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The two princes curl up close to each other, and Baelor’s hand settles over Maekar’s abdomen. He isn’t showing yet, but every time they’ve made love since Maekar told his brother he is with child, his hands inevitably linger there, as if he is proud of his handiwork. A humble man, they call Baelor Breakspear, but those who love him best know that even he has his little conceits. A hundred men and more in their lineage have gotten their sisters with child. How many can say the same of a brother? The gods love their little japes, and so they saw fit to deny Prince Baelor a sister-wife. As one King Daeron joined his unwilling brother, Prince Baelor, to their younger sister, the next King Daeron denied his own Prince Baelor the same. How strange, then, that this sister would prove neither sister nor wife, for all that he is wed to their brother, and yet he shares his eldest brother’s bed still, allows his seed to take root inside him. Maekar’s heard fragmented whispers of men of their line bedding brothers, uncles, and nephews. But none such as he. Sanctioned not by the gods of their ancestors, whose ears long ago fell deaf, as none remained to beseech them, and the prayers to them dwindled away to nothing. Cursed by the Seven-Faced God they now embrace, the sins against whom are beyond count, as numerous as the rats in King’s Landing.
The Seven would not sanction this bastard child of theirs, but Maekar cannot dwell upon the regrets and shames that tail him for it, no more than he could his training alongside other men and choosing his own name. With his brother’s hand laid protective over the place where the babe they made together grows, he is content with his choice.
“Have you felt unwell since you’ve been with child?”
Maekar lifts his head from the pillow to meet his brother’s gaze. “It is not so terrible. The worst is how often…” He hesitates for a moment. “How often I need to piss these days. It is… an inconvenience.”
“Could you hold it for me?”
“What?” Surely he heard wrong!
“I said, could you hold it? Go about your business all day without using the privy until I tell you?” Baelor keeps his voice even, as if he’s asked him what’s for breakfast tomorrow and not… this.
Maekar stares, aghast. Baelor stares back, unwavering. “You want me to…”
“I do. You can be good for your big brother, can’t you, Maekar?”
Heat creeps up Maekar’s face as the sound of his name, and he buries his head in Baelor’s shoulder. He’s still not used to hearing it, and he’s caught off guard by it every time—by the proof of something he could only yearn for, finally within grasp. Only Aerys and Baelor know. He’d tell Rhaegel too, but, knowing him, Rhaegel would use it in front of everyone, always lost in his own head and far too sweet for his own good. Maekar doesn’t know how everyone would react, their shared blood no guarantee of loyalty in a place such as the Red Keep, the blood of the dragon mingled with vipers and rats.
“You’re teasing me.” His voice is muffled against Baelor’s warm skin. “Might you only be calling me that to trick me into doing your bidding?”
“I call you Maekar because that is your name.” He snakes his arm around Maekar’s neck and pulls him close.
“It feels right,” Maekar admits into Baelor’s shoulder. “I was so accustomed to everything feeling wrong. Like being forced to wear armor that’s too tight or a gown I’d long grown out of every day of my life. It is no small thing to finally have a name for myself, even one only a few know to use.”
“It gladdens me to hear so, love. But you haven’t answered my question.”
Maekar pulls away just enough to gaze into those dark eyes of Baelor’s. “I should say no. I should laugh in your face and demand you never speak anything so foolish to me again.”
“But?” Baelor offers.
“But I have never been able to resist the urge to prove myself to you. You know this well.”
Baelor smiles, bright and wide. The kind of smile that makes men follow him, makes men die for him. Maekar would gladly do both. “I do,” he agrees, and Baelor fists his hand into the soft, pale hair at the back of Maekar’s neck, then pulls him in for a kiss. First at the corner of his mouth and then upon the lips in earnest. Slow and lazy, he moves against Maekar’s mouth. Under his brother’s touch, Maekar’s mind feels light-headed, his senses dulled as by milk of the poppy or too much wine, the world shrinking to only the two of them.
Baelor pulls away, still smiling. “We will meet in the yard tomorrow morning. Show me your very best, Maekar.”
The next morning, as Maekar stirs awake, he already feels a twinge in his bladder. His first instinct is to rise and seek out the privy, but as his sleep-addled mind clears, he remembers. Go about your business all day without using the privy until I tell you, his brother asked him, and he, fool that he is, so helplessly drawn in by Baelor’s sweet pleas, had agreed.
“The Others take him,” he mutters as he dresses himself in simple garb for a morning of training in the yard. In the past, there would be a servant to help him dress, but his servants have learned long ago to let their temperamental prince dress himself unless he begs of their assistance. Maekar mislikes any but Baelor seeing his naked body if he can help it. It makes his skin itch and his throat close up, like the pox that ravaged him some years ago is back with a vengeance. Some things are best done alone.
He exits his bedchamber for the solar, where the servants have already laid out his breakfast. Simple fare of bread and cheese and iced milk, as their prince prefers, but the cheese is soft and buttery, and the bread warm and fresh, and the milk sweetened with honey, all concessions to his status. The crust crunches when he fiercely tears into the bread, all too ready to get out in the yard. As he swallows the last of it, Maekar reaches for the goblet of iced milk, but stills an inch away. Baelor’s words drum in his head again, the orders of a battle-seasoned commander to his most trusted lieutenant. Go about your business all day without using the privy until I tell you. He swallows, throat suddenly dry and scratchy. It wasn’t like that a moment ago, was it? He’s torn asunder with indecision. To leave without drinking will surely make his promise to Baelor easier, but to train in the hot sun all morning so parched… he relishes that even less. Not giving himself the chance to second-guess, he fists the goblet and downs it in long, deep gulps. Maekar does his best to ignore the distant feeling of fullness in his bladder.
Baelor is already there when he arrives in the yard, two blades of blunted steel in hand. Despite the warm morning sunlight, it’s unusually empty today. Lord Butterwell’s twin sons spar on the far side of the yard, and a dozen or so knights and men-at-arms are scattered about, but otherwise, Maekar sees few familiar faces. None of the Great Bastards are among them, he realizes with relief. Better he dance this little dance of Baelor’s without them judging his every move. The master-at-arms, Ser Quentyn Ball, stands watching over the Butterwell boys, glancing over at the two princes between sharp commands at his charges.
“Dance with me,” Baelor calls to him, and tosses one of the swords to Maekar.
It is a dance they’ve danced a thousand times before—since Maekar was so small he could barely stand on his own two legs, begging their great-uncle the Dragonknight to show him how to play at wooden swords with his brother. He can no longer remember their great-uncle’s face, but his strong hands showing him where to grip the sword? Baelor’s overjoyed laughter whenever his baby brother successfully parried his blows? These things Maekar will never forget. Every time they cross swords, they dance those same steps from so long ago. The order of steps may change, with a hundred new and complex moves added, but at its heart, the very same.
Most days, Maekar can keep pace with Baelor in their dance of the swords. Baelor may have several inches on him in height, but Maekar is strong in his own right and knows him all too well. They are evenly matched, he and his eldest brother. Much smaller, much younger, altogether too much a girl in the eyes of other men, once, nobody believed he could best him. It took a hundred defeats and a thousand little humiliations, but Maekar learned, and with that learning came victories. Now, when they cross swords or maces or spears, it could be any man’s day.
Today, though… Maekar is out of sync. Motions just a little bit too clumsy, steps just a little bit too slow. Baelor doesn’t miss the openings he leaves, certainly not when he and his thrice-damned challenge to Maekar is the cause of all his troubles. Blows that Maekar can parry, should parry slip past his defenses. And at each failure, instead of that delighted laughter that has ever made him feel like a true prince, he gets a strange look of grim determination, with the tiniest hint of a smile. He’s not quite smug—smugness doesn’t suit his brother at all—but Maekar is certain his thoughts are fixed on their little promise.
Maekar aches. As Baelor claims his victories, as the sun creeps higher in the sky, he aches. He begins to regret that iced milk, even as his tongue grows leaden with thirst. He’s desperate—so very desperate to win, desperate to prove he’s not so affected as he seems, desperate not to have an accident where all these men, far beneath a prince of the blood, can see and can judge.
So desperate is he that, as the sun reaches its apex in the heavens, Maekar makes one last wild swing at Baelor. No finesse to it, just all the strength of his body thrown behind the blow. As soon as he commits to the motion, Maekar knows it for a mistake. Baelor sidesteps easily, and he crashes to the ground. The pain is sharp and immediate, and he’s not quite sure how he’s not lost control and pissed himself in front of everyone from the shock of the fall. Perhaps the gods deign to look over him, in their own way.
With a miserable grunt, Maekar pushes himself up to his hands and knees. “Are we done here?” He glares at the dirt and drowns in his shame. His elbows and knees are both scuffed, and his bladder feels especially full in this position. He can feel the eyes of Ser Quentyn Ball and all the other men—each and every one a snivelling lickspittle or shameless betrayer, depending on the day—but in his pride refuses to look at them. He refuses even to look at Baelor.
Baelor reels him back in with a hand on his shoulder, gentle, firm. “We are. But I asked Father if you may sit in on the small council meeting today. You were much smaller the last time he bid you serve at the council table. It has been too long. Let all my siblings sit at my side and learn how best to advise me, for I shall one day be king, I told him. Father consented.”
Maekar looks up and narrows his eyes. It is a good idea, he knows, and, even better, a sign their father will not keep him on too short a leash, even after he wed Aerys. Still… “That you asked today of all days is no doubt only a coincidence.” His bladder pounds, in step with his pounding heart.
“No doubt,” Baelor agrees, with that infuriating smile of his, the one that wins over enemies as well as friends. That makes maidens and fair youths alike swoon. That even cools the burning tensions between feuding uncles and brothers. Maekar wants to kiss him full on the mouth, steal that smile away from all the others until it belongs to him, and him alone. Let all these men gawking at him see! He suddenly wishes the Great Bastards were here so they too could witness who the Prince of Dragonstone truly belongs to.
Pushing away these unattainable fantasies, he gives a sharp nod instead. “Let us go, then,” he says, and allows Baelor to help him to his feet.
Maekar walks stiffly as they make their way to the small council chamber. Usually they would be side by side, shoulder to shoulder as they make their way through the Red Keep, him taking a stride-and-a-half for everyone one of Baelor’s to keep up on his shorter legs. Today, he falls behind. He can walk; the situation is not quite so dire yet, but the pain slows his steps.
Realizing Maekar lags behind him, Baelor slows his pace until they are side by side, as they’re meant to be. “Are you well, brother?”
“You know that I am not.” Maekar clenches his jaw, lest anything more acerbic slip out.
“Take heart. Once we reach the council chamber, you only have to sit and listen to the proceedings. Perhaps give a comment or two to prove to Father you are paying attention.”
Each successive step is a labor. Maekar bites the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the fullness in his bladder with the pain. The sharp taste of iron hits his tongue as teeth slice through flesh. The taste grounds him, gives him the strength to move forward without his legs quivering.
They finally arrive at the council chambers. Maekar stares bleary-eyed at the large oaken doors as Baelor lets go of his shoulder and steps forward to open the doors. “Come now,” and Maekar follows him inside.
Father is already present at the head of the great, oaken small council table, as is their cousin Elaena and her husband Lord Ronnel Penrose, the master of coin, seated at her side. Grand Maester Malleon, the Pale Griffin, and Ser Armen Redwyne, master of ships, are all already here. In the space to the king’s right sits the Hand of the King, Lord Ambrose Butterwell. Baelor takes the seat to their father’s left and gestures for Maekar to sit beside him. As he hobbles towards his chair, shoulders hunched, Maekar is acutely aware of the eyes all upon him, surely judging his every step, surely able to see right through him and deduce exactly what depravity he and his brother are about.
As soon as he slips into his seat, Maekar crosses one leg over the other and tenses his muscles. The relief is immediate, the sharp pain that plagued him the whole walk there blunted to a dull ache. He exhales. Long, soft—barely audible. He can do this.
“You all know my youngest, I’m sure. My heir, Prince Baelor, has asked that I allow his siblings to sit with him in council, so that they might better grasp the workings of the realm and better counsel him when he is king." The men exchange looks, perhaps disquieted by this Princess-that-is-not as an interloper in their small, insular council. Their cousin Elaena gives a smile, but does not speak. As the last members of the council filter in, King Daeron clears his throat and begins.
The small council meeting is long, longer than Maekar remembers from days past, serving at this table as a small boy. Rather than the heated debates of his imaginings, the talk is tedious, of tariffs and taxes and inconsequential appointments. Maekar’s attention floats in and out, and so too does the pain in his abdomen. When the talk turns to the flow in trade of Arbor Gold and sweet Dornish reds and the taxes thereof, he nearly whines, bladder throbbing in need. Maekar bows his head, praying to any god that will listen that nobody notices how red his face has grown or the way his shoulders tremble. The minutes stretch into hours. With each passing second, he can think of little but whether he’ll even be able to stand without losing himself when this is all over.
Maekar jolts at the touch of Baelor’s hand on his shoulders, and his head snaps up at the sound of his father saying his name—his old name. “Maella, your thoughts on Lord Arryn’s proposal of marriage between Prince Rhaegel and his youngest daughter, the Lady Alys?” He blinks at his father as he tries to process the question, flushing even redder at the concerned crease in the king’s brow. At times like these, he curses his fair complexion and how easily it exposes the feelings he’d sooner keep to himself for all to see, writ across his skin.
“I—yes. The Arryns… the Arryns.” He closes his eyes and inhales slowly, both to give himself a moment to think and in hopes it will calm the pounding sensation in his bladder. “The knights of the Vale are numerous and powerful. I have crossed swords with more than a few young Valemen passing through here at the Red Keep, and all proved worthy of the reputation. Forging ties with House Arryn and those sworn to them would be a great boon to the crown. And Prince Rhaegel… My elder brother Rhaegel is the kindest and gentlest of us princes, there is no doubt. He would make a fine husband to any lady our father may grant his hand to, however he is sensitive and unaccustomed to sudden changes. I say let him and the Arryn girl meet before accepting any offer, however sweet, but if there is any fondness between them, it should be considered.”
King Daeron gives Maekar a long, studious look, and the crease in his brow melts away. Perhaps he is impressed at such a carefully considered answer from his oft-prickly youngest child, or perhaps he is just surprised he was paying attention. “Well said, Maella. Malleon, if you would, head to the rookery when we’ve finished here and prepare a raven. I shall send just such an invitation to Lord Arryn.”
When the sun begins to dip below the horizon, King Daeron calls a stop to the meeting. As the council chamber empties, Maekar remains in his seat, head bowed. Soon, only his father and brother are left.
“Maella, you seem unwell today,” their father says. “Shall I have Grand Maester Malleon tend to you after he’s prepared the raven?
Before he can decline himself, his brother cuts in. “That won’t be necessary, Father. Let me take Maella to her chambers.” Baelor speaks with utter confidence. He does not even hesitate on the name Maekar has cast aside. His words barely register to Maekar, distant as though he has water in his ears.
The king steps around the table to stand at his youngest child’s side, still his father and concerned, however much the realm has torn his attention away from his younger sons since he donned his father’s crown. He extends a hand and presses it flat to Maekar’s brow. Father's touch feels cool. Maekar can’t quite remember the last time his father touched him—was it the day he married Aerys?—but the closeness makes him feel like a child again, back when Father was still but a prince. “Sweat, but no fever. Perhaps it is something you ate? Or a lack of sleep?” the king muses. “Yes, I do suppose your brother ought to take you to your chambers.” He turns to Baelor. “And Baelor, call a maester if her condition worsens. Your… sister has always been too stubborn for her own good.”
“Yes, father,” he nods and offers Maekar an arm to help him out of his chair.
Maekar slaps the proffered arm away with a sharp retort. “I do not need you to carry me like a helpless babe, brother. I am fine, I am just—” He catches himself before the words slip out. He’s not even certain what he was going to say—pregnant? About ready to piss myself? “Tired. I am just tired,” he finishes lamely. His father and brother exchange a look.
With great effort, he forces himself to stand, pushing himself up with both hands braced against the hard oaken table. He stands there, hunched over for several seconds, afraid to take a step. Afraid that if he does, he’ll piss himself in front of his own father. In front of the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. What sort of man would Father think him then? Baelor comes to his rescue and slips an arm around his shoulders, willing him to move. This time, Maekar does not push him away. This time, Maekar lets him guide him out of the council chambers and away from their father in weak, halting steps.
The walk back to his chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast is the hardest part yet. Baelor holds him close, arms protective around his shoulders, as Maekar hobbles along. Each step is its own little battle. He is certain that if he pushes too hard, tries to cover too much ground in a single stride, all will be lost. He will lose control, releasing everything here in the halls of the Red Keep for anyone to see. The thought of shaming himself in public cuts at Maekar’s lungs until they feel bloody and raw. The thought of shaming himself in the eyes of Baelor? Cuts even deeper. All the way through the bone. To that hidden place where his heart beats furiously in his chest. A wound that could never heal, a scar he would never forgive himself for. That cannot happen, he insists, and he stubbornly ignores the way his legs shake with each step and the sharp pain of his over-full bladder.
In a daze, Baelor guides him, whispering sweet encouragement in his ear, too soft for anyone they pass to hear. “You are doing so well, little brother.” “Show them what a brave prince you are.” “You’re almost there. You make me so proud, Maekar.”
As a leader of men, Baelor is not one to withhold praise where it is due. But these honeyed words? These fervent devotions? For his little brother alone.
It is these words alone, he thinks, that give him the strength to reach his chambers without an accident. Each footfall is an agony, every moment he teeters on the precipice, but somehow he finds himself back in his solar, with his older brother still holding him close, guiding him to the bedchamber.
No sooner does the door to Maekar’s bedchamber close than Baelor drops to his knees before him. He pulls at the rich fabric of his clothing, desperate to feel the bare flesh beneath. Still in a daze, Maekar helps him, lifting his tunic to reveal the pale skin of his abdomen. Taut muscles flex beneath his skin as he struggles to keep himself under control. The pain won’t go away, but now that he isn’t trying to walk, it is more bearable.
Without preamble, Baelor presses a kiss to his stomach, tongue darting out to taste the faint sheen of sweat there. Maekar jolts at the unexpected touch. It’s just a tiny thing. Hardly a second. Muscles relaxing for just the briefest of moments. But it is enough. A spurt of urine escapes and soaks into his smallclothes, warm and wet. The fabric clings to his skin, and he can’t help but squirm at the sensation. His fingers twitch with the urge to adjust himself, and a slow, trilling whimper rises in his throat.
Baelor pulls away, cranes his neck to meet Maekar’s pale, half-closed eyes. “Did you just…?”
Maekar can only nod miserably. “Brother, enough. End this. You have had your games. I have faithfully acted the part of your plaything. Say the word.”
“I could,” Baelor murmurs, touching a hand lightly to the distended curve of Maekar’s naval. “I do want to see you let go. But not on the privy. Right here.”
Maekar blinks, mind so clouded by the pain of his bladder that he can barely make sense of the words. “No. I refuse,” he says when finally he understands. His skin prickles under Baelor’s touch. Maekar is not certain he truly can make good on this refusal, but his pride demands he give voice to it.
“You refuse your eldest brother? The Prince of Dragonstone? Heir to the Iron Throne?” He clicks his tongue. “I don’t believe you. You’re a good boy, and you’ll be a good soldier. My devoted righthand, the one I can always count on above all others. When I am king, I will need good men.” Baelor moves closer, pressing his cheek to Maekar’s groin, his whole body tight against Maekar’s legs. “Prove to me you are the man I’ve always known you to be.”
With the hand still resting on Maekar’s naval, Baelor applies a light pressure. Deft and gentle, barely more than the softest of kisses. It’s not much, certainly not enough to force Maekar to lose himself. Yet under the double-pronged attack of Baelor’s touch and his whispered devotions, laced with the sweetest of poisons, he is utterly helpless. “For you, brother,” he gasps, “For you alone,” and Maekar lets go.
It begins as a trickle, but quickly grows into a flood, powerful as the vast Mother Rhoyne, where their ancestors once made their home. The relief is instantaneous, all that painful, pen-up tension that’s plagued him since he woke dissipating as the piss hisses out. It is hot, and Maekar whines in unexpected pleasure at the sensation.
Below him, Maekar hears a loud hum from his brother and dares to look down. His eyes widen in shock at the sight of Baelor’s face, pressed tight to the dark, wet spot that radiates from his groin. Surely Baelor will be as soiled as he when this is all over, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Quite the opposite, he revels in it, and the hum melts into a string of whispered adulations. “You’ve been so good, Maekar. You’re so beautiful. So handsome. I knew you could do it. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
The flow begins to taper away, but Baelor massages his stomach, forcing every last drop out of him until there’s nothing but a trickle. When Maekar has nothing left to give, he stares down glassy-eyed at his brother. Baelor pulls away just a little to look him in the eye, and his cheek shimmers with moisture. Maekar can’t help but flush at the sight of that and the dark stain that spreads across Baelor’s shirt.
Baelor still hugs his legs with one arm, murmuring soft praises, as though he is a septon prostrating himself before an effigy of the Seven. “You were incredible, brother. I never doubted you for a moment. I was certain you would rise to the challenge, as you always do.”
“Yes, but…” Maekar looks away, blush burning at his cheeks. He’s not sure what makes his face heat up more, Baelor’s extravagant worship or the niggling doubt at the back of his mind.
“But?”
“Father must know what we were about.”
“Why would he, Maekar?”
“It was obvious.”
“The only thing obvious was that you were unwell. Which can easily be explained by...” He pats at Maekar’s abdomen, where their child grows within him. “You haven’t told him about this, have you?”
A shadow falls over Maekar’s features. “No.”
“Why not? You cannot hide it forever.”
His face is pinched, pale eyes distant, lips in a hard line. “I do not want father to think me any more a daughter than he already does. Perhaps it was a mistake to let you get me with child. Will he still make the same allowances for me when I have a babe at my…” He gestures at his chest, the word he refuses to say tasting like bile on his tongue.
Silence stretches between the two men. Maekar fights the urge to squirm as the piss cools against his skin. His breeches stick uncomfortably to his legs, and even his feet are wet, where piss puddles in his boots. Finally, Baelor speaks. His voice is every bit the confident, self-assured Prince of Dragonstone he is, not merely Maekar’s big brother. “Father does nothing without careful consideration of the consequences to the realm. That extends to us, his children. The good of thousands before the desires of one, in all things. You must trust that if Father has allowed you to go on as you have, dressed in men’s clothing and training alongside them, he believes it worthwhile. You are the only son of his blood after me to show any true martial prowess. Father understands the value in that. He believes you can be more for our House than just a wife. He allows you to train at arms even after wedding you to Aerys, does he not? Father is no fool. He knows where the marriage bed inevitably leads. Your news will not be a shock. Go to Father with Aerys. Tell him. Let our child be your excuse for what happened today, let him see that you both have done your duty to our House.”
“Aerys has not done his duty.” Maekar lets out a snort. “Would that the gods gave me his cock that he has no interest in ever using.”
“Aerys will claim our babe as his own and never say a word to the contrary. Few men would do the same. Let that be duty enough. As for the other matter… Aerys and I will find an answer.” He rises, cupping Maekar’s face in both hands and hunching over so that their eyes are level. “We will not let you be alone in this, nor anything else. You are our brother. Jaehaerys the Conciliator convinced the Faith to accept our House’s unions between close kin; yours is a small thing to accept compared to that. There will be a way.”
Maekar leans in and presses their foreheads together. Baelor’s elbows poke uncomfortably into his chest, but he doesn’t care—he just needs to be close to him, needs to feel his skin on his and his hot breath upon his lips. “I will tell him,” he finally concedes.
“Good boy,” Baelor says then, after a beat, “Good man,” he corrects. “Now, let us get you out of these soiled clothes and cleaned up.”