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Maekar’s ears ring. Splinters of a shattered shield hit his face and bounce off the black iron of his armor. The thrill is all too familiar: a firm hand around the hilt of his mace, a helm upon his head, and the bloodrush in his veins. Maekar has enough sense for the revelation that he must be at war. The pleased huff he makes soon chokes him.
A thick layer of fog circles the battlefield. Maekar can barely see a thing when something heavy falls upon him and sends him stumbling down to the ground. It catches him by the leg and crawls below his armor— below his very skin. His flesh comes apart, ripping like peels of a ripe fruit.
A pair of eyes stares at Maekar from below. One as bright as the coming of dawn, the other as dark as night. Slowly, he begins to tell apart the outline of his elder brother’s face, bathed in silver light from above. Baelor doesn’t blink, only stares, emptily. Maekar reaches out to him, to hold him, to embrace him, but his grip is much too slippery. His hands are so wet. So bloodied. His fingers slide helplessly along Baelor’s armor. Frustration splits him, and Maekar howls.
The vision fades, and instead of Baelor’s face, Maekar finds a pillow he has torn open in his sleep. He shoves at the feathers that spill out and hops from bed as if the mattress has grown spikes. Aches to lie down. Aches to stand.
Maekar stumbles out of the tent into the cold air of the night. He inhales, exhales, and slowly, the feeling of suffocation around his chest eases.
The rest of the camp slumbers, blissfully unaware of his plight. A lone horse neighs not far from Maekar’s tent. Cold stars look down upon him on the black mantle of sky. The clouds are smoke, circling the moon that floats low. Maekar wonders if he’s truly awake at all.
A breeze crawls on the walls of Castle Ashford. Banners fly high, the rising wind tearing them in a test of temper. The mud of the courtyard clings to Maekar’s boots. He walks behind his elder brother as they are shown around the castle. Commotion follows them— rather, follows Baelor, wherever he goes. A pair of serving girls peeks around the corner, giggling to themselves with no subtlety.
“Are there no serving corridors?” are Maekar’s first words within these walls. He beckons a lazy hand at the two girls scurrying away.
“Yes, there are”, Lord Ashford answers, rightfully embarrassed. He seems hopeful that this is the end of the conversation, walking forth into the uncarpeted hallway.
“Then why are they not using them?”
“I’m sure this is more convenient with this kind of event at hand, brother”, says Baelor understandingly. “Let us continue”
Maekar rolls his eyes in surrender. It’s not the sole matter that irks him about Ashford Castle: small housings such as this have corridors much too narrow, armed men walk about with their sigils poorly displayed, footsteps echo from each direction, and no door seems to remain locked. Maekar takes one hurried step to walk closer to Baelor’s back. His hand, by instinct alone, rests upon the pommel of his dagger.
They are brought into a humble dining room on the upper level. Maekar supposes it must be where the family dines, or perhaps the finer silver has been set on display as another means to impress Baelor. Quite foolish, Maekar deems, for his brother often dines so slowly that even good silver will rust before he’s finished. Not by his own volition, no— people simply won’t leave Baelor alone even during supper, and gods know he will neglect every base need of his own to tend to the smallest concerns of others.
When he gets the chance, Baelor takes Maekar by the arm and lowers his voice to Maekar’s ear, “Must you be so prickly today? We have just arrived.”
“They have paid no consideration for your escort”
“You would have the Kingsguard sleep in my bed if you could”
“No. They would take the door, I would take the bed”
They are served wine once they are seated. Maekar takes his cup unceremoniously. He means to survive this ridicule, and he cannot do it sober. Baelor seems content with water.
Their host begins a long monologue Maekar only somewhat listens. His eyes fix on a hanging tapestry that’s wrinkled from one of the upper corners. It supposedly depicts a gallant fight, yet the image receives little justice when one side drags, for it leaves the opposing party looking already mangled. “...Which makes nine melees in total."
Maekar raises his head when there’s finally silence. Mistakes it for the end of their engagement. Yet, the master of the games looks at the two seated princes as if in need of approval.
“Riveting”, Maekar says, dry as bone. Baelor kicks him underneath the table. Stings a little on his ankle.
“An adequate schedule”, Baelor corrects with a polite smile.
Maekar keeps a grim face. “Any news from my sons? They should have reached their destination before us”
“I have heard nothing yet, my prince. I shall go ensure”, Lord Ashford answers and takes his momentary leave.
One of the servants must take notice of Maekar’s annoyance as he hurries to pour him more wine. Perhaps she was beckoned into it. Baelor rests his hands on the table, fingers crossed.
“They may have found some entertainment on the way. I would not yet worry”, he says.
“Why would you worry? They’re not yours”, Maekar remarks unkindly.
“I would not have you question how dear they are to me”
“I shouldn’t have let them travel alone”
“Independence will do them good. Daeron could use the responsibility, and Egg is a clever boy—“
Neither of those statements resonates with Maekar. “His name is not Egg”, he articulates slowly, in case his brother struggles understanding the words coming out of his mouth. “It’s Aegon, and he will be called as such”
“Nicknames speak of one’s sentiment. It's been given by his own brother, is it not?”
“I would prefer you didn’t speak at all now”
For their host returns with an apologetic look. That’s enough for Maekar to stare into the table while Baelor continues to discuss the tourney. Maekar catches an irritating word, or two here and there, and his disdain must be plain for all to see.
“I believe we would prefer to be shown to our rooms now”, Baelor requests, and their host immediately sends for a servant. “I beg you not to be alarmed, but my brother would prefer to inspect my quarters”
“Of course, Your Grace”
Maekar studies carefully how the implication insults Lord Ashford, if at all. It’s evident their host attempts to hide it. In truth, Maekar would take offense, too, but if this were all up to him, Baelor would not set foot in a castle that doesn’t hoist the Targaryen banner. One day, at old age, with a crown upon his head, Baelor will appreciate Maekar’s efforts. Today, he must be called mad.
They rise, and Maekar is shown by a servant to where Baelor is supposed to spend his nights. It must easily be the grandest guest room available. It’s large, furnished with oak, and cushioned with silk. A beverage and a bowl of fruit have been brought on the round tea table. Windows face two different directions: one, the meadow, and another, the courtyard. Maekar shoves aside the curtains for a better look outside. There’s no balcony.
“Take a look below the bed”, Baelor teases him, leaning against the doorframe. He turns to the servant who has followed. “I need nothing else. Please, do be dismissed.” He enters and pulls the door shut. “A word, brother”
Maekar brings his hands behind his back. “Yes?”
“I fear I have offended you. When I spoke of your children”
They are both well-accustomed to wounding one another with words. Maekar thinks it is a competition at times, and he suspects his brother has a fondness for the challenge Maekar offers. Baelor, however, has the wisdom to ask for forgiveness and to forgive himself. These finer talents are none of Maekar’s.
“It’s very easy for you to speak on them”, Maekar answers. Has little wish to discuss the matter of his sons when they are nowhere to be seen. It always falls upon him to defend them. “You’re able to parade your own. I am not. Aerion best establish himself here, or I will send him home in the back of a grain cart. Daeron, when he's discovered, shall sit right next to him”
The choice of words seems to amuse Baelor. “Parade”, he repeats. “I assure you, that is not what I’m doing”
“You have your right to. Neither of your boys would ever try tricks such as this”
“In that, I am fortunate”
It’s simply another thing fashioned for Baelor and not for Maekar. The shadow spreads over him, and he accepts the coming of the dark.
“But they have their trying age, as did mine. As did both of us, you and me”, Baelor continues, tempted to grin.
Maekar can’t recall a single time Baelor ever received a scolding. No, he was already a saint in their mother’s womb. Matters not now. Maekar grunts some manner of affirmation and turns away.
“They will arrive by morn, I am sure”, Baelor comforts him. “Will you sit with me a moment? I would very much like to enjoy your company before the true entertainment begins”
“I think not”, Maekar forces himself to say. Like a beast, he would drain Baelor’s spirit before sundown.
He doesn’t look at Baelor as he leaves— the disappointment on Baelor’s face might sway him to a foreign course.
Rain rams above. A candle sits blazing on Maekar’s bedside table. He stares at the shadows it casts upon the walls of the guest room. Rest in strange places doesn’t come easily for him, but never is it this difficult. That which has awakened in his dreams, keens its head. Maekar sits at the foot of the bed, still fully clothed. Much too weary to resist, Maekar’s eyes fall shut with force. For only a moment, he sleeps.
The sun looms upon a cloudless sky, yet the beams offer no light or warmth. They hit the ground with rime, as black pillars that separate life from death. Maekar’s knees hurt as if he has sat on them a moment too long. Yet he cannot stand, his legs like thick curd. A blunt sound of iron crushing echoes in his head. He’s able to raise his hand, only to find blood dripping down his wrist in long streaks of red. It’s warm— a soothing tickle as it reaches his arm. Baelor lies before him.
Maekar shouts and scrambles in an effort to stand. He trips on one of the blankets that has rolled off the bedding and stumbles down to the floor. The mad pounding in his chest won’t ease. He can hear the rushing in his ears, the dread twists his insides so terribly that he retches. Maekar crawls into the light and looks at his hands: they’re clean, the blood is gone, and yet, Maekar can still feel the ghost of a drip on his fingers. He scratches his skin violently until the tickling stops.
He cannot sleep. Cannot spend a moment longer alone between these stifling walls. He pulls on his boots and leaves the room.
On the narrow corridor, Baelor walks towards him, his quarters being only one door down. Maekar’s face must fall pale, for at first, he cannot help but question if it’s truly his brother or if he simply fell asleep again.
“Brother?” Baelor asks with his brows knitted together. “I heard the most peculiar noise”
“A noise?” Maekar pretends stupidity.
“I thought it was yours”
“I assure you, I’ve heard no noise”
Baelor doesn’t believe him. He’s not half the fool Maekar would like him to be, but he is kind. His frown turns into an understanding smile, and he nods courteously. Maekar dares to look into Baelor’s glistening eyes. They are nothing like they were in his dream: they’re warm, full of spirit and grace. Maekar no longer finds himself so eager to chastise all men who, as if under a hex, praise his brother’s lordly temper.
“Well”, Baelor says, “how curious. Perhaps the serving staff should indeed begin using their own corridors”
Maekar takes his way out without hesitation, “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“And where might you be going at this hour?”
“I will ride out. I must see that Daeron and Aegon make it back safely”
Baelor hums. “Have you need for seekers? I can spare Ser Roland and Ser Donnel”
“Don’t be senseless. They must remain here with you”
Without giving Baelor a chance to argue his case, which Maekar knows he will, Maekar turns on his heels and heads out to command his horse be readied.
The trail turns into a muddy road riddled with prints and cart tracks. Maekar feels no easier this morning, even with his son, Daeron, in tow. Each time he blinks, his lids grow heavier.
“Son?” Maekar tries and reaches his hand to Daeron’s horse. Pulls him closer by the reins. Daeron’s head bobs unresponsively. “Daeron?”
“Huh?” Daeron opens his eyes and looks around him. His voice is still thick from the drink. “Are we there yet?”
“No, idiot—“, Maekar can’t hold his tongue soon enough. He presses his lips together for a moment before he continues, softer, “What is it that you sometimes ramble?”
“I thought all I do is ramble”
“About dreams?”
“I’m not telling you. It’ll only serve to upset you, father”
“Daeron—“
“I said I’m sorry. I had no desire to participate in the tourney. I endangered Egg and myself out of my own selfishness. I will not do it again, should it content you to hear”
Maekar lets go of the reins, and they continue. Daeron’s head slacks soon again. Perhaps he finds the saddle soothing. Maekar wants to sleep, too. Whenever he feels the reach of slumber, he balls his hand in a fist and slams himself on the thigh.
They return to Castle Ashford in the evening.
The smell of freshly baked bread fills the air. Maekar doesn’t find himself very hungry. The hollow in his gut is something different entirely— a discomfort so grave it keeps his throat feeling dry.
Baelor already sits at the center of the breakfast table, a bowl of porridge and fruits before him. He eyes a letter pinned open on the table with his empty cup so the parchment shan’t roll shut. The silver spoon turns lazily in his hand. He must have been seated there a while, though the bowl is full.
"Brother", Maekar greets him with a short bow of his head as he approaches his seat.
Baelor raises his head from the letter, ever a glimmer in his eyes. "Good morrow", he's glad to say, the pull of a smile in the corner of his mouth. "I hope you rested easily last night, with your sons safely by your side once more"
Maekar knows it's not out of ill will his elder brother marks on it. Even then, Baelor must be thrilled he was in the right about the movements of Maekar's unruly children. This station, Maekar has grown accustomed to over the many years of service in Baelor’s mighty shadow. His much wiser brother will predict the outcome of all, and Maekar himself must play the fool.
"I did not", Maekar answers truthfully.
"Oh? Did you spend your night scolding them?" Baelor asks.
"Only the eve"
"What is it then that kept you awake? I hope you won't insult our host with your particular preferences. Our accommodations are surely well enough for you to tolerate a few more nights beneath this roof"
Maekar grunts at the implication. He would be well-contented in a narrow bed and a cloak to be used as a pillow rather than the heavy velvets that line his guest room. They might be better suited for the dresses of his daughters. It’s the constant hassle and commotion of Ashford that vexes him, not the lack of anything other than silence. The court is not much different in particular, but at least the lords and ladies have the decency to be silent and bow their heads when the two brothers are together. Ashford is all gawking and whispering. Half the time, Maekar feels the urge to fetch his sword and sit at guard by the door so they may have some privacy. How, and why, Baelor chooses to tolerate it, Maekar cannot will himself to understand.
"It's not that", Maekar says irritably. "I keep— seeing this strange dream"
"A dream? I didn't know you even dreamt, brother"
"I don't"
Baelor looks at him peculiarly. Even so, there’s a fondness to it.
"Oftentimes, I don't", Maekar corrects himself once he realizes the lie he has let slip through his foul mood. "This one is different. It's persistent. I have seen it thrice now, perhaps more"
"A nightmare of sorts, then?"
"Yes"
"What is it about?"
Baelor doesn't turn to his letter anymore. He pushes his chair further back for a better look at Maekar, ever so attentive to his present companion. The curiosity he receives, leaves Maekar's chest tightening. It was no plan of his to share this grim depiction with Baelor, for it has a taste of treason. What manner of man dreams the death of his own brother? Is there not madness deep down in Maekar's core that secretly yearns for such a horror, for why else would he witness it so vividly behind his lids?
"Some... tragedy", Maekar trails, the word he chooses entirely ill-fitted for his tongue. He must sound lost of his senses. Perhaps this place is slowly dulling his mind. Men have gone mad from less, he’s certain.
"Sounds rather like a theater to me. I thought you were absent during all the plays.” Baelor surely means to humor him; the gentleness of his voice reveals as much. It fails to amuse, however, when Maekar has for once lifted his shield. As suspected, this was a foolish idea.
"And what a shame that is, since I’m known across the realm for my fondness for drama", Maekar rolls his eyes.
Baelor must realize that much to be untrue. He frowns, an expression most ill-suited for him. Maekar dislikes having ever brought it into being. Shouldn't have pestered Baelor with such a juvenile remark.
"Will you not tell me about it?" Baelor asks. He rests his elbow on the dining table and leans closer as if they are only boys about to surrender to gossip.
Maekar wants to, if only to unburden his heart. He already parts his lips to speak, but the longer he looks at Baelor’s face, the further his voice slips. There’s little point in speaking aloud what is a mere nightmare of his own making, with treason clear as daybreak written all over. How evil would his brother think him then? Maekar flees the look of warmth in Baelor’s eyes before it brings him to his knees.
“I would rather not”, Maekar decides.
A serving girl enters the room to bring Maekar his breakfast. Baelor observes her, waiting for her to take her leave before addressing Maekar again.
“You have been acting—“, he pauses to fish for the words, “—most peculiar after our arrival.” Maekar bites into a piece of bread, leaving his brother without a reply. Baelor raises a soothing hand over his shoulder as if Maekar were a frightened horse about to kick. He must have made his weakness for Baelor’s touch known in times past. “I hope you don’t think me so daft that I haven’t noticed”
“You’re imagining things”
Baelor treads carefully now. He drops his hand to the back of Maekar’s chair and graces him with a subtle smile. “You may be honest with me”, he insists. “You must know I shall never repeat what is for my ears only. Surely you can rely on me that much”
“It’s no lack of trust I suffer”
“At first, I thought you were only worried for the sanctity of your family, but now I realize this is something else. Is there nothing I can do for you?”
Baelor could do a great many things: he could command their family to pack their belongings and head home, he could heed Maekar’s concerns, could summon Maekar to his bedchamber and hold him till the night is through. Maekar will, of course, speak none of it.
“You can stop pestering me about it”, Maekar says instead.
“As you wish”, Baelor yields. He’s swift to respect Maekar’s request and change the subject. “You had the misfortune of missing the performances yesterday”
“How shall I recover?”
“With sheer spite, I might imagine”
Maekar huffs, not entirely denying the implication. Baelor returns to his letter, picking up where he left off his reading before Maekar interrupted him. Whichever lord is behind those scribbles must be very important to pull Baelor’s attention away from his younger brother— that’s the only excuse Maekar will suffer.
“Your meal must be cold by now”, Maekar remarks.
“Must be”, Baelor mutters absent-mindedly.
“Why do you put up with this?”
“With what?”
Maekar beckons at the mess of parchment and open books before Baelor’s person. One would mistake it for a study rather than a dining table. “All this shit”
“Be very grateful the duty has not fallen on you”
“I am. Your admirers, however, think I envy you”, Maekar states aloud the ridiculous notion.
“You don’t envy me”, Baelor fires an almost juvenile smirk. “I dare wager, I know you slightly better than they do, little brother.” Maekar receives it with humor. He tilts his head in acceptance. It would remain simply that, a jest and nothing more, if only Baelor did not continue. “You’ve been in my mind lately, I will confess”
“And what is it that I have done now?”
Maekar expects to be scolded for his poor manners and his horrid use of language during their trip. Perhaps for some of their past arguments or the manner in which he educates his children.
“You have been a fine brother to me”, Baelor answers.
“That’s hardly an accomplishment”, Maekar dismisses him, despite how the flattery pierces every layer of him.
“I have been forced to consider what the future holds, and those who I wish to keep by my side”
Maekar nods his head to show that he still listens even when his eyes wander away. Recognition is not an easy thing to receive; his brother’s, in particular, seems to come with teeth.
“I hope I may rely on your counsel, one spare of blind loyalty”
Baelor has always been the wiser of the two, this much Maekar won’t deny. For a man of his wit, Baelor asks an utter folly of Maekar— he wants a companion to remark on his flaws and the error of his ways, someone to question him in a room full of fine lords and to keep his head humbled. Baelor must think Maekar the most suitable one for the role. With a good pair of lungs and an utter lack of shame, Maekar hasn’t ever shied away from letting his brother know precisely how he feels. His tongue speaks even when Baelor's cannot.
But to ask this of a man who nearly crumbles at the touch of Baelor's hand seems plain foolish. Baelor would, evidently, think Maekar most resistant to the spell that is him, and deeply is he indeed mistaken.
Maekar fears he has let himself grow soft over the years. He must pull himself together, so he grunts affirmatively, “You may.”
“Promise me”
“You have my word”
Baelor seems pleased. He pulls back to his letter and states earnestly, “If naught else, I know I will have a keen blade in you. I don’t feel nearly as comfortable with anyone else riding behind me.”
Maekar swallows and turns his head before the flattery shall give him away. Feels much too hot under the collar.
Baelor pushes the letter towards Maekar. “What do you make of this?”
Maekar needs only to read the first of Your illustrious Grace before gagging. “He wants to suck your cock, that’s what I make of it”, he grumbles and pushes the piece of parchment further away.
Baelor doesn’t spare him even a shocked blink. He opens the bottle of ink and reaches for the quill. The bowl of food still remains untouched. Maekar sighs theatrically and snaps the quill from Baelor’s hand.
“Break your fast. I shall answer your letter”, he decides.
“That’s kind of you, little brother”, Baelor says, and Maekar suspects he means it wholeheartedly.
Maekar makes certain this letter shall not receive an answer.
Hot blood spatters across Maekar’s face. His tongue finds a sickeningly sweet taste on the roof of his mouth, chasing it greedily. Ash twists in the air, slowly climbing towards the blackening sky above them. Baelor’s head rests upon Maekar’s shoulder, the heaviness of his cold body weighing both of them down. Maekar sits on his knees, craddling Baelor in his arms.
Should he wish to rise from beneath his brother, Maekar would not be able to. He’s gnawn helpless— can only sob, can barely keep rocking Baelor back and forth, back and forth. It’s a soothing cadence, one Maekar never wishes to stop.
He doesn’t want to wake.
A bird flies into Maekar’s window and drops down stone-dead. It leaves a shape of dust in the tinted glass. Maekar jumps up from the chair he’s fallen asleep in.
The sun has gone down. Maekar collects the days that almost escape him: he’s supposed to fight at dawn for his son’s honor. His black mail sits waiting, polished and glistening like oil in the light of the fire. He should do the wise thing and crawl into bed. Sleep properly.
Maekar leaves his room, and his feet lead him to Baelor’s door. He knocks, and after the shuffling of steps, his brother opens. Baelor’s eyes widen. He must have been intent on taking rest, for his attire is a simple robe, and he has shed his boots.
“I thought my counsel in this matter was unwelcome, little brother”, says he.
Maekar isn’t certain what Baelor refers to. All he wants is to see Baelor well and healthy. Wants to see the spirit in his eyes, even if it manifests as utter disappointment and frustration with Maekar and his children. He's willing to suffer all manner of insults if only Baelor shall speak to him.
“May I?” Maekar asks thinly.
Baelor answers by beckoning his head and stepping aside. Maekar enters the grander guest room and lets the door fall shut behind him. Baelor stands before him, arms crossed.
“Are you at the end of your wit?” Baelor demands.
“Have been since we arrived”, Maekar mutters.
“Did you speak to him?”
“Who?”
“Aerion”
“Yes, of course”
“And?”
“He’s adamant”
Baelor approaches him and suddenly takes Maekar by the jaw. “What’s that?” he asks with a frown, studying something on Maekar’s face.
“What?”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No, I most certainly have not. Will you get your hand off—”
“The skin under your eyes, it’s... purple. When was the last time you slept?”
“Only now”
Baelor withdraws his hand. Maekar longs for its warmth once it's gone. It lands on his forehead instead. “What are you doing?”
“Seeing if you have a fever”, Baelor answers.
“I don’t have a fucking fever”, Maekar snarls.
“That much is true, I suppose. Come, lie down. I shall fetch the maester”
“Don’t be daft”
“You will lie down, or I will make you”
In truth, Maekar wouldn’t particularly oppose the latter suggestion. But a maester isn’t what he wants, so he thinks to trade by obeying Baelor’s command and slowly seats himself at the edge of Baelor's bed. The sheets feel like the finest silk. When they were at war, Baelor didn’t care for the royal comforts any more than Maekar did.
Baelor walks beside him and takes one of Maekar’s legs. Slides the boot off. Does the same to his other leg.
“Lie down”, he commands once more.
Maekar grunts and lets himself fall back. “Properly”, he hears Baelor specify, so he shuffles further to the bed and drops his head onto Baelor’s pillow. It smells familiar.
Maekar lies quietly when Baelor's gentle hands begin to work on his tunic. His fingers slip below the lapel where the laces are hidden, and slowly pull them open. Once the layer peels, Maekar lifts himself enough for Baelor to easily shed the garments from his shoulders. Maekar was never one for servants as he's perfectly able to dress and undress by himself, but as Baelor strips him down to his breeches, Maekar fully understands the appeal.
Baelor raises the blanket for him and words another command so easy for Maekar to follow, "In."
There are multiple blankets in the finer prince's bed: one thick and woolen, and another silken. Maekar slips underneath them both. Feels as feckless as a boy again. It's a relief on this odd day.
"Will you join me?" he dares ask.
"Yes, if you will allow me to comfort you?" Baelor suggests.
Maekar nods into the pillow. Baelor crawls next to him, and for a moment, Maekar sights a milky thigh as the morning robe Baelor wears gives him away. Makes one wonder if he’s wearing much underneath.
It's warm under the blankets now. Hardly any space remains between them when Baelor shuffles closer and nails himself onto Maekar.
"Turn. On your side", Baelor instructs.
Maekar does as he's told and turns his back on his brother. Baelor proceeds to slip his hand below Maekar's pillow and align himself to his body. They slot together perfectly like two parts that were separated too early in life.
"Much better, is it not?" Baelor lowers his voice to a honey-sweet whisper right above Maekar's ear.
"Yes", he sighs.
Maekar wants to ease his body, wants to be as comfortable as Baelor seems to be, yet his joints still to iron, and embers begin to smolder in his belly. When Baelor places his hand on Maekar's waist, gently yanking him closer, Maekar's cock jumps in his breeches. He shuts his eyes, and for the first time in his life, he begs the gods to interfere.
They do no such thing. Maekar's head empties of reason when Baelor begins drawing a slow circle on his hip. He's holding his breath.
"I am no maester, but I think this strain...", Baelor nibs him playfully on the earlobe, "...is no good for you."
Maekar exhales. "What are you doing?"
"You have six children, you know what I'm doing"
"This is not—"
"Am I not to your liking? Have I misunderstood your affection of late?"
Maekar quickly turns to Baelor and shakes his head, the notion inconceivable to him. "No", he states firmly— must deny this accusation before it flutters. "Of all the people I endure, you are most to my liking"
Baelor smiles at him, as deviously as a young man having won his first battle might. He rests his head over Maekar's shoulder for a moment, looking at him below his dark lashes. If he means to look harmless, he fails. Baelor is never without a weapon: he can take away the kindness that he gives. At any moment, Maekar expects to stir awake in his rooms again, and Baelor's hands on him will be but a fleeting dream. Their warmth replaced with rime. Never has he known a mightier fright.
"Then I think you shall not mind my boldness", Baelor presumes and gently brushes his lips over Maekar's bearded jaw.
They're only slight pecks. They come and go, over Maekar's cheek, chin, upper lip, and the lower one, until he dares chase the fleeing touch that tempts him. Baelor lets Maekar kiss him in turn, embracing a moment of stillness where they rest forehead to forehead, sharing a pair of wandering hands as if in search of permission.
Maekar can take it no longer. He knits his fingers into Baelor's dark hair and kisses him harder. Yanks him closer to his body and thrives on the gasp that leaves him. Maekar presses his thumbs into the skin of Baelor's arms, relishing the refined muscle underneath. He pulls away, only an inch, just enough to see the thrill that's lit in Baelor's eyes. It's a reflection of his own— as dark, as much a craving.
"Put it to words now", Maekar grunts. Needs to hear aloud what may not otherwise be true. "Refuse, and I will take my leave"
Baelor doesn't hesitate, "I would make love to you, little brother, if you allow.”
Maekar’s stomach dips. His eyes fix, and the world slowly fades. Only pays mind to the way Baelor’s lips curve.
“I’ll allow.” It doesn’t sound like him. This man’s voice is softer and thicker than Maekar’s. It hitches, lets out a gasp, when Baelor drops his hand to Maekar’s backside and squeezes a handful. It’s not enough for him, so Baelor wrestles the waistband of Maekar’s breeches aside, pushing the fabric down his knees.
“I’ll be gentle”, Baelor promises.
That much is given. Baelor is only ever gentle, even when one does not deserve it. Any other time, Maekar would despise it. Baelor offers him this weakness, and Maekar must return it.
“A moment”, Baelor requests as he rises and fetches something from the chest at the foot of the bed. It’s a porcelain jar, painted red. The ties of Baelor’s robe have loosened, and his cock springs free. It’s a fine look for him, anyone would agree, with his shoulders still clothed in black velvet.
“A gift from one of your lovers, I take it?” Maekar presumes, nodding at the item in Baelor’s hands.
“I have no lovers”
“Whores, then?”
Baelor narrows his eyes at him, though somehow Maekar doubts it doesn’t humor him. “You would tease me, when I spare you this kindness?”
There’s no truth to it, of course. Baelor has never bedded a whore. Why should he when he has a willing younger brother? There’s vulgarity, and then there’s rights one has since birth.
“I never asked for it”, Maekar argues.
“Not with your voice”, Baelor smirks.
It’s both a curse and a blessing to have someone walk life with him from the cradle. Baelor has been in Maekar’s life as long as he remembers. In his boyhood, Maekar had to take two steps for every one of Baelor’s as he followed his elder brother with a small sword in hand, occasionally whacking him across the calves. They are to grow old together and burn in the same pyre once their time comes.
Maekar’s heart jumps into his throat when Baelor shoves the blankets aside and grabs him by the waist, pulling him further onto the bed, and spreading his legs. He has never been paralyzed by fear, never lain with his mouth open and body uselessly jittering in place. That is how Maekar feels now when Baelor coats his fingers with the oil from the jar and pries at Maekar’s hole.
They breach him, widening him, tearing an obscene moan from him. The sensation makes him quiver. Baelor never takes his eyes off him, but Maekar has no courage to meet them. He looks at the ceiling, fiddling with the silken sheets. That’s until Baelor hovers over him and kisses him again. Coaxes his tongue past Maekar’s lips, two of his fingers inside of him, stroking shudders out of him.
“Easy, dearing”, Baelor hums against Maekar’s lips. “You’re squeezing so tight I can’t pull my fingers out”
Maekar admits to none of the blame. “Am not”, he claims.
Another kiss must ease him to Baelor’s satisfaction, for he slowly pulls away and adds more oil, this time methodically coating his cock from tip to root.
The discomfort falls on him slowly as Baelor presses his cockhead on the rim and patiently works past it. There’s a sting, easing and wringing again. Maekar resists when it tries to tear a whimper out of him. He’s used to the pain of a fist and a blade, but this nearness leaves a wound that doesn’t bleed as it should. As his body jerks, so does Maekar’s cock against his belly. He expects his blood to unpack, but it does not.
“Be still. I have you”, Baelor tells him.
One never wishes the vulnerability, but should it be endured, Maekar can’t imagine surrendering to anyone else. Baelor is in the right, for he does have him. No one else will. Maekar closes his eyes so they shall not water.
Baelor’s hips come down hard. He pulls away before thrusting in again. Maekar nearly chokes on the wet cry in the back of his throat. His body eases into the stretch, heels digging into the bedding and hands lazily fumbling at the pillow. Baelor shushes him— he must be making too much noise. Face flushed hot, Maekar grits his teeth together as Baelor lifts his hips again, pushing deep inside of him. Maekar’s eyes roll, and for a moment, all he sees is white.
“Need to know…”, Baelor murmurs, and Maekar hears weight as he speaks, “it’s not hurting?”
Baelor leans back, head tilted, observing the manner Maekar clings to his cock.
It’s not hurting. It’s violent, it’s a rush, a foreign feeling like fire, but it’s not hurt.
“No”, Maekar breaths out.
“Good”
Baelor treats it as a permission. He rocks his hips again, hands hooked underneath Maekar’s thighs, and slowly, pleasure becomes writ on his face, his lips parting and brows furrowing together. Maekar looks on, enchanted, because this is his doing. They unravel one another, falling apart in the dark with only each other’s arms to rely on. It’s enough. Baelor leans over Maekar, blanketing him, trapping all the warmth and pleasure just for them as Baelor’s cock glides into him with ease.
Maekar takes support from Baelor’s shoulder, where the robe has slipped off and revealed the soft skin below.
“I have to— slow down a moment”, Baelor husks and stills. He’s that close. Maekar’s first instinct is not to tease him, but to lay his head back and grin.
“Alright”, he says.
Maekar knows the look on Baelor’s face; when the woman he’s fucking is so tight that a single hitch more will spend him. It means they’ll delay. They want it to last longer. Baelor’s breaths are sharp as he collects his composure.
“Touch yourself”, he requests, and when Maekar narrows his eyes, he continues, “for me, please?”
It’s unfair. Maekar takes his cock in his hand and pumps down the root. What begins as lazy strokes of his hand soon quicken, as Baelor picks up his pace, too, plunging back inside Maekar.
That’s what makes him chase his pleasure— thinking it’s all for him. Maekar groans between his teeth, Baelor grinding fervently against the back of his hips. The bed creaks underneath them, and sweat begins to bead on the skin they almost share.
Maekar finishes all over his belly in long ropes of come, Baelor still fucking into him. The pleasure chokes him, takes his sight, and leaves him shuddering like a leaf in the wind. Even his hand shakes as he milks himself dry. Baelor is not far behind. He grabs Maekar by the hips, yanking him towards each of his thrusts, and finishes inside of him, drowning his moan into Maekar’s neck.
They both pant, and they both quiver. Baelor still grinds, breath warm against Maekar’s skin, his cadence dying. He pulls out patiently, and Maekar hisses at the sensation.
Baelor rolls to lie beside him. The sigh he makes speaks of satisfaction. Although a soreness spreads through his body, Maekar turns on his side and faces his brother. Baelor brings a hand over his shoulder.
“Someone must have heard us, don't you think?” Baelor asks.
“Does it matter?” Maekar raises a brow.
“Suppose not”
“We were never this wild when we were boys”
Baelor chuckles, “I was never this brave then.”
“Nonsense”
“I have… had a great deal to think recently”
“Hmm?” Maekar leans closer.
“Today was— an unfortunate day. I’ve had to consider the things I value. I was perhaps a bit too emboldened by my discoveries”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Never mind me. I shouldn’t keep you awake any longer. You have your son to defend at dawn”
Baelor kisses him, and Maekar answers, the afterglow still hot on his cheeks. They both withdraw underneath the blankets. Maekar spends the night in his brother’s bed for the first time in years.
There’s no bad dream that night.
Before the rooster crows, Maekar sits up. He’s not in his rooms. Beside him, sleeps Baelor, hair ruffled, cheek in the pillow, and the velvet robe still on his shoulders from last night. His chest rises in even breaths. Maekar doesn’t have the heart to wake him. In truth, Maekar would quite prefer to stay in bed with him were it not for the utter lack of wit of his son that he has to leave.
For once, Maekar feels rested. He pulls on his clothes and leaves Baelor’s rooms. There’s no guard in sight. The castle is so quiet that Maekar can hear the echo of his footsteps. He enters his rooms. The door makes a wailing creak as it’s pushed shut.
Daylight hasn’t yet fully breached the chamber. One wouldn’t be able to tell the sunrise, regardless, for the tinted window is much too dusty.
A red woven wall of a tent comes into view. Maekar jumps awake. He’s standing in the center of a pavilion, his armor tightened, and his cloak buckled. Beside him, his helm rests on a chair. How he could fall asleep standing up, heavy plates covering his body, is beyond him.
Maekar finds his comfort in an unlikely place, for he recalls precisely what he dreamed about. He and his brother slept together like a man and a woman. Can’t quite say if it was a nightmare or a pleasant dream. As if Baelor would bed a man. As if Maekar would let himself be bedded. He raises his hand to feel the warmth on his face.
It’s such a ridiculous notion that Maekar shakes his head to himself and pulls on his missing gauntlet.
“Father?” Aerion peeks in from the entrance. He’s fully armored in black and red iron, helm below his arm, weapons strapped to his person. “I have been looking for you”
“With some success”, Maekar rasps.
“The horses are ready”
“Good”
Maekar leaves the tent with Aerion in tow and mounts his horse. Aerion has lined his saddle with some ridiculous red and orange fabrics.
For a fleeting moment, Maekar lets his shoulders ease. There will be a fight, the one thing he knows best in this life. Behind the stone walls of a fort, Maekar always feels the slightest yearning for battle.
The sun hasn’t yet revealed itself; it’s wrapped behind many a cloud, shedding only ghostly light. Fog circles the entire encampment, so thick that one cannot distinguish the dirt below. Maekar stills and loosens the reins. He's seen it before.
Another knight rides onto the muddy field, clad in black iron and a long, velvet cloak. That fabric, Maekar recognizes. Baelor takes off his helm, and his face drowns in pale light.
Maekar tastes something sweet, the inside of his mouth bleeding from his own teeth. He slams his gauntleted hand into his thigh to wake himself.
But from this nightmare, Maekar shall never wake.