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Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red

Maekar

"What in the seven hell do you mean, there is no way around it? He is in pain and there must be a way to relieve it!"

There were few things that could enrage Maekar Targaryen more than sheer stupidity but he kept his voice under control because the last thing the man lying in agony only a few steps away from them was dealing with Maekar's own raised voice. He had suffered enough damage without them needing to add up to it.

"But Your Grace," the maester insisted. "If I give him some milk of poppy, the dosage will have to be big enough to knock him out!"

Maekar rolled his eyes. Really, what was so bad about a man being put to sleep for a day or three so he wouldn't have to deal with the pain when it was at its peak? The Seven knew that Brynden Rivers was not lucid now either, although he wasn't unconscious. Maekar truly felt that the most compassionate thing they could do for him now was knock him out with whatever concoctions the maesters could come up with.

"Very well, knock him out," he agreed and the man went to work, giving him a frightened look from time to time. Maekar wondered what rumours exactly the traitors spread about him to produce this effect. Everybody knew that the maesters were sworn to a castle and not a person… and the fact that this one was Daemon Blackfyre's own maester did not imply that he was an enemy. Until he actually committed a treason, the old man was quite safe in their hands.

Again, Maekar's eyes went to the man in the bed. And again, Bloodraven's hands went to his bandaged face.

Maekar went to the bed and removed the hands to prevent Bloodraven from hurting himself. "Hurry up," he snapped to the maester, wishing his own maester were here. But he was still tending the wounded ones so Daemon's should do.

The man kept preparing his potion and Maekar kept holding Bloodraven's hands away from his face. "Stay calm," he said evenly. "It's over now. No one is going to hurt you."

Fortunately, the hands were too weak to resist the pressure of his own. And even when conscious, Bloodraven was no match for Maekar in sheer strength – they had come to this conclusion again and again since they had never gotten along all that fine. But now, it didn't matter. Bloodraven was one of theirs, a man wounded in defense of King Daeron's throne and Maekar would do anything in his power to help him get better. He owed the man that.

Finally, the maester announced that the potion was ready and went at Bloodraven's bedside just when the door opened to admit Baelor who ventured inside. The day has been long for him, Maekar thought. From the brief words that they had had the time to exchange, as well as Ser Carral's story, he knew that Baelor could not have had more than five hours of sleep for the last two days. Now, with only Maekar in attendance, he stumbled, his strength leaving him. Maekar helped him to the nearest chair. "It was about time for you to appear at the battlefield," he said. "I almost had to rescue myself."

Baelor grinned. "From what I saw, you had the situation well at hand." He looked at the bed. "How is he?"

"He'll survive," Maekar said. "If we keep the wound clean, I mean. Who managed to do this to him?"

Although extremely thin, Brynden Rivers was a strong man and skilled with arms, so Maekar's question was not surprising. Baelor didn't bother to look up – he was too tired. "Aegor," he said.

"Aegor," Maekar repeated after him. "Did they catch him?" he asked.

Baelor shook his head barely visibly and Maekar poured him a goblet of wine. "No," Baelor said. "They are still chasing him. But they won't catch up with him, I fear."

"They might still," Maekar insisted and Baelor sighed.

"I'd like to see you not deluding yourself for once, brother," he said. "What happened to your wound?" he asked.

Maekar looked down at himself. The bandage was carefully hidden beneath his doublet and since the worst of the wound had become visible only after he had removed his armour, very few people would know about it. In fact, the worst of the pain was not due to the wound itself but the pieces of armour cutting into him. He had been ordered to stay abed for a few days. He had followed the advice to a little over two hours.

"I'm fine," he said.

"I didn't expect to find you here," Baelor commented, looking at the man in the bed.

Maekar shrugged noncommittally – and immediately regretted it when a bruised rib protested. "I don't want to explain in King's Landing why we lost him," he said. "I mean, I know he's a scoundrel and all but Father is fond of him."

Baelor laughed. "That's two jokes in a single conversation," he said, approvingly. "I quite like it. Only, don't get carried away, lest Father decides to make you a court jester upon our return."

Their conversation was so uninhibited. It felt weird to think that they had just won the battle. The war. That people were still screaming and dying. That Daemon was no more. An enemy he might have been, but he had been a part of their lives since they were born. Baelor had been his friend, Maekar had rarely stood the sight of him but he had been there for so many years.

For a while, they were silent, looking at Bloodraven while the maester patiently poured the potion into his mouth.

"Did you find him?" Maekar finally asked. "The boy of the Raven's Teeth he asked you to look for?"

Baelor nodded, his face suddenly grim. "We found both him and the bow. In front of them, eighteen bodies. Not a single arrow in the quiver. But the boy was sprawled over the bow. I swear, it looked like he was still covering their retreat. "

Maekar clenched his teeth. "He didn't even try to save himself?"

"He didn't," Baelor said. "From what I saw, I'd say he shot all his arrows out, down to the last one, and waited for the rebels who ran him down."

For a while, they were silent. "Did he have a family?" Maekar asked. "We have a duty to him."

"I agree."

The maester rose and announced that he was done. They both looked at the bed. Bloodraven was lying still, his colour still ash-grey but at least he wasn't squirming in pain any more.

When the maester scurried away, Baelor set the goblet aside. "We cannot send a raven to King's Landing," he said. "The castle ravens were all killed and we already spared all of ours."

"A man, then?" Maekar suggested. "I'll see to that."

He was now clearly better and Baelor was clearly in dire need of a rest, so the Crown Prince only nodded. "I saw the last letter that arrived here, though," he said. "It was sent yesterday from King's Landing. It looks like everyone is fine… and you won't believe what Naeryne did."

Maekar silently waited for the explanation.

"She donated her jewels for the treatmend of those suffering from the greyscale," Baelor said. "She took some of them off publicly and then sent the other boxes to the Great Septon."

Maekar didn't bat an eyelid. That was all very interesting but it couldn't surprise him in the least. Should he be surprised after he had had Naeryne bargaining with him about this ridiculous shelter of hers? A shelter for unwed mothers at Summerhall, what an idea! He had indulged her, thinking that her charity would crumble almost immediately but to his great astonishment, she had even made it work. Now, he had only the vaguest idea what she had been thinking when she had given away a whole fortune in the shape of jewels but he wasn't surprised. And still… all her jewels? He would have to see to it that they be actually sold and the money used for the admirable purpose his lady wife had set her heart upon. He would rather not put the Great Septon's altruism to trial.

"I'll have to buy her some other trinkets, then," he said and forced back the laughter rising in his throat at the look on Baelor's face. His family knew that Naeryne was a good and devout woman but the true extent of her eccentricity was something they had never truly realized. He's only starting to realize that his precious goodsister is capable of bringing us all to ruins in her zeal.

Baelor rose heavily. "I am going to sleep," he announced. "If you need something from me, wake me up."

"Of course," Maekar said. No way in hell, he added in his mind. You'll sleep until you've fought the worst of this fatigue off.

Baelor headed for the lord's bedchamber that he had taken for his own for the length of their duration. Maekar met with Ser Carral, oversaw the distribution of a few parties sent to make sure that there won't be any unexpected attack from an unknown host of Daemon's, visited the halls where the wounded were sheltered and made sure that they were tended adequately. Finally, he searched the entire third level where he and Baelor slept. There was nothing disturbing. He was only surprised to see Daemon's maester in a small room, leaning over a bed.

"A wounded that I do not know about?" Maekar asked sharply. He wasn't against the rebels receiving treatment , and a good one, but he had made clear that their own people should have priority. As far as he knew, none of their commanders was seriously wounded. The killed ones, though… there were so many of them.

The man startled and shot him a terrified look. It verged on insanity – did he really think that Maekar would swing his mace at him right now?

The Prince silently came near the maester and the shadow he was examining. Long gaunt limbs, yellow face, no flesh over the bones – no, the man was not wounded but he was close to death. He had clearly been starved and maybe deprived of water as well, if his cracked lips were any indication. But it made no sense – why would Daemon punish him and then lodge him in this modestly but well furnished room to rest? Maekar was about to ask when the man's expression changed; with a jolt that left him shaken, Maekar recognized him, the first joy of seeing him alive after he had thought him dead swiftly replaced by horror and regret. All that his faithful companion had gone through – it was all because of him. He reached out and took his hand to squeeze it.

The returning squeeze was so faint that Maekar got scared. He looked at the maester. "What's wrong with him?" he asked.

The old man cleared his throat. "He hasn't been receiving any water for a while," he said. "His kidneys had ceased working and the humors they cannot draw out are killing him."

Grimly, Maekar nodded his understanding and decided that now, it was not the moment to question as to why water had been withheld from Ser Galend. "What is the treatment?" he asked.

"Drinking water," the maester replied. "As much as he can take and then some. We need to make his kidneys work again. That's the only way."

Again, the Prince understood. It sounded very easy, indeed, but there was a reason why some of the most painful tortures included water.

"I have no more need of your service," he said. "I'll take care of him myself."

The maester was quick to leave. Maekar took a chair at Ser Galend's bedside, picked up the ewer of cold water and brought it to his friend's lips.