Morri Draws

Notes: I ended up editing this one faster than I anticipated, yay! Thank you all so much for your support, it means the world to me <3

You barely slept.

Every time you closed your eyes, you felt Baelor's hands again, his lips against yours, your bodies pressed together. Then came the memory of the sudden shift – the moment he pulled away, apologising before you even understood what had changed.

You had hoped things would feel clearer in the morning, but as you carry the breakfast tray up to his chambers, a quiet dread sits beneath your ribs.

You step inside and set out his meal just as Arnol emerges from the bedchamber carrying an armful of laundry. After offering you a nod, he departs, leaving you alone.

A moment later, Baelor steps from his bedchamber and comes to the table. He's dressed in his gambeson, ready for the training session he spoke of the night before.

"Good morning," he says, looking up at you.

"Good morning, your grace," you reply quietly.

You see him pause. A slight frown touches his face, and you realise too late that you've reverted to addressing him formally. He noticed.

You step forward and fill his cup before retreating again, gripping the pitcher handle perhaps a little too tightly.

"Last night..." you begin.

His attention fixes on you immediately.

"If I did something wrong, I'm very sorry."

"You did nothing wrong." The answer comes quickly and with certainty. "You mustn't think that. Not for a moment."

He reaches out his hand. After a brief hesitation, you set the pitcher down and step closer, slipping your hand into his.

"I pulled away because of myself, not because of you."

You frown slightly. "I don't understand."

He lowers his gaze for a moment before continuing.

"I realised I was allowing myself to act without thinking. It reminded me of my grandsire – of the consequences of his... lack of restraint."

Understanding dawns. You had heard the stories of Aegon the Unworthy and his mistresses, his bastards, his appetites.

"Oh."

A small silence falls between you.

"I want to do right by you," Baelor says quietly. "Always. I will not be like him."

You stare at him for a moment.

"How could you ever think you would be?" you ask softly, taking another step closer. "Surely you know yourself better than that."

A faint smile appears.

"You are very good to me." His expression softens as he looks at you. "Far better than I deserve."

Warmth blooms in your chest. He releases your hand only to gesture toward the chair beside him.

"Please. Sit with me."

You take the offered seat, feeling some of the tension leave your body now that you know you did nothing to offend him.

"Would you still like to come to the training yard?" he asks before taking a sip from his cup.

"I would."

"Good." The smile returns, small but genuine. "Though if you see me speaking to Maekar for too long, you must stop me at once. Today is meant to be about Egg."

"And how exactly should I do that? Nudge you in the ribs and tell you to shut up?"

He chuckles. "I am certain you will think of something."

~

Once you've taken the breakfast dishes to the kitchens, you make your way to the training yard, where Ser Duncan, Egg, Prince Maekar, and Baelor are already gathered.

You head toward one of the benches set against the wall, but Egg spots you before you get there and comes running over.

"What are you doing here so early?" he asks.

"I've come to watch." You smile.

His face lights up. "Father's come to watch me properly this time."

You follow his gaze toward Prince Maekar, who is already looking in your direction. You offer him a quick, respectful nod before your attention shifts to Baelor.

He stands beside his brother with his hands clasped before him, sunlight catching the streaks of silver in his hair. When he notices you, warmth softens his features. He inclines his head ever so slightly, a hint of a smile touching his lips.

The demonstration begins with Egg sparring Ser Duncan, their difference in size making for an entertaining spectacle.

When the match ends, Egg turns eagerly to Baelor.

"Can I face you now, Uncle?"

"Very well," Baelor agrees, stepping forward.

Ser Duncan hands him a practice sword, and the heir and young prince take their positions.

A small knot of concern twists in your chest. You still worry about Baelor overexerting himself, but you push the thought aside and focus on the match.

"Ready when you are," Baelor says.

Egg charges forward with surprising speed, and the sharp crack of wooden blades echoes across the yard.

You find yourself watching Baelor more than the sparring itself – not merely his skill, but the ease of his movements and the patience with which he guides and corrects his nephew. Nearby, Maekar watches intently, his attention fixed on his son.

When Egg executes a particularly clean parry, Baelor nods approvingly.

"Excellent. Again."

"Did you see that, Father?" Egg practically beams, turning toward Prince Maekar.

"I did," Maekar says.

You think you catch the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"I should like to see it again."

He steps forward and takes the practice sword from Baelor before turning to face his son himself.

Egg immediately adjusts his stance, determination written across his face. Even from where you sit, it's obvious how pleased he is to have his father's full attention.

Baelor crosses the training yard and joins you on the bench.

"Maekar wants to judge his progress for himself," he says. "I can already tell he's proud."

"I thought I saw the slightest suggestion of a smile," you reply, glancing at him. "Unless I imagined it. Is he always so... stern?"

Baelor chuckles. "I know my brother appears that way to those who do not know him. He is fierce, I will not deny it. But he feels things deeply. He loves fiercely too."

You look back toward the middle of the yard, where Prince Maekar is still sparring with Egg, offering corrections and instructions, though now and then a word of encouragement slips through his gruff exterior.

"I know next to nothing about swordsmanship," you say, "but I think Egg is doing very well."

"He is," Baelor agrees. "Maekar will be pleased."

As if to prove the point, Maekar suddenly drops to one knee in surrender. Egg throws his arms up in triumph before looking your way.

"Come, Uncle!" he calls. "I want to face The Hammer and The Anvil now!"

"It seems I've been called to arms." He leans slightly closer as he speaks, and the warmth of his breath brushes your ear.

A pleasant shiver runs through you. You draw a steadying breath as he rises and retrieves another practice sword from the rack before joining his brother and nephew.

The next bout begins: two grown men against one determined young prince. Egg darts between them with impressive speed, sweat glistening on his brow as he attacks and retreats, looking as though he's having the time of his life. You suspect the brothers are holding back somewhat, but not enough to make it an easy match.

Eventually, Egg yields, though he looks far from disappointed by the outcome. Ser Duncan applauds, and you join him. Egg grins broadly at the sound, looking between the two of you with obvious pride before launching into song.

"Prince Baelor was the firstborn, Prince Maekar sprang out last,"

Maekar groans loudly.

"Daemon was the bastard, so they kicked his bastard–

Grass is green in summer,

Green grass I adore,"

"Egg, please," Baelor says.

"But grass is red all over, when you kill a rebel–

Horses die in battle,

This battle was the front,

Blackfyre's not a trueborn,

He came from the wrong–"

Now you understand why Baelor and Prince Maekar are reluctant to let Egg sing the song. It is decidedly inappropriate for a young prince.

"Country was in peril,

The Anvil was a rock,

The Hammer smashed the bastard with his giant veiny–"

You don't know why you do it, but your eyes flick to Baelor. To your horror, you find him already looking at you. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, as if he is trying very hard not to react. Heat immediately floods your cheeks.

"Host of Dornish spearmen," Egg finishes triumphantly.

Unfortunately, your thoughts remain fixed on the previous line, about The Hammer and his giant veiny–

You stare very intently at a patch of dirt.

"Prince Baelor was the firstborn," Egg begins again.

"Aegon, that's enough," Maekar growls.

Egg sighs dramatically.

"Alright." Then he looks directly at you. "Why is your face all red?"

You nearly choke.

"It's nothing," you say quickly. "Just the sun."

Egg glances upward. "But you're sitting in the shade."

You groan inwardly.

"Is it because of the song?" he asks sweetly. "Perhaps the line about Uncle Baelor?"

The heat in your face somehow intensifies.

"Egg," Baelor says, the warning in his voice is unmistakable.

"Yes, Uncle?"

"Enough."

"Very well," Egg replies innocently. Then his face brightens. "Could we have some cider?"

"Yes," you say immediately, rising from the bench perhaps a little too quickly. "I'll go and get some."

You cross the yard with long, purposeful strides before anyone can say another word to you.

-

Maekar drifts over once Egg has been distracted by Ser Duncan.

"Where's she off to in such a hurry?"

"She's gone to fetch us some cider," Baelor replies.

Maekar glances toward the gate through which you've just disappeared.

"She looked very red."

Baelor exhales. "Not you as well. Egg has teased her enough already."

A corner of Maekar's mouth twitches. "Since she's so flustered over that ridiculous song, I assume you haven't..."

"No. We haven't."

Maekar raises an eyebrow. "Waiting for something?"

Baelor looks away.

"I spoke with our father. He will not raise her, and he certainly will not permit me to marry her."

The amusement immediately leaves Maekar's face. He frowns and places a hand on Baelor's shoulder.

"I am sorry, brother."

"As am I."

For a few moments, neither of them speaks. Then Maekar breaks the silence.

"What's stopping you, then? She clearly wants you, and you want her."

"I do not..." Baelor lets out a slow breath.

"What?"

"I do not want to be like our grandsire."

Maekar stares at him for a moment. Then he lets out a bark of laughter so abrupt that Baelor visibly winces.

"You? Like him?" He shakes his head in disbelief. "Baelor, you cannot be serious. You could not be further from our grandsire if you tried. Unless you plan to take eight other women to your bed as well?"

“Of course not.”

“Then there you have it. You’re honourable.” Maekar says in an almost mocking tone, due to how often he’s heard his brother described in such a way. “Painfully so, at times. I know you want her as your wife, but some things just cannot be. You can still have her. Just be sensible about it. Make sure there will be no illegitimate consequences.”

Baelor lowers his gaze, considering the words. “Yes… perhaps you are right.”

“Or is it her?” Maekar asks. “Did she set her heart on marrying you?”

“No.” A small smile touches Baelor’s lips. “That was all me.”

Maekar snorts. "Of course it was."

Baelor glances at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you are overthinking this, as you overthink everything."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps nothing," Maekar says. "The first time you find something you actually want for yourself, you immediately start inventing reasons why you should not have it."

Baelor doesn't answer. Because uncomfortably, he suspects his brother may be right.

-

You return with the cider, having mostly recovered your composure.

Ser Duncan and the brothers each take a tankard, while Egg drinks his down with impressive speed.

"I've finished mine!" he announces proudly, holding up the empty tankard.

You laugh and take it from him, setting it back on the tray.

"You didn't bring one for yourself?" Baelor asks.

"That would be a bit presumptuous, wouldn't it?" you reply with a smile. "A servant helping herself to the good drink?"

"You may have mine."

He offers his tankard to you, but you hold up a hand in refusal.

"I don't need a drink. I'm not the one who's been exercising."

The others continue nursing their cider, and after a moment you quietly excuse yourself and return to the bench along the wall.

You feel oddly out of place lingering among princes and knights. It stirs an ache in your chest. Had things been different, you might one day have called them family. The thought settles heavily upon you.

You notice Baelor watching you almost as soon as you sit down. A moment later, he crosses the yard and lowers himself onto the bench beside you, close enough that your knees nearly touch.

"Why have you come over here on your own?" he asks.

You glance down at your lap. "I didn't want to intrude."

"You would not be intruding," he says softly. "You were among friends."

You look up at him. "I don't think your brother would call me a friend."

A smile touches his lips. "He doesn't disapprove, you know."

You blink in surprise.

"Once he understood how much we care for one another, he accepted it. In fact, it was Maekar who encouraged me to speak to our father."

Your eyes widen. "Really?"

"Yes." His smile remains. "And Egg is clearly fond of you. Ser Duncan has said himself that he considers you a friend. So you see? You would not be out of place."

Warmth spreads through your chest. "It may take me some time to get used to."

"Take all the time you need," he says. "Just remember that you are not an intruder here."

His gaze lingers on you for a moment before he reaches for the hand resting between you on the bench and places his own gently over it. The contact startles you at first. You are still in the training yard, in public view. Yet after only a moment, you relax and brush your thumb lightly against the side of his hand.

A small smile appears on his face.

"Would you bring two meals at midday?" he asks. "I should like to dine with you again, if you find it agreeable."

You laugh softly. "Of course I find it agreeable." Then you lower your voice conspiratorially. "Though I fear the cook is becoming suspicious."

Baelor chuckles. "If there is a problem, you may refer her to me."

~

You balance the tray carefully as you enter Baelor's chambers, nudging the door shut behind you.

He looks up from behind his desk, offering you a warm smile as you set the tray down, and he rises from his chair. Almost immediately, his lips press together and his eyes squeeze shut in a wince.

"Baelor?" you ask, crossing the room at once. "Is it your head?"

You place a gentle hand on his arm.

"Yes," he admits. "It seems I cannot even spar with my nephew without it protesting."

There is a bitter edge to his voice that makes your chest tighten.

"I'll fetch some hot water and make you willow bark tea," you say gently. "Have some wine in the meantime."

You turn back toward the table and reach for the pitcher.

A sharp thud echoes through the room. You whirl around to find Baelor crumpled on the floor.

The pitcher slips from your grasp and slams against the tabletop, splashing wine over its rim as you rush to him, dropping to your knees at his side.

"Baelor!"

You slide one hand beneath his head. His eyes are open, but unfocused, and a dark line of blood snakes down his forehead. Your stomach drops at the sight.

"I..." His voice is strained. "I felt dizzy all of a sudden."

With trembling fingers, you pull your handkerchief from your pocket and press it carefully to the wound. When you lift it away, fresh blood wells from a deep split in the skin.

"Your head is bleeding badly," you say. "We need to get you to the bed."

You glance toward the door.

"Ser Duncan!"

No answer. You call again, louder this time. Still nothing.

Of course. At this hour he is likely taking his own meal downstairs.

You swallow hard and slide an arm behind Baelor's shoulders, the other beneath his knees. You try to lift him, but he barely moves. You grit your teeth and strain harder, but his weight is too much.

Fear surges through you at the thought of another attempt. If you lose your grip or falter, you might hurt him even more.

"I can't move you," you say, tears burning at your eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Fetch Maekar," he says quietly. "He's strong."

You nod frantically. "Yes. Yes, I'll get him."

Reluctantly, you withdraw your arms, carefully setting his head against the floor. You rise and hurry into the bedchamber, snatch a pillow from the bed, and return to Baelor’s side. Kneeling beside him once more, you carefully lift his head and slide the pillow underneath.

His hand finds yours, and you squeeze it tightly.

"I'll be back soon."

Then you rise and run.

You take the tower stairs two at a time. Your lungs burn as you race through corridors, weaving around servants, guards, and courtiers. People call after you, startled by your haste, but you do not slow.

At last you reach Prince Maekar's chambers and pound on the door. A chair scrapes violently from within, followed by muffled swearing.

The door swings open. Maekar wears an irritated scowl that vanishes the moment he sees your face.

"It's Baelor," you blurt out before he can speak. "He collapsed and struck his head."

His expression hardens instantly. "He is in his chambers?"

"Yes. In the solar."

"Have you fetched the Grand Maester?"

"Not yet."

Maekar stares at you.

"Then what the fuck are you waiting for?  Go and get him, now!"

You spin on your heel and break into another run, racing for the rookery as fear claws at your chest with every step.

-

Maekar moves as fast as his legs will carry him, barking at servants and Kingsguard alike to get out of his way.

He throws open the door to Baelor's chambers with enough force that it slams against the wall. Crossing the room in long strides, he reaches the solar and finds his brother where you left him, sprawled on the floor with a pillow beneath his head.

"Baelor."

He drops to one knee and grasps his shoulder. Baelor's eyes flutter open. For a moment they are unfocused, then they settle on Maekar.

"Maekar," he murmurs, the faintest smile touching his lips.

The sight twists something in Maekar's chest. His gaze lifts to the wound on Baelor's forehead. The skin is split open, blood slowly seeping from between the edges.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asks.

"No," Baelor replies weakly.

Without another word, Maekar slides one arm behind his brother's shoulders and the other beneath his knees, lifting him from the floor. The motion summons a memory he would rather forget. Thirteen years ago, after the Battle of the Redgrass Field, he carried Baelor much the same way.

The singers always speak of glory. They sing of the Hammer and the Anvil, of the manoeuvre that ended the rebellion. They never sing of carrying his brother's limp, blood-soaked body from the battlefield. They never sing of the nights spent sitting beside Baelor's bed, terrified that each breath might be his last.

Now he carries him again, weak and bleeding, injured because of a blow delivered by Maekar's own hand. The guilt sits like a stone in his stomach. He had been so consumed by fear for Aerion that day – so blinded by panic that he had not hesitated to strike the man standing in his way – his brother.

He carries Baelor into the bedchamber and lays him carefully upon the mattress. Another pillow is pulled beneath his head.

"Baelor."

Maekar cups his brother's cheek.

No response.

"Baelor."

He gives his shoulder a slight shake. Nothing. A chill runs through him. Quickly, he presses two fingers against Baelor's neck. There is a pulse, thank the gods. Then why won't he wake?

Maekar swears under his breath and drags a hand over his face. At that moment, hurried footsteps sound from the outer chamber. The Grand Maester enters, satchel slung over one shoulder. Maekar steps aside immediately. Only then does he notice you lingering in the doorway, pale and wide-eyed, watching from the threshold.

"He was conscious a moment ago," Maekar says. "Now I cannot wake him."

The Grand Maester sets down his satchel and begins rummaging through it.

"It is likely a concussion," he says. "It is not uncommon for a patient to remain awake for a time after striking his head before later losing consciousness."

He withdraws a curved needle, silk thread, and a bottle of clear liquid.

"I will need to clean and stitch the wound."

The stopper is removed, and the liquid is poured over the gash. Baelor's eyelids twitch, his face tightening.

The Grand Maester threads the needle, and leans over the bed to make the first stitch. Baelor inhales sharply, but he does not wake. The sight unsettles Maekar more than he cares to admit. Instinctively, he reaches for Baelor's hand and closes his fingers around it.

The Grand Maester continues his work.  With each puncture, Baelor's face contorts in pain. His fingers tighten around Maekar's hand, gripping with surprising strength despite his unconsciousness.

At last, the final knot is tied. The Maester snips the thread with a small pair of scissors before retrieving a roll of bandage.

"Your Grace, I need Prince Baelor’s head lifted," he says. "If you could assist me?”

Maekar nods. Carefully, he slides a hand beneath Baelor's head, supporting him as gently as he can. The Grand Maester begins winding the white linen around his head, covering the fresh stitches on his forehead.

Only when the bandage is secured does Maekar allow himself the smallest breath of relief, though it does not last. Baelor still has not opened his eyes.

-

"Shall I arrange for a nurse to watch over him?" the Grand Maester asks when he has finished.

"I can do it." Your voice is quiet but firm as you step further into the room.

The Grand Maester looks up. "You cared for His Grace the last time he was ill, did you not?"

"I did."

His gaze shifts to Maekar for confirmation.

The prince nods. "And when she needs to rest, I will take her place."

The Grand Maester inclines his head, satisfied.

"Good. What His Grace needs most now is rest." He looks between the two of you. "If he develops a fever, send for me at once. If he wakes in significant pain, send for me at once. Otherwise, I shall return this evening to examine him again."

He pauses.

"Has the king been informed?"

"No, not yet," Maekar replies. "If you would be so kind?"

"Of course, Your Grace." The old man bows his head.

You watch him gather his supplies and leave the bedchamber. A moment later, his footsteps fade and the outer door closes softly behind him.

Silence settles over the room as you and Maekar watch Baelor as his chest rises and falls beneath the blankets. Your throat tightens, tears gathering along your lashes before spilling over. You reach into your pocket for your handkerchief, only to freeze when you see the dark bloodstain marring the linen. The sight of it breaks something inside you, and a choked sob escapes your throat.

Maekar turns immediately. His eyes flick to the handkerchief in your hand. Without a word, he reaches into his own pocket and withdraws a pristine white one. He steps closer and offers it to you. You take it, attempting to thank him, though only a small sound comes out. You wipe your cheeks and dab at your eyes.

Maekar waits until you've collected yourself somewhat before speaking.

"All we can do now is watch over him and make sure infection does not take hold."

You shake your head. "I should never have turned my back on him. He said his head was aching. Why did I turn away?"

"You weren't to know he would collapse," Maekar says firmly.

The certainty in his voice leaves no room for argument. You lower your gaze.

For several moments, neither of you speaks. Then Maekar exhales quietly.

"I should let Valarr and Matarys know their father is unwell."

He takes a step toward the door, then pauses. Turning back, he looks at you.

"Send for me if..." He stops himself. "When he wakes."

"I will, Your Grace."

Maekar gives a short nod and leaves.

Once the door closes behind him, you find yourself alone with Baelor for the first time since he lost consciousness. The room suddenly feels far too quiet.

You cross into the solar and drag the chair from behind the desk into the bedchamber. Setting it beside the bed, you lower yourself into it and take your place beside him. You cannot do anything else. So you watch, and wait.

Not long afterward, a knock sounds at the chamber door. You rise immediately and cross the solar. When you open the door, Ser Duncan stands on the other side.

"I saw the Grand Maester and Prince Maekar leaving the tower," he says, concern etched across his face. "What's happened?"

You open the door wider to allow him to step inside.

"Baelor fell and struck his head." You explain. "The Grand Maester stitched the wound, but he says Baelor has a concussion."

You lead Duncan toward the bedchamber. Together, you look inside. Baelor remains exactly as you left him.

"He hasn't woken since Prince Maekar carried him to bed," you say quietly.

"Seven," Duncan mutters, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

"I couldn't catch him this time."

The admission comes out in a whisper. Duncan's expression softens immediately.

"Don't blame yourself."

You look up.

"He's pulled through worse than this," the knight says gently. "He'll pull through this too."

You want to believe him. More than anything, you want to believe him.

The two of you stand there in silence for a moment, watching the slow rhythm of Baelor's breathing.

Then Duncan turns to you.

"If you need anything from me – anything at all – you need only tell me."

Emotion catches unexpectedly in your chest.

"Thank you, Ser Duncan."

~

You sit at Baelor's bedside, unsure what to do with yourself. He still hasn't woken. The only thing you know for certain is that you do not want to leave his side.

After a while, footsteps approach. You glance up to find Ser Duncan standing in the doorway of the bedchamber.

"Prince Valarr and Prince Matarys are here," he says, sparing a glance toward Baelor before stepping aside.

You rise immediately. The young princes enter, their eyes going straight to their father. Neither speaks at first. You move aside to give them room, then slip out to fetch another chair.

When you return, you carry one of the dining chairs from the outer chamber, and set it beside the chair already positioned at Baelor's bedside.

"Thank you," Prince Matarys mutters.

Both brothers sit, Valarr's gaze remaining fixed on his father.

"Has he woken at all since it happened?" he asks.

"Not yet, Your Grace."

He nods. His hand comes to rest on Baelor's shoulder. The gesture is simple, but it makes something ache inside your chest.

You quietly withdraw from the room, lingering nearby to give them privacy while remaining close enough should they need anything.

Their visit is mostly silent. Occasionally you hear a few low words exchanged between them, but little else. After a quarter of an hour, they emerge from the bedchamber, Valarr's arm draped around his younger brother's shoulders.

"Send word when he wakes," Valarr says.

"I will, Your Grace."

You bow your head and the brothers depart.

You barely have time to settle back into your chair before more footsteps sound in the outer chamber.

This time, you rise so quickly the chair legs scrape against the floor. The king stands in the doorway. For a moment, he simply looks at Baelor’s sleeping form.

"My son," he says quietly.

Then he steps into the room. You lower your head and move aside as the queen enters behind him. Unlike the king, she does not hesitate. She crosses the room at once and takes Baelor's hand between both of hers.

"My darling boy." Her voice trembles.

She lifts one hand and brushes the backs of her fingers across his forehead.

You feel suddenly as though you are intruding. Keeping your head bowed, you slip from the room, though neither of them notices. Their attention is fixed entirely on their son.

You wait in the solar until they emerge.

Their visit is shorter than the princes' had been, but when the king and queen step out of the bedchamber, both wear expressions drawn tight with worry.

The queen pauses beside you. "We would like to be informed the moment he wakes."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment, then she turns away, threading her arm through the king’s as they exit the chambers.

Once the outer door closes behind them, silence settles once more. You return to the bedchamber, the chair creaking softly as you sit, slipping your hand over Baelor’s.

"Please wake soon," you whisper, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Everyone is so worried."

Your eyes drift over his sleeping face.

"You've had many visitors." A sad smile touches your lips. "It's made me realise just how loved you are."

You lower your head and press a kiss to the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry I didn't catch you."

The words are barely audible.

You sit there for a long while afterward, holding his hand and listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, willing him to open his eyes.

~

A quiet rustle draws your attention, and you look toward the door.

Prince Rhaegel stands in the doorway, one shoulder resting against the frame as he looks into the room.

"Your Grace." You rise quickly, releasing Baelor's hand.

Rhaegel does not immediately respond. His gaze remains fixed on his brother.

"It does not look like a peaceful sleep," he says softly, stepping into the room.

"And no wonder." His eyes travel over Baelor's form. "He is not dressed for resting at all."

You glance at the unconscious prince. In the chaos that followed his collapse, nobody had thought to change him.

"We must make him more comfortable." Rhaegel moves to the bedside and begins gently pulling off Baelor's boots.

Once they are removed, he unbuckles the belt at his waist and carefully slides it free.

"Could you see to the fastenings on his doublet?" he asks.

"Of course."

You move to the opposite side of the bed, and tend to the unconscious prince with Rhaegel. You assist him with carefully removing the outer layers of clothing, carefully propping up Baelor to thread his arms out of the sleeves and to pull the blanket out from under him.

When you are finished, Baelor is left wearing only his shirt and breeches. Rhaegel draws the covers up over him with visible satisfaction.

"That looks much better." His expression softens. "Now he may rest properly."

You notice the rings still adorning Baelor's fingers. Taking one hand and then the other, you carefully slip them free and place them on the bedside table. Rhaegel reaches forward and brushes a strand of silver-streaked hair away from the bandage around his brother's head. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.

"I wonder if he dreams," Rhaegel murmurs, his gaze remaining fixed on his brother. "Or if he will wake believing no time has passed at all."

You are not sure how to answer. "I don't know, Your Grace."

For a moment he simply watches his brother breathe. Then he turns to you.

"I am glad he has someone so kind to care for him."

You feel heat creep into your cheeks.

Rhaegel smiles faintly. "You should hold his hand often, so he knows you are watching over him."

Your embarrassment deepens when you realise he must have seen you doing exactly that when he arrived. Yet there is no judgement in his expression. Only simple sincerity, as though the idea is perfectly natural.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Rhaegel nods, apparently satisfied.

"Rest well, brother." He bends down and presses a soft kiss to Baelor's cheek.

Then he straightens and leaves as quietly as he arrived.

The chamber door clicks shut behind him, and silence returns.

You let out a long breath. Only now, with nobody else present, do you feel the full weight of the day settling over you. The fear. The anxiety. The will to keep your composure while visitors came. And beneath it all, the exhaustion from a sleepless night.

You return to the chair beside the bed and sink into it. Every muscle in your body feels heavy. Without thinking, your hand finds Baelor's once more. Your thumb brushes slowly across his knuckles, and you watch the steady rise and fall of his chest.