So for a short time before anyone else walks in, there’s a mostly dead (big difference between all dead and mostly dead, that's important) prince in Dunk's arms that he’s bleeding all over. Holding a crushed skull in his own potentially ruined hand and praying and praying and praying and ope! Someone answers.
Course healing the mostly dead is tough when you're the gods of old Valyria and all your worshipers are gone so no one has made a real offering in a long time. But here's a man offering blood and a man of the blood... if it sounds like vows and feels like vows, then congrats lads, you're married. Or, well, half married. But! They can get started fixing that with a judicious application of fire. and wouldn't you know, there's a lovely pyre scheduled in a few days.
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Blood of the lip to the brow for counsel and care, as Dunk’s split lip drips onto Prince Baelor’s face as he sinks to curl over his fallen body. Blood of the hands for protection and promise, as Dunk grasps those bloodied fingertips in his own ruined palm, drunk together to make two into one, before raising it to his prince’s half open mouth in search of breath. For they shall be twin flames, a great sob as he finds nothing, leaning in to whisper against that ashen face. “Get up Ser”
We ask a blessing for this union from the Fourteen Flames. Heard and granted, though a slow blessing it would be as faded as They were.
Time greys and passes in patchy moments, but the next clear moment is viewing Baelor’s bier. Limping up to take one last look at his face, gray and mostly hidden by a golden helmet as it is. The silent sisters have done their work well. While the body may be clean and clothed their shared blood remains within.
---
Maekar, touching the torch down, stumbles back when the pyre wood catches vigorously, blooming high in tongues of red and yellow, green and gold. His first thought is that someone has snuck wildfire into the pyre preparation, as all eyes follow the leaping embers and miss that something is moving within. Maekar doesn’t know what sound he makes when his brother’s body rolls off the pyre. Or when said body lands on hands and knees, funeral clothes alight, golden helmet melting across its head and down its neck. Only that he is leaping forward, swinging his cloak off to smother the flames as the body shook and vomited.
When the roaring in his ears finally subsides he can hear himself, cursing and pleading in equal measure, as others shout for a maester. The body- Baelor- continues to expel steaming bile, but is at least no longer actively burning. Maekar can’t do anything but frantically run his hands over it’s- his- shoulders. When the heaving subsides to shivers he guides Baelor’s head up to meet his eyes and nearly flinches back again. Wide mismatched eyes find his own, but their mother’s dark brown has changed looking more like sunlit amber. The nearly soundless “…valonquar” that slips from Baelor undoes Maekar completely. What can he do but clutch his elder brother close? He feels Valarr thump gracelessly down into the dirt beside them and place his own hands on his fathers back.
The maester is nearly upon them with men and a litter, when the shivers work back up into shakes, into odd motions under the cloak. Pained noises spill from Baelor’s mouth. He nearly slips from Maekar’s grasp as muscles forcefully contract him into a miserable hunch. The curled shoulders and ducked head reveal what remains of the helm. Its molten gold has flowed to fill the crater of his skull until it spilled over, running in rivulets that leeched color from his hair and stained the exposed skin of his neck and shoulders with gleaming trails like wine spilt on linen.
There was blood, there was fire. And now there’s a dragon the size of a man just beyond the arms of his brother and son. Red with a golden blaze that extends over the skull and down the neck between curling horns of onyx. Its eyes are Baelor’s own - purple and gold. And it croons at them.
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They’ll say the cradle egg Baelor carried with him in a sentimental gesture had been placed upon the pyre and hatched. That the prince was not dead, only in a sleep so deep he barely breathed. That the pyre had similarly stirred Baelor’s mind and blood back to waking.
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