Chapter Text
Someone was screaming high and terrible. Against the bleak gray sky swayed a tall, tall prince and black armour with only half a skull. He could see red blood and pale bone beneath, and something else, something blue gray and pulpy. A queer, troubled look passed across Baelor Breakspear’s face like a cloud passing before the sun. He raised his hand and touched the back of his head with two fingers oh so slightly, and then he fell.
You caught him, the weight of the man and armour thumped into your ribs and shoved the air out of your lungs. He blinked at you, slow and befogged.
“Hold strong now,” you whispered to him the words he had once bellowed at you.
The commands strangled your throat, fusing with the fear and desperation that had long settled there like a jagged stone. But they were heard, Baelor’s weight was lifted off you, his head held aloft as they draped his slumped form over the back of a Kingsguard. Steely Pate had a large, meaty hand splayed over Baelor’s neck to keep him in place. You resisted the urge to adjust his hold lower so his grimy fingers wouldn’t dip into the fractured skull and worsen the injury.
Egg scurried ahead, shouldering past your cloak to throw the door of your room open. The narrow threshold bottled the efficient movement, you stumbled through in a line that started with the Kingsguard and ended with you. You threw off your cloak to reveal the black robes underneath— there wasn’t enough time to change into cleaner clothes. The two men made quick work of Baelor’s armour, unbuckling the belts and untieing the strings until he lay only in his chainmail.
“Do not turn him on his stomach, keep him steady,” you ordered, voice clipped but thankfully it did not waver.
Perhaps at a different time, under more carefree circumstances, they would have arched a brow at your cleared and wiped table— far too long and sturdy for a mere acolyte to be granted under the roof of a lesser Lord. You’d paid a hefty five copper Stars for that. You eyed the chair pulled towards the hearth, an unassuming wooden box was perched on its seat along with a plain leather canvas. However, the bundle was empty of your tools and knives, for they had long been dumped into the pot hung over the fireplace.
You reached for the razor first, fishing the straight and sharp-edged blade from the box, using your fingers to part the hair and scrape it off so the wound was adequately exposed to the sight. There was a sharp intake of breath in the room, the silence was loud, persistent and unsure as the men struggled to release their hitched breath.
“Pate, man, remove the pot from the fire. Set it beside the table, please.” It was a miracle that your voice sounded so… assured when you were feeling anything but.
You rolled your sleeves, securing them with a garter so it would not slip down while reaching to the far corner of the chamber to wash your hands in the warm water of the basin. You rigorously lathered the soap, scrubbing the crevices of your fingers and under your trimmed nails.
“He’s dead, Maester. There’s no—” The Kingsguard bemoaned.
“Is he still breathing?” You demanded.
“Aye, barely, but breathing,” Stealy Pate offered.
“Egg, a hand please,” you called to the boy. He swiftly plucked the bowl, dipping it into the water to help you rinse the soap in another bucket by the window.
Pate reached into the hearth with his bare hands, the fire had long died down with a few embers glowing red. You hoped the water similarly had cooled so it would not be blistering hot. You faced the wound now, properly assessing it for the first time. Bile roiled up your chest. You forced it down with a few deep breaths. It could have been worse. It could have been much worse.
You were prepared. You had anticipated this. You had studied this. You practiced these techniques on the skulls of animals until you had perfected your grip and pressure. And you had imagined yourself dissecting Baelor Breakspear’s head enough times to imagine every worst possibilty and how to resolve it. And yet, you held your breath, looking for a sign perhaps. Anything would do… the rustle of a leaf, the insistent pitter-patter of rain, the groan of a breaking wood. But there was only the distant cacophany of jeers and shouts. Maybe it wasn’t so distant, there was a clamouring in the halls of the castle. Most likely, people looking for the heir to the throne.
You retrieved a dark vial from the wooden box, turning it over so it soaked the clean cloth you held in your hand. It was mixture of opium, wine, hemlock juice, hemp, saffron and ambergis along with several other things you’d thrown together in some concoction that was far from perfected. But it would do for now. You held the cloth to his nose, waiting until he had breathed in the herbs. You tried not to think about how still he was, if he stopped breathing you would have to cut open his throat. And you did not want to cut open his throat. He was already unconscious, but you hadn’t wanted to risk him feeling any pain.
Wine. You’d forgotten the boiled wine. There was no time to cool it now. You bent to the pot of water, feeling strangely disoriented and slowed. You hadn’t thought to purify a bowl or a small jug. You uncertainly looked at Egg and the vessel he had dropped into the water basin. It would have to do, you thought with a sigh.
No sooner had you cleaned the wound, noting that the blood had mercifully eased it’s course, the door rattled against its hinges. Maekar Targaryen charged into the room like a great bull determined to trample over hoardes of enemies. He’d abruptly ceased, hair disheveled and face still bloodied from his wounds. You could hear the gnashing of his teeth, “You will wait for Maester Yormwell,” he seethed.
You shifted in your seat, allowing him a glimpse of his brother’s shattered head. There was a shaky, rattling breath. You turned away from him, unwilling to look at him as he grappled with grief. Maekar Targaryen had always been a wall— sturdy and impenetrable as a mountain— the anvil. You would not see that man crumble under the weight of his brother’s loss. A weight settled onto your chest, both suffocating and grounding. You fetched another vial from the box, pouring the Myrish fire onto the open gash to disinfect and clean the wound.
Maekar dragged himself into the room to stand behind your chair. His eyes penetrating into your head as your blade cut into the scalp. He was limping, despite the restless air about him, he had an uneven gait as he shuffled his feet. It seemed Maester Yormwell was still tending to little Prince Brat. You thought of Dunk— poor, sweet Duncan who would not receive medical attention until much later. You hoped his wounds would not fester.
You studied the cracks of bone, pouring more water to wash out the debris and smaller fragments from the wound. There were three larger shards of bone, one of them had imbedded deeper into his brain. The fracture was far too large for any of your trephines to be of any use, it seemed you would have to saw his skull open around the wound. But, first, the trepanation. You took the cylindrical blade, pressing the center pin into a smooth spot on the bone towards the right, lower than the injured area.
“That’s not where the wound is,” Maekar interrupted.
“Tis to drain the blood and ease the pressure under the bone— perhaps you could watch Prince Baelor’s breaths?” You gently suggested. You rolled the trephine back and forth in your hand, the serrated edges of the blade cutting out a small round bone from his skull. This was the worst part.
“If he stops breathing, I will kill you,” he threatened, there was a current of fear in his voice— desperation.
“If he stops breathing, you are to tell me immediately so that I might do something about it, Your Grace.” Your voice was light and confident as you skipped over the details of cutting into the ringed bones of the throat to force air into his lungs through a tube. You cleaned the blood and bone dust from the small hole you had created before lightly inserting a bronze tube to drain the blood gathered between his skull and brain.
You chose a thin, barbed and serrated sawblade and began sawing around the fractured area. Your palms were sweaty and clammy, and sticky from the blood— the blade was sliding in your grip. There was a fishy smell in the air, sweet and putrid and so very distinct. The grinding was agonising, the sound made your teeth itch and shiver in your gums. It was like nails dragging across the wall.
There was sweat trailing down your forehead and into your brows, small beads of sweat gathered over your upper lip by the time you had cut a square flap around the impact of the mace. Stealy Pate had long slinked out of the room without a word. A small hand wiped the sweat from your temples in a sweet but fruitless gesture. “Thank you, Egg,” you whispered to the little child.
You used a small chisel, flat-edged, to scrape under the bone, detaching the soft, curdled tissue that held it in place, before lifting the flap in the skull. All was as it should be, you supposed, there was nothing out of place or bleeding excessively. Your back ached in protest as you slouched over the fragments once more, scratching a blade to smoothen over the sharp bone that had splintered and dug into his brain. Your hands ached as you attached a small, thin nail to the winged handle that would make it easier to drill a hole into the bone. The corkscrew drilled smaller, tinier holes than your trephines.
You cracked your fingers against each other and stretched the muscles in your palm between each small puncture. It was tedious and laborious, but delicate work since you did not want to further shatter any of his bones. You drilled the holes on each fragmented shard of the bone to secure them to each other, and the intact bone of the skull to attach the square flap back onto his head. You also notched holes into the round bone to cover the hole you had sawed off in the trepanation.
You beckoned the little Prince to hand you the string of steel wire from the pot, along with the cutters in the box. They were wires more suited to be in a jeweler’s possession rather than a healer’s. However, you had paid handsomely for these as well. You weaved the metal through the tiny holes, like the hook of an earing might pass through the pliant flesh of the ear. You secured the broken pieces of bones to each other by tying off the wire and then attached the flap of bone you had sawed off to the rest of the skull similarly. If he survived, which you dearly hoped he would since your life hung in the balance along with his, he would always have the small depressed dent in his head.
Dunk had once remarked that the man seemed more human than royal with his twice-broken nose. His words had rang false to you at the time, Baelor Breakspear had a weight to him— a sense of power and certainty. He was always calm and measured, any sign of humanity from him was sure to be a deliberate, well-thought act. However, he had never been more human than he was now, lying on a table in the humble rooms of a servant with his head exposed and laid bare under your blade. You hoped once he woke, he would appreciate the depression of his skull as another tool he could count on to aid his guise of the gracious and dutiful Targaryen.
You hoped to at least make the sutures clean and pretty. Although, he shouldn’t be complaining about anything if he got to keep his life. The black silk thread was impossible to string through the needle, the thin metal was skidding between your blood-slick fingers. You felt a warm puff of air on the side of your head from a certain older, disgruntled, huffy Prince. You must really have been exhausted, your mind too preoccupied to stifle your impulses, as you turned to give him a mutinous, flinty-eyed glare. He was breathing into a man’s open wound, why didn’t he just go ahead and spit in it as well?
You washed your hands again, drying them with another clean cloth before threading the silk through the needle. You cleaned the incision, the thread and the needle in vinegar before stitching the skin closed. He would need a poultice over the wound so it does not ripen and fester— powdered mustard seeds, turmeric, extracts of nettles and honey, along with bread mold. He would need to be watched for a few days, his breathing and pulse carefully monitored. His wound was to be inspected twice every hour for swelling and redness, if there was more bleeding under his skull you would have to reopen the trepanation hole you had made in his skull and drained.
You hoped he woke soon, the Royal entourage could not travel home without the heir and you did not want to jostle him and cause more damage to his fracture. You remembered Lord Ashford’s financial concerns with a dim amusement, it would seem he would have to play the gracious host for a few more days. You pursed your lips in thought, it ill behoved you to suggest the Princes help the lesser Lord with monies— some sort of bestowal or gift for his troubles. There was always the leige Lord of House Tyrell, he could help his vassal and the Royal House while the King’s son recovered in their home. Most importantly, however, you couldn’t be in the muddy woods of backveld when the sickness spreads across the lands.
But that was an issue months into the future, you focused on the task at hand. Your curette efficiently mixed the poultice with practice ease before your spread the paste over the sutures. Once he roused, you should give him something to prevent siezures and convulsions— herbal tea of rue and wormwood, perhaps. Lord Ashford wouldn’t have the mud silos you had seen at your aunt’s home in the marshes that stored grain. The bread and beer made from that grain was exceptional for healing wounds and preventing illnesses.
You would only know the true extent of his injuries after he had awakened. The books spoke of changed individuals— not only in preferences and taste, but in behaviour and conscience. If he… there was a small moment of reluctance. You felt the ghost of the weight of your father’s hand on your shoulder, the disappointment colouring the frown on your grandfather’s face. They had fed you honour with their battle-scarred hands, you were taught to carry it’s weight before you learned how to raise a sword.
Your nose stung with tears, your throat aching with effort. You took a deep, shuddering breath, blinking away the sheen of tears clouding your vision. If it comes to it, you would never take your family name again to protect their honour. As for yours… Baelor Targaryen served no purpose of yours if he was no longer the man heretofore.