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His fingers had felt wooden from that first moment when he had found Ser Dunk. They had stayed so, when he had followed the young Knight's voice and refused the beguiling call of the Stranger. Choosing the hard, dark, difficult path, instead of skipping along the smooth as silk, easy path to the light and death's embrace. A choice he had regretted with every day that he had to be fed or have his arse wiped for him.
"Your Grace! Get up, Ser! Get up, Ser!"
Those words were repeated to him, over and over, again and again.
"Get up!"
Those words had him halting at the crossroads. A choice: anger at life or easement at death, stood before him every day since he had first heard those words.
"Please! I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"
Those desperate words had kept him from turning back to take that lighter way.
"Get up!"
And he had. It hurt like hell. The burning pain was ever there, with him. It was his only constant, his only companion, laughing at him every day, since the tourney at Ashford. All others are been pushed away. Far away. But he had grit his teeth and allowed the burns to be and he had opened his wings and he had got up.
He had refused the easement from his constant foe that the Stranger offered him. Holding his gnarled fingers out for him to take. Offering him relief from the grief and mourning at his old self, that ate and ate at him. Gnawing at his joy at being alive, like an old hound gnashing its blunt teeth at his broken skull and mind that were stitched together by the young Maester at Ashford.
"Get up!"
It had taken moons before he could sit up by himself and before he could feed himself. He was told that he would not walk again. But he had defied the Maesters, just as he had defied the Stranger.
"Get up!"
The seventeen-year-old him had won the title of 'Breakspear', following his song-famous victory at his aunt Daenerys's wedding tourney, when he had defeated Ser Daemon Blackfyre, his father's bastard-born half-brother, in the final tilt. But now the spear was broken and the hammer became hammered himself. Those thoughts had him wallowing in the darkness, lying in his own piss and tears in his bed. Wailing and howling at the gods and at himself, when the Hour of the Wolf blanketed him in the blackest of darknesses and the Stranger sang their temptations to him.
"Get up!"
Those words dragged him by his heels and had his wooden fingers pulling him out of the deep oubliette that was his despair.
"Get up!"
Those words had him laughing at the new dawn, as it cracked itself upon the ever-open windows of his bedchamber. Left open so that the new day could remind him of all he had to lose.
"Get up!"
He could walk, using first two sticks, then one. Walking with his mended head held high. With his honour held so too.
"Get up!"
But riding eluded him though. He could sit a saddle, but his fingers had not the fine touch they once had. His heels no longer had the quickness they once had. So he had to be led, like a child, like the cripple that knew that he was and ever denied, yet was forced to acknowledge at times like this. So he got off and refused the call.
"Get up!"
His mind was still there. Sharp as ever. Although not as forgiving. He had re-trained him to ignore the gaps in his memory and the terrible pain that hooked his broken head and tried to drag him down and down and down.
"Get up!"
He had heard the murmurings so many times, as boy and man, that he was not a dragon, that the hammer was too Dornish, too Martell, too dark. And now those sotto voice murmurs grew louder. The Handship went first, given to his brother. Refused at first, but then forced upon the beaten anvil. He was the one smashed against the shield-wall of his brother.
"Get up!"
One had ignored his irritation, his ire, his anger. One had not run. One had chosen to stay and stand within the flames of the dragon. One shouted and laughed and cadjoled and cursed him back. One gave as good as he got.
"Get up!"
His brother, Maekar, stayed where others did not. He threw the metal sigil of their father's Handship at Baelor's unsteady feet. It clattered upon the flags.
"Get up!"
Maekar glared and spat out his own fire. Daring his older brother to get down and pick the sigil up, to claim his due.
"Get up!"
Baelor fell, the stick slipped and he hit the harsh, unforgiving flags on all fours. Reduced to be an animal. A curr, not a dragon.
"Get up!"
Baelor's disobedient fingers laughed at him and sent the brooch, the badge of his former office, sliding away from him. Another reach and the golden hand skittered from his jittered touch.
"I can't!" Baelor shook his head, feeling his frustration ride him, seeing his vision blur, feeling the irritation breath fire. That feeling was never there, never part of him, before Ashford. But ever sat there now, like a dragon in his head, grown there from an egg made of the crushed shells of his skull. A dragon that had smothered the calm, welcoming smiles from his pleasant face. A dragon that flamed and chased all away from him. All fled the wounded dragon's terrible ire, except for his brother.
"Pick it up!"
"No!"
"Pick it up and get up, brother!" Maekar roared
A growl fell from between Baelor's lips, dropping from between his bared teeth, at that command and he reached out once more. Stretching his leaden hand out, grasping the metal badge. Not caring that the pin dug into his flesh. The pain of that was nothing compared to the constant pounding of the eternal mace that battered his head, night and day.
"Get up!"
He sat back on his haunches. Panting.
"Get up!"
He dragged himself to his overturned chair and pulled himself up.
"Yes! Get up!"
Baelor panted and swore, as he dragged his body up to sit upon the chair, glaring, grinding his teeth, spitting at his silver haired brother.
"Get up! And take what is yours, brother!"
Baelor stared down at his hand, at the blood, remembering that other time when he had looked at his palm and seen blood there. He stared at his brother, Maekar, staring at lighter eyes, different eyes, the same eyes, eyes that were full of tears, as his were.
"There. Good!" Maekar nodded. "I cannot make you whole again, I would that I could! I would that I could…"
A pause while both brothers sniffed away tears that neither would admit were there.
"I cannot turn back and temper my arm, my mace! Would that I could! Would that I…" Another pause, a shake of his fair head. "But you need to get up, brother and take your rightful place!"
"My hand… Blood…"
"Let them see your blood! Let them see it! Let them see that it flows just like mine!" Maekar took the badge from his older brother and stabbed his own hand, showing the redness to his frowning brother. "The blood of the Dragon flows in us both! Now…" He paused to pin the badge of the Hand onto his brother's panting chest. Then he moved away and stood. Picking up his brother's stick, holding it out to him, frowning down at Baelor.
"Now… Get up! Come with me! We go to the Small Council, brother! Where both hammer and anvil will sit and recommended clemency for honorable foes to prevent them from fighting to the death. Both hammer and anvil will sit and deny Brynden Rivers his belief that pardoning rebels will only lead to future rebellions! Get up, brother! Get up, and come with me!"
Baelor kicked the dragon that spat fire and ire and refusals in his head and laughed and cried and stood.