dressed something akin to a blacksmith and saw even more terror. “Has something happened?” She asked.
“M-my Lady…” the shorter brown haired knight unknown to her mumbled out, his voice shaking badly.
“Ser, you scare me. I should like to know what transpi-” as she spoke, her eyes began to wander down. First, she saw only their legs, clad in bloodied armor and leather alike. Then, as she looked closer, she noticed another figure, kneeling on the floor behind them. Then, a dark head of hair, nestled in the person's lap. “Let me through.” Y/N said, cautiously putting a hand between them, ushering them out of the way. The men exchanged glances, horror painted across their faces. Regardless of what they thought, they stepped aside in half-steps, every movement labored and heavy. Y/N did not pay attention to them anymore, her eyes fixed only on what was right in front of her. Her heartbeat reached her throat, the heart itself threatening to jump out of the confines of her chest. What she saw past them was the barely recognizable face of the man she knew as Ser Duncan the Tall. Beaten beyond comprehension, he swayed back and forth, cradling someone in his hands. “Ser Duncan…” she said, barely above a whisper. She put her hand on his shoulder, making him look up. He had a mix of tears and blood streaming down his face, the one eye that remained functional staring at her with helplessness.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-” he repeated like a mantra between sobs and hiccups. Something inside her told her finally it was time for her to look down at who the knight held.
The world around them went dark.
“BAELOR!” She screamed and fell to her knees. Her hands flew up to grasp his shoulders. His eyes were dull, mouth slightly ajar, head nestled in the arms of the hedge knight. “Baelor darling, it's me, it's me, Y/N!” She shook him, armor plates cold and wet against her skin.
But Baelor did not move and he did not reply.
She couldn't understand what had happened. He was fine mere minutes ago, spoke to her, kissed her and promised he'll be back in a moment. Now he was here, in the arms of Ser Duncan, unmoving and unresponsive.
“P-please Ser,” she nudged the knight to let her get closer. She moved in under Baelor's shoulders, struggling to hold him up, the added weight or the armor digging into her thighs. “Baelor, Baelor please…” she wept, stroking his cheek. He was looking up at her with absent eyes, clouded in a milky sheen. “I don't understand-” she looked around the room, at the men that surrounded her. Two of them cried. The blacksmith, wide eyed in shock, stood frozen in his spot, his lip quivering. “He was fine a moment ago, he was talking to me, promising me…” Tears streamed down her face. “Baelor…Wake up,” her hand reached under his head and a gasp echoed in the hall.
“My Lady, no!” The blacksmith exclaimed.
There was no hair there, no hard surface for her to hold. Instead, what she found was a warmth, a sickening viscous liquid and a gelatinous substance she couldn't describe. Cautiously, she pulled her hand back. It was covered in a mixture of burgundy-violet and chunks of something repulsive and jelly-like. Y/N frowned at the sight of it, sniffling as she watched it flow across her hand and drop onto her dress. Someone in the background retched violently, somebody cried.
“What is… Baelor, darling, you…” She lifted up his head, just enough to see the underside of it.
Sick gathered in her throat.
Where the back of his head used to be was now a hole the size of a hand, brain matter and blood oozed out freely onto her hands, her legs and the ground below them. Shards of bone stuck out in unnatural directions, caved in beyond repair, ground into paste with the coagulated mass of viscera that once was the brilliant brain of Baelor Breakspear.
The sound that escaped her throat was not human. A soul crushing howl, tearing apart her vocal cords. It took all the power she had in that moment to hold onto the head of her beloved, to not let it fall, to preserve what remained so no more harm would come to it.
Y/N could not remember what happened then. Faces and time blurred into nothingness. She could not tell anymore who was there with her, how long had passed. All that remained were the mismatched eyes of the man she loved, staring up at her, empty.
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“What is the meaning of this?! Where is my brother, where is Baelor?!” Maekar’s voice boomed, his armored boots thudding as he stepped into the hall. A group of guards entered behind him, their armor clashing like thunder against the stone floor. He scanned the room and the faces of everyone inside until they settled on the woman and knight kneeling down in the middle. “Y/N-” he pushed past everybody in his way and slid onto the floor next to her, his eyes widening at the sight. “Seven hells…” he gritted his teeth, eyes shooting up at the guards around him. “Take them! Nobody leaves the dungeon until I say so!” he shouted. “Guard the door and for fucks sake bring the maester!”
Ser Duncan the Tall was still muttering through the tears as they hoisted him up and took him away. Ser Raymun Fossoway, covered in blood and vomit, didn't have it in him to protest either. The only one who did was the blacksmith, who repeatedly assured them he had nothing to do with any of it. The room emptied and only the three figures on the floor remained.
“Y/N,” Maekar said, his voice shaky with nerves. “What happened? Aegon came to me as soon as you left, he said-” the girl looked up at him with sunken eyes. She didn't say anything, only gestured faintly at the man she held in her arms. Maekar swallowed and lifted his brother's head. Just a glance was enough for him to know everything that transpired. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, breathing heavily.
“His skull,” she rasped, her voice gone. “Maekar.”
“I know.” He forced himself to look back at her. “Sister- You need to let go of him. Let me-” He tried to nudge her, have her move and let him hold up Baelor's weight. She shook her head violently, wrapping herself around her husband's body. Tears fell down from her eyes and rolled down his cheek.
“No!” She screamed. “No, I cannot leave him, I have to hold him, I have to hold him up he's INJURED.” Maekar balled up his fists, barely holding on to his last bits of composure that remained. Y/N stroked Baelor's cheek with her thumb, smudging the blood across. She bit down on her lip and sniffled, her whole body shaking uncontrollably. “It'll be alright,” she whispered to nobody in particular. “I'll keep you up until the maester comes.” Baelor did not respond.
Maekar’s hand moved across his brother's face, resting over his eyes. He closed them delicately with his fingertips, then inhaled sharply.
“He's gone.”
“He can't be,” Y/N replied, shaking her head. “He made a promise. Swore to keep it.” She looked up at Maekar. His face was red, his eyes wet and ready to overflow. “I don't understand-”
“Your Grace, the maester!” One of the guards interjected and an older man dressed in robes and chains entered the hall. Maekar stood up and grabbed a fistful of the maester's robe.
“Be gentle with the girl,” he hissed into his ear. “Only speak what is necessary.” The old man nodded wordlessly. Maekar let go of him and stepped back.
The maester knelt next to the body. Y/N did not move or acknowledge his presence, focusing only on stroking the cheek of her beloved. She did not react when the man inspected Baelor's head, assessing the damage. It didn't take long before he stood up again and turned towards the prince with a deep sigh, wiping his bloodied hands on a piece of cloth. Maekar stared at him with furrowed brows and a scowl.
“Your Grace…” the maester spoke. “I think it wise to talk privately.” Maekar gritted his teeth and inhaled sharply.
“OUT, EVERYBODY OUT.” He shouted and walked past the maester hastily. He knelt by Y/N and thought about what to say for a moment before speaking. “Y/N. You need to go.” She did not react to his call. Maekar’s fists tightened by his sides. “He’s gone, sister. People will gather soon, he needs to be taken away.”
“I will go with him,” she spoke faintly. Maekar sighed somewhat resigned. He thought for a moment before nodding.
“Alright. Alright, you will.” He stood up and turned to the guards that remained. “Take my brother to the silent sisters and let his wife come with.” They moved in unison at once, gently lifting up the armored prince off the ground. It took two of them to lift up his widow, her legs turned numb from the pressure. Maekar grabbed one of them by the shoulder and bent down by his ear. “Give her something to make her fall asleep. She's been through enough.” The guard nodded before walking off.
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Maekar paced around the room, his eyes fixed on the puddle of blood and viscera that began to seep into the stone.
“Speak.” He barked at the maester, hands crossed on his chest, one nervously running through his beard.
“Your Grace,” the old man hesitated. “There is no easy way to say this-”
“Then say it the hard way, for fucks sake!” Maekar shouted, his foot slamming down. His eyes pierced the maester, feeling himself at the precipice of some kind of breakdown.
“Prince Baelor's skull was caved in by the helmet. It must have taken considerable force to bend it that way.” Maekar scanned his face for some kind of treachery, having found none he remained silent. “The blow… Must've been dealt with a heavy weapon, not a sword or lance.” The world turned silent around them as realization dawned slowly on the prince. “If you know of anybody at the trial who would wield such a weapon it would-”
“It was me,” Maekar said. The maester’s eyes widened then dropped to the floor. “I've struck him with my mace when the fucking hedge knight stabbed my son.”
“I'm very sorry, Your Grace.”
“Out.” The sound came as more of a hiss than speech. “Out with you.” The maester bowed and left the room with haste.
Soon enough Maekar was alone. He stared at the wall in front of him, breath heavy and labored. The room smelled of damp, blood and old stone. His vision blurred as the world around seemed to spin. All at once he began to feel the pain of his injuries. Til this moment there was scarcely time for him to mind them.
His hand, still armored at the wrist, rose slowly to his face. The gauntlet creaked as he pressed it against his eyes, as though he could push the sight away. But the image remained: Baelor laughing in the chaos of the trial, proud and unbreakable, the way he'd always been. Then the swing, his own swing, wild, desperate to reach Aerion, to shield his hot-headed son from that towering hedge knight. The mace had connected with something solid that gave too easily. He hadn't even seen what it was until the fight ended and Baelor staggered, smiling still, proud of his brother's strength.
A sound escaped Maekar then, not quite a sob, not quite a laugh.
He staggered to the nearest bench and collapsed onto it, armor clanking against wood. His injuries throbbed now in earnest: the gash across his ribs where Lyonel Baratheon's longsword had bitten through plate, the bruised shoulder, the split lip that tasted of copper every time he breathed. He knew pain before, war was an old friend to the sons of house Targaryen, and yet this felt different than anything he felt before.
"They'll call me kinslayer," he muttered to the empty room. The word tasted worse than blood. "Even if it was an accident. Even if the gods themselves saw it was no murder." He laughed once, a dry, ugly sound. The gods had never much favored House Targaryen before, if ever. And it was all the more clear he would not find help in them now.
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AN: Don't worry, it'll only get worse from here.
