Chapter Text
Maekar had never possessed a talent for governance. Patience and compromise were gifts that Daeron the Good had bestowed entirely upon his eldest son — while Maekar, as the youngest, was kept well clear off the web of court intrigue until a command was passed down to him. His childhood was spent in the lists, his youth in war, and in the lulls of peace, his fiery nature caught Lady Dyanna’s magnanimity like oil to a flame. Action was his domain. Tidying up the mess was left to those with sharper wits.
Thus, when Dyanna was suddenly taken from him by death, Maekar was abruptly forced to confront the reality that he now held six squalling consequences in his hands — consequences that they themselves had brought into the world.
Maekar did not regret a single child he shared with his wife. He had been smitten with Dyanna from the moment they met, seeing her reflection in each of their offspring, and he would burn down any darkness that dared shadow their smiles. Yet, Seven damned him, he could never quite grow accustomed to holding court right there at his own breakfast table.
Dyanna had once shouldered that burden. The Lady of Summerhall had managed, with sharpness and grace, to keep peace among six little Targaryen lords and ladies, whose petty squabbles and tantrums were no less exhausting than those of the courtiers before the Iron Throne.
Maekar was neither graceful nor sharp. What he possessed was a formidable capacity for endurance and well-timed glares that could force the children to lower their heads in silence until the wet nurses, maesters, and guards could drag them away from one another.
Today, he was not so fortunate. Breakfast had not even been served before the war broke out.
“Sir Donnel promised to take me fishing!”
“I don’t care, you can go with Daeron.”
Maekar suddenly recalled the endless snarls of rivalry between himself and Aegon the Fourth’s bastards. Was this the retribution he had to endure simply for daring to defend his Royal Father?
“I have business today. Go with Ser Willem, Aegon.”
“Business at the brothel or tavern?”
“What the hell is it to you?”
Maekar felt a tightness in his chest. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the quarrels of his children ringing in his ears.
“Father, Aerion is picking on me!”
“Do not bother father with your petty nonsense.”
“And commissioning a new armor for yourself is such a grand affair?”
Perhaps this was it, thought he. A flare of pain, and he would finally be free.
“Egg, let me come with— “
“If Rhae gets to go, I want to go, too!”
“With your hair looking like that?”
“Shut up!”
Maekar sighed, feeling no lighter for it. He shuddered to think what Dyanna would do to him if he decided to follow her into the next world and leave their brood motherless and fatherless.
“Father!”
“Father!”
Maekar snapped to his feet. The entire table fell dead silent.
Without a word, he strode out of the dining hall, heels striking the stone floor in heavy, resounding clacks.
No one dared follow. At the very least, his children were not stupid.
Maekar could still hear them bickering, their shrill voices echoing through the empty corridor. His mind was a turbulent mess, the dull ache in his chest nagging like a silent warning.
The servants of the Red Keep had long since learned to recognize the marching boots of Maekar Targaryen, giving them ample time to scatter from his path.
To an outsider, Prince Maekar was a figure radiating sheer malice — a two-toned tempest of black and red, wrapped in brocade and leather. The harsh furrow of his brows and the razor-sharp glint of his amethyst eyes sliced clean through the morning hum of a castle rousing awake, leaving behind a silence as suffocating as the strike of an executioner’s blade.
At the mere sight of his shadow, the servants bustling outside Prince Baelor’s solar scattered in terror. The two Kingsguards stationed before the doors parted without a word, and Maekar stepped inside, his stride never missing a beat.
His elder brother, of course, had been awake since dawn, currently poring over a towering stack of dispatches, his breakfast left untouched on the table. He looked up as Maekar stalked inside, tore off the clasp of his cloak without a word, and hurled it to the ground.
One look, and Baelor knew. His brother always knew. Maekar never had to utter a single word.
Baelor pushed back his chair to face him, opening his arms wide, and Maekar sank into his embrace without hesitation. He knelt between his brother’s legs, resting his head against Baelor’s thighs, the heat radiating from Baelor’s groin brushing against the tip of his nose.
“I need—” Maekar murmured against the fabric, then checked himself. A place to hide? For everything to just stop? Make this damn feeling go away?
He was hardly a child of three.
Suddenly Maekar felt himself so clumsy and useless. Here was the Anvil who had once valiantly held off tens of thousands of foes, now fleeing before a gaggle of children.
The vexation only stirred the tangled web in his mind into further chaos. The pain in his chest now spread across his left shoulder, stabbing toward his ribs. Maekar clenched his teeth to suppress it, intending to stand.
“Maekar.”
Baelor’s hands cupped his jaw, forcing his face upward. Those mismatched eyes betrayed nothing save unshakeable serenity.
Had there been even a trace of pity in his brother’s gaze, Maekar would have wrenched himself away. But the hand gripping his hair pressed with the sharp bite of a spearhead piercing the fog in his mind, and for a fleeting moment, Baelor was no longer just his older brother. He was the Heir to the Iron Throne to whom Maekar had sworn his absolute fealty, the royal commander whose very presence could whip unruly lords into line and bring a soldier like Maekar to heel.
This was not fleeing. It was a tactical withdrawal. A regrouping of ranks before the battle.
And until Baelor gave the word, Maekar wouldn’t retreat even if it killed him.
His brother held him thus, their eyes locked, until every shred of doubt melted away, and within those violet irises remained nothing save the eager desire to surrender to his superior.
“Get in,” Baelor jerked his chin toward the space beneath the desk. Maekar obediently lowered his head and crawled inside the heavy timber.
The desk in Baelor’s solar was barely large enough for him to curl into, not high enough to sit comfortably. Maekar remained on his knees, his back hunched and his palms resting flat against the floor like a hound awaiting a command, his eyes never straying from his brother.
Baelor unlaced his breeches with unhurried ease, slipping out his cock and stroking it a few times. It was not as thick as Maekar’s, but long and sinewy, a shade darker than Baelor’s sun-kissed Dornish skin, with the pink glans peeking from beneath the foreskin.
Saliva flooded Maekar’s mouth. He swallowed hard, feeling his neck flush hot under his brother’s raised eyebrow.
“Open up.”
Baelor’s warm shaft slid slowly into his mouth as his brother pulled his chair back into place. The velvet-smooth skin glided along his tongue, blurring Maekar’s vision with sheer pleasure.
Above him, Baelor adjusted his posture and attire. Below, Maekar rested his chin on the seat of the chair, his head snugly fitted into the space between his brother’s legs, his mouth surrounding the entirety of Baelor’s length like a glove. Nobody looking in would ever suspect that the Prince of Dragonstone was harboring the Lord of Summerhall right beneath his desk, in his own solar.
Maekar took a deep breath through his nose, feeling Baelor’s steady pulse beat rhythmically against his tongue. Baelor tasted remarkably clean, carrying a scent of soap so modest it bordered on humble, mingling with the lingering trace of sandalwood smoke clinging to his garments and the musky tang of pre-cum at the back of Maekar’s throat with every swallow.
His hands remained firmly planted on his thighs, not wavering an inch even as the creeping heat began to pool down his groin.
Maekar’s purple eyes half-closed, his lashes trembling with every slight movement Baelor made. He absorbed the dull ache in his jaw and chin from staying in one position for so long, felt his legs slowly going numb and the discomfort stirring in his belly, allowing them all to blur together and drift into the quiet fog of his mind, weightless, save for the heavy anchor resting on his tongue.
His older brother was to carry the crushing burden of the crown. If Maekar could just remain still so he could focus. If he could keep Baelor warm for a few short hours. Was that not his duty as a younger brother?
That thought only heightened Prince Maekar’s arousal. As if sensing his devotion, Prince Baelor buried a hand in his silver hair, gently caressing the crown of Maekar’s head. With a slow roll of his hips, the glans bumped against the roof of Maekar’s mouth, drawing out a low groan and causing Baelor to swell even harder within his mouth.
Maekar’s nails dug into the fabric of his breeches over his thighs. He forced his jaw to relax as Baelor began pushing his lips with a faster, deeper rhythm, the tip fully slipping free from its sheath and coating the root of his tongue with a bitter glaze of slick pre-cum. The taste of his royal brother left him utterly dizzy.
The sound of a door springing open broke the silence, followed by unhurried footsteps intruding into the room without Baelor’s permission.
Both froze. The hand clutching Maekar’s hair clamped down like a vise, holding him immobile right between his older brother’s thighs.
“Uncle,” Aerion’s voice rang out. “Where is my father?”
Maekar’s heart hammered like a war drum. He clutched Baelor’s legs, burying his nose into his brother’s pubic hair, his throat tightening and straining for air as Baelor’s shaft swelled even larger, pressing hard against the roof of his mouth.
“I’m not sure,” his older brother replied calmly. “I haven’t seen him all morning.”
Maekar swallowed, concentrating on the friction of Baelor’s cockhead against the back of his throat. He drew in deep, steady breaths of his brother’s clean soap and musk, letting it surge through his veins like milk of the poppy.
“My father’s cloak is here.”
Baelor’s slender fingers tightened into Maekar’s hair. He squeezed his eyes shut, counting every throb of the dull ache spreading across his scalp, feeling the cool press of the Hand’s ring against his flesh.
“Yes, he must have left it behind the other day. Would you mind returning it to him for me?”
One, two, three, four. The hand clutching Maekar’s hair relaxed. He drew a deep breath.
One, two, three, four. Maekar let out a breath, his mind entirely at the mercy of Baelor’s tightening grip, lost in his scent and the slow, bitter trickle sliding straight down his throat.
After a long moment, as though Aerion remained unconvinced. The little brat — Maekar thought faintly, instinct taking over reason. Everything blurred, leaving only the ache at his crown and the heavy pressure filling his mouth.
“Aerion,” he heard Baelor say. His brother never raised his voice — he never needed to. The Prince of Dragonstone simply spoke, and all else bowed instantly.
As long as it was Baelor, everything would be fine.
Another beat passed, the silence stretched taut as a bowstring. And then, footsteps, followed by the rustle of fabric as Aerion leaned down to pick up his cloak.
“Your Grace,” he simply said, and turned to leave.
The door clicked shut, yet Baelor continued to tighten and release his grip on Maekar’s hair in steady counts of four, until Maekar’s hands slipped away from his brother’s calves and rested back on his own thighs. His throat turned soft and yielding, spittle dripping down his chin in slow drops.
It was only then that Baelor’s fingers turned gentle. His older brother scratched soothingly at the nape of Maekar’s neck, then slowly guided him away from his length.
The emptiness drew a soft groan from Maekar — his lips instinctively pursued the warmth, reluctant to let go, but the hand at his nape held him back. Maekar looked up, striving to straighten his spine, heedless of the friction and heat building in his own breeches.
An unspoken plea hung heavy in the space between them. Brother. I want. I need.
“Come here,” Baelor rasped, pulling him up.
A sharp pain shot through his knees at the sudden movement, but Maekar paid it no mind. He scrambled out from under the desk, stumbling, letting Baelor’s hand and steady gaze lead him forward. The wooden chair groaned beneath the weight of two grown men. He settled into Baelor’s lap, face-to-face, his aching groin pressing hard against his brother’s erection.
Maekar’s hands fumbled frantically with the ties of his breeches. His breath came fast, his brows furrowed — the knots grew tighter and more tangled, as if deliberately mocking him. For a moment, Maekar’s entire existence narrowed down to an endless battle between himself and a few stubborn strips of cloth.
Baelor placed his hand over his, squeezing tightly. Maekar let out a low growl. His brother held him fast until Maekar’s entire world shrank back into his grasp. He let go of the knots.
One, two, three, four. Maekar breathed steadily to the count, allowing Baelor to slip his other hand in, effortlessly unraveling the tangled mess that stood between them. When those deft fingers freed his shaft from his breeches, Maekar hissed, eagerly learning to claim his brother’s tongue.
Baelor’s fingers thrust directly into his mouth.
Maekar’s muffled gasp tasted more of defiance than pain. Baelor cast him a sharp look, and Maekar began to suck the long, battle-calloused fingers, his teeth scraping against the signet ring.
His groin ached with a taut, painful hardness. Maekar could see his brother’s heterochromatic eyes darkening with desire, yet Prince Baelor resolutely refused to rush. He fucked Maekar’s mouth with three fingers until thick, viscous saliva spilled down his chin, dripping hot onto the rigid tip of his cock throbbing beneath.
“Bro…ther…” Maekar whimpered around the fingers filling his mouth. Something flashed in Baelor’s eyes. He let out a low grunt, and at long last, finally brought his slick hand down, grasping both their lengths together and beginning to stroke.
The unhurried composure of a ruler dissolved. Baelor jacked them both off with rough, demanding strokes. Maekar clung to his neck, their noses colliding sharply as their lips locked in a desperate kiss — tasting, caressing, tongues sliding greedily from one mouth into the other. Baelor’s thumb grazed the slit of Maekar’s tip, wringing a sharp groan from both of them as slick pre-cum spilled abundantly into his hand, thick and glistening.
For a fleeting second, Maekar suspected that if he and his brother kept raising their voices, the Kingsguards would storm right in. Or worse, one of the children, curious to find where their father and uncle were, would stumble upon them in their depravity.
Baelor bit down on his jaw, licked the sweat from his temple, and kissed his scar-lined cheek. He muttered Maekar’s name as he returned the favor, burying his face in his neck to feel the vibration of his throat, his palm gripping both of their lengths as Baelor’s strokes grew shorter and frantic.
The Heir of the Iron Throne would surely devise a suitable explanation to satisfy all parties. Something about the ancient family traditions that had fortified Targaryen blood for millennia.
Maekar couldn’t care less. In his veins was dragonfire roaring, demanding to be let out, to mingle with Baelor’s blood like the rituals of Old Valyria.
“Maekar,” forehead resting against forehead, his name on his brother’s lips, his tone sounding more like a plea than a warning. “I’m about to—”
Baelor’s brows furrowed, eyes avoiding his glance. One hand stroking relentlessly, Maekar brought his other hand up to grip Baelor’s face, forcing his brother’s gaze right back to his own. “Look at me.”
There was something utterly intoxicating every time Maekar could force Baelor to yield and bend entirely to his whims. For a fleeting moment, he was thirteen again, creeping into Baelor’s bed after overindulging for the first time. He was seventeen, blood pumping hot with the rush of battle inside his brother’s tent right after slaying Daemon the First. He was twenty-eight, burying his face in his lap just to feel something other than the hollow, dry eyes meant for Lady Dyanna.
Following his instincts was his own domain; cleaning up the aftermath was always Baelor’s.
With his pupils dilated into pools of pure black, his Baelor murmured between ragged breaths, a secret litany meant only for the two of them. “Good Maekar— My sweet brother—”
Maekar jerked violently, his raw, swollen length erupting into their joined palms at the exact same moment as his brother’s. Jet-hot streams of seed coated both of their hands, blending together like blood and fire.
Baelor’s movements gradually slowed, his rough hand cupping loosely around the base of their shafts, but Maekar remained obstinate He massaged their tips together until the hypersensitivity spiked down his spine like a lightning bolt, trying to wring every last drop of pleasure from his brother.
Baelor caught his wrist and brought it to his mouth. His two-shade eyes blinked up at him, and just like that, the Crown Prince’s unhurried composure returned. He slid Maekar’s fingers into his mouth one by one, slowly tasting the lingering remnants of them both, before releasing him.
Maekar’s instincts whispered that he could easily go another round.
“You’re heavy,” Baelor complained, as if he hadn’t just lifted Maekar as effortlessly as a child.
He rubbed his cheek against Baelor’s stubble, nestling his face into his brother’s neck like a real child, arms looped around his neck and long legs entwined behind the chair back. His elder brother instinctively wrapped one arm around his waist while the other supported the nape of his neck, soothing him.
They remained there for a minute — just a single minute — before Maekar broke away first, detaching himself from Baelor’s solid embrace. Quietly, he fetched the basin of water and a clean cloth to the desk, standing still and patient as his brother washed him clean.
Swift hands that once wielded pens with agility and swung swords with fierce resolve now tenderly smoothed a damp cloth over Maekar’s skin, tying every ribbon and fastening every button, until his youngest brother once again transformed into Prince Maekar Targaryen of Summerhall, father of six royal children, heirs to the Iron Throne.
He bowed his head, letting Baelor use water and his fingers to slick his hair back in place.
Maekar did not need to speak; he had never been one for many words. That single look said it all. What would I ever do without you?
Baelor merely offered a faint smile, tilting his head as he watched Maekar return the water basin to its place, as though his brother had said something utterly foolish.
“Go on,” his elder brother bade him. “Lest the children grow anxious waiting.”
Taking a deep breath, Prince Maekar threw open the doors and marched onto the battlefield.