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“Nephew,” Daemon says, stopping Baelor with a touch of fingers to his elbow as they pass in the hall.
Baelor feels his eyebrow twitch upwards before he can school his face back to casual. “Daemon,” he says, and pulls his elbow in closer to his side before Maekar—always two steps behind, always too aware—catches up.
Daemon’s mouth curls, and he doesn't bother trying to manage it. Baelor resents that, briefly, in the same old way he always has. It's jealousy, nothing more and nothing less. Name it and set it aside, his father’s voice reminds him.
His father is wrong though, about the nothing more of it, at least.
“Don't worry,” Daemon smiles, “I have no intention to embarrass you today.”
Baelor can feel Maekar’s shoulders go up behind him, can feel the way he’s opening his mouth—
“It's good of you,” he says, easily. “Though of course, I'd hate for anyone to think you go too soft on me.”
Maekar snorts, and relaxes.
Daemon’s lips twitch wider. Soft, he mouths, just the shape of it, amused, and Baelor shrugs. “No, of course not,” he agrees. “That would only shame us both.”
He bows; too shallow, too quick, and Baelor restrains a sigh as he disappears down the corridor.
Maekar does not. “I don't like the way he looks at you,” he says, low, pressing close at Baelor’s shoulder.
Baelor does sigh, this time. “I know.”
-
He thinks he'll remember it a long time; the weight of the lance on his arm, the burn in his shoulder. The buzzing in his ears as his horse wheeled around and he saw Daemon across the field for the first time. The surging energy of his mount beneath him as they thundered towards each other, the light that caught on the tip of Daemon’s lance.
Baelor had followed that light with his eye and his arm right to the moment when his own lance caught and splintered it. The crowd had roared, but he had known before he turned his destrier that Daemon had kept his seat. He was too good a horseman to lose because of a broken lance, as Baelor’s prior competitors had: Baelor would have to strike him.
He’ll remember how it felt like an eternity, waiting for Daemon’s squire to bring his new lance, how both their horses had danced impatiently. How sweat clumped his eyelashes and burned at the corner of his eyes. How he bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted iron sharp against his teeth.
How it had felt to fix his gaze and his arm and his lance-tip upon the black dragon emblazoned across Daemon’s shield.
The wrenching feeling behind his ribs as they made contact.
The way his breath snagged, heart stopped, at the heft when his lance tip caught, and held, and the dizzying sudden weightlessness when a half-second later it broke, and Daemon fell.
How tangled all of it felt in his chest: joy and relief and fear and pride and dismay and exhaustion and disbelief and satisfaction and—
He slides from his destrier into the dirt, walks so quickly that his thighs are burning, but he makes it before Daemon is fully up, makes it in time to offer his hand.
“Uncle,” he says. “Well met.”
Daemon’s gauntlet catches against his with a harsh sound, and Baelor leans back, gives counterbalance until he straightens fully. “You enjoyed that, I think,” Daemon says, and spits blood.
Baelor does not deny it. “You did not embarrass me, at least.”
“No,” he laughs. “No, I suppose not. It was well struck, Baelor.”
“Thank you.”
Daemon glances at him. “Who will you crown your queen?”
Baelor looks at him, his silver gold hair falling in great waves now that his helmet is tucked under his arm, his eyes glinting beneath a brow that has flushed with exertion. The bitten-red of his mouth as it widens knowingly.
“My mother,” Baelor says, firmly.
“Of course.” Daemon inclines his head briefly, acknowledging. “As any dutiful son would, in the absence of his betrothed.”
Baelor flushes.
“Tell me,” Daemon says, stepping closer, and Baelor can smell his sweat, can feel the heat coming off him like an armourer’s furnace. “Were you disappointed when you heard your Dondarrion girl would not be here? Or were you glad?”
“Baelor!” comes his brother’s voice, and Maekar is approaching fast, glaring at Daemon. “Come, they want you at the stands!”
“Go on,” Daemon says, and flicks his hand. “Little prince.”
Baelor’s chin lifts, and he sees Daemon register it, sees his eyes sharpen, pleased.
“Not so glad as when I knew I would be facing you,” Baelor says.
Maekar has reached them, and he catches the words but clearly cannot place them, glancing between them uneasily.
Baelor turns to follow him to the stands, and to victory's duties.
“Good,” Daemon says, behind him, and it catches in his chest like a coal.
His father’s smile is a glad, precious thing, as he approaches the royal seats. His mother’s is softer, but no less proud. The master of the games hooks the crown of ivy and lisianthus over the tip of his fresh lance, and Baelor hesitates a moment.
“You must forgive me, aunt,” he calls up to Daenerys. Her hair is already woven with baby's breath and roses, and she holds Maron’s hand in her lap. “I fear your husband, should any other man dare to favor you this day!”
The crowd laughs, and Daenerys says, “You are wise beyond your years, nephew!”
He lifts his lance, and lets it rest before his mother.
Myriah takes the wreath tenderly, with a solemn face. “You did well, my heart,” she says. “You honor me.”
“Only as you deserve,” Baelor says, quietly. He knows she can read his lips.
-
Baelor spends the first hour of the wedding feast at the high table. He spends the second hour walking between the second row of tables, toasting lords, bowing to their ladies, and ignoring Maekar’s glare from the dais. Maekar is seated next to Rhaegel, so he should be happy; Baelor was never going to be able to remain seated the entire feast.
He spends the third hour dancing. First with his mother, then with Daenerys, then with his mother’s youngest sister, Meliah, who had come from Dorne with Maron. He spies Shiera in the throng, then, and draws her out, ignoring the whispers.
“First you spurn the bride, now you favor the bastard?” She is not smiling, and yet her eyes are fondly crinkled at him.
“A day for reckless decisions,” Baelor tells her.
She raises an eyebrow. “And will the reckless decisions end with the coming of night?”
Baelor shrugs.
She laughs softly, and pinches his arm. “I like you like this. I only fear I am not the only one.”
“Oh?”
“There is a hungry pack of noblewomen watching you like hounds watch a rabbit.” She tilts her head, the subtlest incline to their left.
“They know I am betrothed.”
“They know your betrothed is not here.”
Baelor shakes his head. “That does not make a difference.”
Shiera surveys his face. “Doesn't it?”
He stiffens. “Shiera—”
“I mean no insult,” she says, quietly. “Are you not—”
“You cannot speak of such things here,” he says.
It's her turn to shrug. “Better here, where there are many eyes and no ears, than a place where you may see no eyes and there be hidden ears.”
Baelor only frowns. His hand feels sweaty against her waist.
“Your dog watches you, too,” she says. “Hungrier than the others, even, since there is no hope of a dance for him.”
“Shiera,” he says, hopelessly.
“Fine,” she agrees. “I will not speak of it. But he is leaving, should you wish to follow a new trail.”
-
His mother catches him by the sleeve as he returns to the high table for a drink. “Your brother,” she says, whisper-soft. “Will you escort him to bed?”
He follows her gaze to Rhaegel, dancing at the edge of the throng beside the players, his face flushed and his hair loose.
It's almost too simple an excuse. He nods, and kisses her temple. “If I do not see you again,” he says. “Goodnight, mama.”
“Goodnight, my heart.”
His father is deep in discussion with the Lord of Ships, but he waves a hand in Baelor’s direction as he descends the dais again.
Maekar is nowhere to be found in his quick scan of the room, but Baelor’s mind is elsewhere now. He takes Rhaegel’s hand, joins him in the dance, and weaves the two of them through the crowd to the far end of the hall.
“Dance with me to my bed,” he tells his brother, and sweet Rhae laughs, like silver bells, and follows him.
They stop in the courtyard to catch a glimpse of the moon’s reflection in the fountains; Rhaegel scoops it up in his hand and lets the water drain through his fingers with a sigh. “Mother asked you to remove me?”
“Mother asked me to see you to bed,” Baelor corrects.
“She worries,” Rhaegel says, with a sort of sorrow to it.
“She cares.”
“And you dance with me through the great hall.”
“Well,” Baelor grins. “I had already danced with Shiera.”
“Ah,” Rhaegel laughs again. “So I was your second choice of scandal for the evening.”
“One simply wasn't enough,” Baelor agrees.
Rhaegel’s gaze is too knowing, and Baelor catches his wrist again, tugs gently. “Come. It grows late.”
“And you have places to be?”
“Mayhaps.”
“Mayhaps!” His brother turns under his arm, a graceful twirl. “Another scandal?”
“Only if you tell.”
“No one would believe me.”
Baelor mislikes that, and yet it is true enough. He squeezes his hand, a silent apology. Rhaegel leans into his side for a moment, affectionate as a cat, and leads them on.
-
The Holdfast is near deserted. They pass the household guards at the gates, and a pair of maids as they ascend the steps. There is a single kingsguard, the young Ser Alistair, at the double doors that lead into the royal family’s apartments, and he follows them down the corridor to Rhaegel’s chambers to take up his watch when Baelor takes his leave.
The walk back is quiet. He has neared the double doors of the Queen’s ballroom when he hears steps behind him, and pauses.
Daemon rounds the corner.
Baelor remains where he is.
Daemon cocks his head, his wrist rolling on Blackfyre’s pommel. “My prince,” he says, softly.
The title holds a different shape where there is none to hear it. An intentional choice, that he should call Baelor nephew, and his given name, when he has an audience, and reserve the title for this empty corridor. For Baelor himself.
“My lord,” Baelor says, carefully.
“You danced with the Seastar,” Daemon says.
“I did.” Baelor considers. “I danced with my aunt as well.”
“I saw.” There's a dry humor to Daemon’s tone at that. They are both well aware of the rumors that would lay his heart at Daenerys’ feet.
Baelor chews his lower lip. “I danced with Rhaegel, after you left, as I accompanied him to bed.”
“Did you?” Daemon’s fingernail taps the ruby set into his hilt. “So. Were I but a woman or a madman, and I might dance with the heir to the iron throne, too.”
“Don’t.” Baelor’s chest aches with it.
“I mean no insult to your brother,” Daemon says. “Gods know I like him better than your others.” He smiles, sharply. “Though I admit I had not thought to be jealous of him until now.”
Baelor exhales harshly. “What are you doing here, Daemon?”
“I came to see you.”
“You knew I was coming?”
“I was planning to wait.”
Baelor shifts on his feet. His back is aching from the afternoon’s exertions. He has no desire to return to the feast.
“If we go to my chambers we must pass Ser Alistair.”
“We need not go to your chambers.”
“Then where,” Baelor begins, tamping down frustration.
“Peace,” Daemon laughs. “Let us walk, and I will show you.”
Baelor knows there is a secret egress from the Holdfast. He has heard Daemon and Aerys speaking of it before: Aerys had found reference to it in one of his old manuscripts, and Daemon had said the notation was incomplete.
Curiosity weighs against exhaustion and any last thought of courtly etiquette. He'd said goodnight to his mother. It would hardly be a shame to miss the bedding. “Fine,” he decides. “Lead on.”
Daemon walks very close.
They are of a height, Daemon still a hair taller, though his boots add a good inch. Their strides match well.
They are descending a second set of steps, this one a narrow spiral down towards the servants’ quarters that Baelor has seen but never taken, when he finally asks, “Did you lose on purpose, in the joust?”
Daemon stops dead, a stair below him. He turns, and the distance seems suddenly very great, his gaze trained up at Baelor.
“No,” he says.
Baelor exhales.
Daemon is still watching him. “Why would you think that?”
“You're very good,” Baelor says, honestly. “I—”
“You fool,” Daemon says, surging upwards, his knee knocking Baelor’s wide to stand between them on the same tread, pushing him against the wall. The stone is cold, hard against Baelor’s sore shoulders.
For a moment, they breathe inches apart, listening.
There is no sound from above or below but the candles guttering in the lamps.
Daemon’s eyes are trained on Baelor’s mouth. “You fool,” he says, again, and kisses him.
It feels like Baelor has been dumped right back into his saddle the moment he knew he had won. The same rush of feelings: joy and relief and fear and pride, dismay and exhaustion and disbelief and satisfaction, every nerve ending firing at once, setting his body alight.
Daemon’s hand caresses his waist as if they were dancing in the shadowed stairwell. Their lips move like music.
Blackfyre’s hilt presses between them, one end of the guard digging into Baelor’s hip. A shared legacy, a shared pain, for this one moment.
“We are both fools, I fear,” Baelor says.
“Then for once we are equals,” Daemon says. There is a question, in it.
Baelor reaches up, and lets his fingers run through his starlight hair. He wants to believe it is a lover’s hope, expressed honestly in the passion of a moment. But the trap is there, whether Daemon meant it as one or no. “In this,” he says, as gently as one may wield such rebuke.
He watches Daemon’s gaze. There is no disappointment. If there is frustration, it is easily mistaken for heat.
He leans in, still half expecting to be rebuffed.
But Daemon only kisses him again, his mouth as eager and as hungry as at the first.
The relief is hotter even than the desire. The inherent acceptance headier than any bent knee in a throne room.
Daemon licks against his teeth and Baelor groans, and fists the hand in his hair, and they sway together, the buckle of Baelor’s dagger sheath clinking against the wall.
“Enough,” Daemon says, breathing hard. “Before we do something truly foolish.”
“I intend to,” Baelor counters, just to hear him laugh.
“Oh, so do I. But not here.”
“Then lead on.”
Daemon catches his hand, and weaves their fingers together for a moment. “I wish the gods had willed me a woman,” he says, lightly. “That I might have danced with you at the feast.”
“I could not have bested you at the joust, then,” Baelor says, before he can think better of it.
Daemon smiles, sadly. “No,” he says. “Nor could I bear the blade. Yet perhaps we both might rest easier for it.” His thumb traces the edge of Baelor’s signet. “My father would have betrothed us, and your father would have honored it. We might be wed already.”
Baelor mislikes the way that sits in his belly. “This is foolishness,” he says.
“Indulge me,” Daemon says, fiercely. “This night. You already intended to.”
Baelor swallows against the lump in his throat. Daemon has the truth of it, right enough. “Alright. But not here.” The echo of Daemon’s own words back at him lands heavy.
“Alright,” Daemon says, quieter. He squeezes Baelor’s fingers, and drops his hand.
He turns, and with his hair loose across them, it is easy enough to pretend his shoulders are slighter. That his fine doublet might turn to skirts in the shadows. He leads the way down into the darkness, as if into a dream, and Baelor lets himself imagine, and follows.
-
It is half an hour before either of them speak again. At one point, Daemon had taken a torch from its iron mount and they had stepped into a private passage, stones that had moved at the touch of his practiced hand to reveal a dark place beyond, and closed behind them again.
They must be moving under the dry moat of Maegor’s Holdfast, Baelor thinks, back towards the Great Hall.
But when they emerge, this time having to push aside a heavy tapestry to step into a wide corridor, Baelor does not recognize the place at all.
It is unlit, though high windows above let moonlight stream down and illuminate pale stone floors. The walls are lined as far as he can see with more wide tapestries.
He turns to Daemon.
“The royal wing of the Maidenvault,” Daemon says, a touch of amusement to his voice.
While the building itself had been repurposed, a generation on, the private quarters that had been the queen and princesses’ chambers during their confinement remain barred.
Baelor has never been inside.
Daemon catches his hand, and tugs gently. “Come.”
At the end of the hall, double doors lead into a corner apartment, great windows letting in light through half-open shutters for Baelor to survey a wide bed, rows of book cases, and a low table with a cyvasse board still half-scattered with pieces.
“Aunt Elaena’s rooms,” Daemon says. “Brynden and Shiera make use of them, so the bedding is more like to be silks than dust.” He hesitates. “And I did not think either of us should enjoy sharing my mother’s bed.”
“No,” Baelor says, shortly.
He runs a hand along the bed and indeed, when he draws the coverlet back, the sheets are clean and fresh.
“How do you know about Brynden and Shiera?”
“How do you?”
Baelor rolls his eyes, and sits on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots.
Daemon finds a wall sconce for their torch, and returns to the side of the bed, unbuckling his sword belt and setting it aside.
“There,” Baelor says, “Now I can imagine you my wife.”
Daemon laughs, and leans over him, petting his neck. “It was only the sword preventing you?”
“A sword,” Baelor grins, resting his palm over the edge of Daemon’s doublet where it falls across his crotch.
“Seven hells. And you're proud of that?” Daemon shakes his head, yet he's smiling at Baelor’s jape all the same.
“A little.” Baelor runs his hands under the edge of the doublet and finds the laces of Daemon’s hose.
They do not linger on the clothing. Each piece that comes off is discarded over the side of the bed into a single pile, and then Baelor scrambles backwards, and Daemon crawls onto the mattress with him, and draws the sheet over them.
They stare at each other, breathing hard, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth of two bodies naked in a bed.
Daemon says, “You might have been my wife, instead.”
Baelor can feel the flush surging down his throat at that. “My father would have liked such a match far less,” he says.
Daemon shrugs, and the sheet falls over his shoulder, catches at his elbow. Baelor admires the slim pale musculature of his shoulder and arm. “Either way,” Daemon says, softly. “Our sons would be true born, and princes.”
There's a longing there, a soft underbelly shown like a dog begging, and this is all a fantasy, there is no danger to admitting a hypothetical. No harm in a dream. “You would marry a brown Dornish girl with a broken nose?”
Daemon does not laugh, this time, simply stares down at him, traces the uneven line of his nose with a slim finger. “I would,” he says. “I would give her seven sons, and as many daughters as she wanted.”
Baelor wants to laugh, but cannot, pinned under the solemnity of his gaze. “So many?” he asks.
“And no others,” Daemon confirms. “All my children would share the same mother, and be true born, and know—”
Baelor leans up on his own elbow, wrapping his other arm around Daemon’s neck, and dragging them down together, kisses his temple, the side of his face, and does not ask any more.
-
They wake sometime in the purple light of dawn, and Baelor presses his face against Daemon’s ribs, stretches out the soreness of his muscles slowly.
Daemon lies still, but his fingertips move gently in Baelor’s curls.
“How long since you woke?” Baelor asks, throat scratchy.
“Not long,” Daemon says.
Baelor guesses that is not entirely true. He kisses Daemon’s chest—once, and then again over his heart, and pushes himself up and out of the bed. “You will have to show me the way back,” he says. “I will not remember it.”
Daemon only nods.
Baelor glances back at him over his shoulder, as he ties his tunic. Daemon’s hair is an unspooled skein of silver across the pillow, and his eyes are the same color as the stripe of sky seen through the shutters at the window. He is beautiful, and his face is sad.
“Do you regret it?”
Daemon rolls off the mattress, and clasps his arm. It is a brief touch, but firm enough to shake the worry loose. “No,” he says, picking up his own clothes and dressing with the same learned efficiency Baelor had. “You?”
“No,” Baelor agrees. “Though I am sorry—”
Daemon stops his mouth with a kiss. “Let us not make apologies to each other,” he says. “For things beyond either of our control.”
Baelor nods. He wishes he knew better what more he might say. The room feels wide with words unspoken.
Yet as he follows Daemon back through the passages beneath the Red Keep, back towards duty, and a new day, perhaps it is enough that they have shared this.
He had buckled Daemon’s sword belt for him, and Daemon had kissed him, one last time, there in the locked hall of the Maidenvault.
It was a good dream.