Chapter Text
210 AC, first moon
The small council had convened not long after dawn. It was now closer to noon, though you would not know it by the quality of the light. It was dim, filtered through low hanging clouds and slow, steady rain. Still, the group gathered in the small council chamber did not call for lights. The room was close and humid enough as it was, despite every window and door having been forced open to their widest extent. The lords and lady of the council shifted uncomfortably in their seats, torn between the need for any small moment of relief and the fear that any attempt to loosen a collar or fan a face might be interpreted as the first sign of illness. No one coughed. No one so much as cleared a throat.
Maekar's forefinger tapped a slow beat on the arm of his chair, only slightly off tempo from the beaded sweat dripping from Lord Celtigar's pointed nose.
The plague had finally burned itself, mostly, out in King's Landing. It still sputtered in Lannisport, the Reach, and the Riverlands. The latest ravens indicated that sickness traveled north with the spring thaw and the North was bracing itself for its own reckoning.
Unrest rippled out a step behind the plague, and there were those who said that the Targaryens were cursed. That to leave them on the throne invited only more uncertainty. More death. It was rumored that across the narrow sea they had no spring sickness- this was untrue but that made no matter when it came to gossips and treasoners- and a new generation of black dragons were coming of age under the watchful eye of Aegor Rivers and his Blackfyre bride.
The realm tilted upon the brink of madness, and they had spent the day discussing what seemed like every widow, maiden, and half grown girl to have survived the sickness. Baelor understood the importance, and he knew his duty was to marry again, though it pained him in a way he would be hard pressed to describe.
After Ashford, he had lain near bed-ridden for several moons enduring the slow healing of his fractured skull. Thank the gods Maekar had made peace with the loss of his son long ago, because if he had been trying wholeheartedly to escape Baelor's hold and get to Aerion during the trial, there was no doubt in Baelor's mind he would be dead. As it was, Maester Yormwell told him he was very lucky to be alive.
While Baelor recovered, Valarr rode ahead to King's Landing to stand in as acting Hand of the King. This was hoped to be a valuable learning experience for him. Maekar had escorted Aerion, personally, to the port of Oldtown and onto his boat. He had watched from the shore until even the memory of the ship's outline started to blur. Then he lingered a while longer to visit with his daughter at the Hightower and his son at the Citadel. And then, finally, Maekar returned to play nursemaid to his youngest brother. Daeron was dispatched back to Summerhall. Aegon went south with his hedge knight. For a time, the worst seemed to have passed.
Of course, it had not. By the time the first ravens bearing news of plague arrived in Ashford it had already torn through the city from Flea Bottom to the Red Keep. Baelor's household had not even finished preparing to leave Ashford before the raven bearing word of Matarys’ death reached them. Barely a sennight later, the princes arrived at Summerhall to the news that Valarr had taken sick as well. The maester's brief note conveyed that Valarr was believed to have caught the sickness caring for Matarys. The elder boy was strong, the maester said, and had survived the first night. It was a promising sign.
Later, Baelor could not remember collapsing in the courtyard, only that Maekar held him and rocked him as he made noises more akin to those of a dying animal than a grown man.
Baelor woke the next morning in his brother's bed, the empty place beside him still warm. He tried to ignore the heavy clinking of the maester's chain entering the room, but it was no use.
“Your grace,” the maester said, “Prince Valarr died in the night.”
Maekar brought him breakfast after that, and he sat silently as Baelor did not eat it. He continued to sit with him until Baelor said, quietly, “I wish I were dead. I wish you had killed me at Ashford.” Maekar remained beside him, as firm and immovable as ever. Eventually, Baelor rose, Maekar helped him dress, and they left for King's Landing.
Their father, the king, held on until they arrived. He had survived the sickness itself, but pneumonia had set in soon after. The maesters could not draw the infection from his lungs. Baelor and Maekar sat with him until the shallow, gurgling breaths stopped. Then Baelor became king, and Maekar became his hand, and the days, like the skies above King's Landing, lost all color.
It was, Baelor supposed, a mercy that the small council had waited a full seven month mourning period to force the issue. Strictly speaking, as he was not mourning a spouse, he could have married sooner. But Baelor would not have entertained the thought while the ashes of his sons were still warm in their urns.
Kiera of Tyrosh, his own son's widow, had been proposed first. It was a ghastly idea. Luckily, despite the political expediency of renewing their alliance to Tyrosh, Kiera's failed pregnancies weighed too heavily against her and she was soon dismissed from consideration. Baelor had given Maekar a look when the subject of Kiera was raised, and his brother returned it. They had neglected to prepare for the end of Kiera's own mourning period. She was a highly eligible match, many would be keen to see her married again. As his good-daughter, Baelor considered her under his protection and would not see her exploited in her grief. He could see that his brother had come to the same realization and conclusion. Her future, at least, would not be decided at this table.
The conversation soon turned to other highborn ladies and omegas. Baelor's stomach turned increasingly at each new suggestion. Dorne and the Vale had escaped the worst of the plague, but neither were favored options. Dorne had several strong blood ties to the royal family already. And as for The Vale, Baelor's heir apparent, Rhaegal, was presently married to a daughter of their Lord Paramount. Best to spread royal favor elsewhere.
The North was, as usual, presently distant and aloof from southern politics. The king's match must have an intrinsically stabilizing effect, and a Northern match would be the next thing to a foreigner. Perhaps worse, as a foreigner would be ignorant of the true Faith of the Seven, while the Northerners had conspicuously failed to adopt it.
The Riverlands were presently too fractious and unstable to provide a consort without upsetting the balance of politics there. The Lannisters and Tyrells still harbored illness within their halls, and it had already taken their most eligible daughters besides. Jeyne Baratheon, younger half sister to Lyonel was suggested, and Baelor found an excuse to decline. Truly, he simply did not think he could stand to see Lyonel now, or to draw him more closely into the orbit of the royal family. His presence would be a sharp reminder of the days immediately before everything fell apart.
The great houses exhausted, and the various and sundry of the crownlands and council dismissed with the greatest possible delicacy- Gorman Celtigar's daughter still too young, Prudence Darklyn's sister surely occupied with the running of her recently deceased husband's household and the rearing of his young children- the conversation turned to more traditional Valyrian matches. They had been discouraged by the previous king, but they did have the advantage of appearing somewhat apolitical and projecting an extremely united dynastic front. Baelor had carefully never developed a strong opinion on the subject.
“Princess Aelora is the most eligible,” Lord Wendel Fellbright, acting master of laws, began. She was, Baelor agreed. The granddaughter of the Lord of the Eyrie, Baelor's eldest unmarried niece, and the daughter of Baelor's presumptive heir. As Aelora was technically a member of House Targaryen this would buffer the appearances of favoritism toward The Vale. Sixteen was a reasonable age. Further, she was an omega, and her mother had had no trouble conceiving or bearing children. There was, however, one significant obstacle.
“I would not separate her from her brother,” Baelor said. The twins Aelor and Aelora were inseparable. Alpha and omega, as though born from the legends of old to compliment one another. Their affection ran almost too deep, and it had been quietly feared between then-King Daeron and then-Hand Baelor that Rhaegal's gentle madness might have settled less gently in his children. Thus far, the crown had forbidden them from marrying one another. It had not, however, forced them to marry anyone else.
“I see no reason Prince Aelor could not come to court, too,” said Lord Fellbright, cheerful in his ignorance of internal family politics. The young lord had been sent to court as an aid not long before the sickness took the man he was meant to be learning from. As acting Master of Laws, Fellbright was thorough in his understanding of the letter of the law and utterly bewildered by everything beyond it.
Maekar rolled his eyes so hard Baelor swore it should have been audible. “Yes, it will be much more convenient if Aelor is already at court when he decides to murder the king over his sister,” the Hand drawled in his usual acerbic manner.
“Surely my lord jests.”
Maekar gave the young lord a very dry look. Eventually, Lord Commander Darklyn took pity on Fellbright and whispered to him what had happened to the last man who had made advances on Princess Aelora.
A young knight had crowned her his princess of love and beauty at a tournament in the Vale, and later attempted to award himself certain liberties with the girl as his prize. Prince Aelor saw to it the man would never joust again when he stabbed his dagger through the offending hand. The swain lost three fingers.
“Her younger sister, then,” suggested Maester Yormwell, who was occupying the seat of Grand Maester unless or until the Citadel sent a new one.
“She is too young,” Baelor said firmly.
“Thirteen is-”
“Too young. For me. Gods be good.” Baelor closed his eyes. How had it come to weighing the ages of children? Sixteen old enough, thirteen too young.
“Perhaps the Princess Rhae? Fifteen is-”
A low growl emitted from the chair to Baelor's right. It was aimed at Yormwell, and the man sat back hard in his chair. Baelor reached blindly for Maekar and touched his arm lightly.
“Peace, Brother. You know I would not.”
Maekar did not stop at once, but he did allow the sound to rattle to a halt. His point was made. Rhae was not an option.
The table fell silent. Lord Fellbright shuffled the hastily compiled list of eligible matches, returning to the pages of lesser houses and foreign options. He didn't appear to discover any new names. Outside, the sun had risen closer to its zenith.
At the far end of the table, a throat was softly cleared. Lord Rivers, the unofficial Master of Whispers, regarded his nephews with a level eye.
“There is,” he said, “One option we have yet to consider.” His deep red gaze slid to Maekar. The rest of the council followed suit.
Maekar Targaryen, Hand of the King and an omega of Valyrian descent, laughed. He turned toward Baelor as though expecting him to join in. The king did not.
“Leave us,” Baelor said, after a moment.
The chamber emptied. The room felt more stifling than ever.
“Come now, Baelor. Surely not,” Maekar said, the amused tone still present. He turned in his chair, relaxing into a sprawl as the door closed behind the last councilor.
“Indeed? From where I sit, it's the only half tolerable option that's been presented to me.”
Maekar scoffed. Baelor merely regarded him and waited.
“I am much too old. Older than you,” Maekar began.
“Seven years would be nothing if you were the alpha and I the omega,” Baelor volleyed back easily.
“I am too old for more children. You need some young, fat, and fertile omega who you can get with child on the first thrust.”
“I seem to recall you complaining all the way to Ashford of how regular your cycles are and that the Maester had informed you you have a decade left of them. At least.”
Maekar curled a lip as his finger began to tap out a steady rhythm on the arm of the chair again.
“Maekar, you are my brother, and I love you. I would not force you. But to spend the day considering bedding near-children I've never even met… it was hard enough with Jena, and we were of an age. I know my duty but to have to lay with a stranger, to start a new family with someone who didn't know-” Baelor's voice failed as images of Valarr beside him at this very table, at Matarys not tall enough yet to see over it, asserted themselves in his mind. He collected himself, and carefully set his children's ghosts aside to continue, “Tell me you hate the idea, or that you could not bear it, and we shall never speak of it again. But do not make excuses for why it would not work.”
Maekar looked stricken. His throat worked. “Do you know what they will say, if you mate with me? About any children we might have?”
Baelor met his gaze, saw the pain in it. The wounds Maekar carried about this were old, but still tender and likely always would be.
“I do. I will bear it. We will bear it together. We have always been strongest that way,” Baelor said with simple, plain faced conviction, “And Maekar- I want to be very clear. I would marry you, in the sept, before the court, proudly. I would make you my consort. Not-” not my whore. Not a King's whore. Not again.
The old, impotent rage lit in Baelor's stomach at the thought and he thrust it down hard.
“We need not mate,” Baelor made himself say this and mean it, “if you would prefer. The marriage would be enough.”
Maekar looked away, an awful grimace on his face. His hands flexing.
Baelor stood and went to him, careful to move slowly. He reached out, set his hand on Maekar's shoulder. Brotherly. Chaste.
“Tell me what you're thinking,” Baelor said. He couldn't read Maekar like this. Usually they were attuned, but when the great grief at the center of his brother rose up like this, Baelor sometimes lost sight of him.
“I think-” Maekar cleared his throat, voice thick, “That you are asking for a very great deal from me.” Maekar looked up at Baelor, meeting his eyes again at last. They were palest violet, slightly red rimmed, and far older than their years.
Baelor dropped his head with a sigh, knocking his forehead lightly into the crown of his brother's head. He breathed Maeker in, here, close to his skin. He always smelled faintly like a banked fire, warm leather, and dry wood. The library on Dragonstone, if Baelor had to pick somewhere or something. Like home.
“I know. I know what I'm asking. But I-” Baelor found his own throat tightening, here in the halo of their combined body heat, scents overlapping in the close air. “I can't do this alone. Please don't make me.”
A shudder ran through Maekar. He rubbed his head into Baelor's, mindlessly. His hand found its way into Baelor's tunic and curled. “You don't know what you're asking. You couldn't-” Maekar's voice broke “No one could. I- I'm ruined, Baelor. Don't you understand? You shouldn't-”
Baelor hushed him, drawing Maekar into an embrace. He was stiff in Baelor's arms, ever so slightly shaking. The king waited while the omega drew in long, tight breaths, clearly trying to master his body's reaction through willpower alone. He stroked his brother's fine, Valyrian silver hair, and tried to be the same anchoring presence Maekar had always been to him.
“You're not ruined. Nothing could ruin you. You're the strongest person I know. I've known that since we were children.”
Maekar was in Baelor's earliest memories, if not simply his earliest memory altogether. He had been his first lodestone.
When Baelor was three years old, Maekar had started picking him up and carrying him when he couldn't keep up with his brothers. When he was five it was Maekar who had put a toy sword in his clumsy hands and shown him how to hold it properly. When he was seven, Maekar had been taken from him and it had ripped a piece out of him he had never quite been able to replace.
“Please, Maekar. Don't make me do this alone.”
Maekar was a long time gathering himself. Eventually, he leaned back, still held firmly in the circle of his brother's arms. Maekar knew his brother would not let him go without an answer, and that if that answer was no, they never would speak of it again. Baelor would sit back down at the council table tomorrow and Lord Fellbright would bring out his list and they would start anew.
Maekar knew he should say no. For the good of his brother. The realm. Baelor could say what he liked, but in the eyes of society Maekar Targaryen was ruined. It was different for the small folk, perhaps. But among the nobility, being mated and bred outside of a marriage bed was little better than being a mistress, or a whore. The children were considered legitimate, but Maekar had not been their father's spouse.
And if Baelor were to marry him, there might not even be any children. Thirty nine was not unusually late in life to bear a child, of course. Omegas were assumed to be fertile well into their forties, and it was not unheard of for an omega to bear even into their early fifties. Yet, it had been fifteen years since Maeker had borne his last child…
And if there were children, some would call them abominations, marked as abhorrent from the moment of conception. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism had not been asked to bear the weight of an incestuous union in decades. And they would say worse of Maekar, a king's broodmare twice over. Perhaps, the people might whisper, that dragons were little better than animals after all, if they couldn't help themselves from mounting their own kin whenever the opportunity presented itself.
Better for Maekar to remain in the same shadows that had shielded him and his children for fifteen years. Time had allowed the realm to move on, to forget the Hand was an omega, and that his children had been sired by their own great grandfather. But Baelor was asking this of him. His Baelor, his baby brother.
Maekar had always been putty in Baelor's hands. It had started the very first time his brother's chubby baby fist had tangled in Maekar's long braid and tugged. Anything Baelor wanted, Maekar gave gladly, whether it was the tail of his braid to chew on… or his body to supply him with new heirs.
And, further down, beneath even his need to care for his brother, was a smaller and more traitorous desire. Maekar had never seriously let himself consider having more children. Children he chose, and welcomed into his body, would be able to raise in a home and environment he controlled. They would be safe. Loved. With a good sire to help shape them where Maekar was lacking.
“I will speak to the Maester,” Maekar finally decided. “If he says I am strong enough to bear more children… I will marry you.”
Baelor released him, with an exhausted but radiant smile spreading across his face. He almost said something and then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he gave Maekar his space.
Heading toward the door, Baelor did an admirable job of performing normalcy. “I will go speak to Kiera now, I think. I'm disinclined to send her back to her father if I can help it.”
Maekar grunted, finally hauling himself out of his chair and trailing after Baelor.
“Fuck no. She's a Targaryen now, and she will be unless she decides to remarry.”
Maekar had very strong opinions on women's and omegas’ rights. Which, frankly, Baelor shared on the most part. He didn't have to ask Maekar's thoughts on whether or not they'd protect Kiera from any summons home or attempts to marry her off again. But this was a familiar sort of problem for them, and it broke the tension in the room. At least somewhat.
At the door, Baelor hesitated. “Will you..,”
“Gods be good,” Maekar said, shouldering past Baelor and opening the door to the rest of the Red Keep, “I said I'd speak to the Maester, and i meant it-”
Baelor laughed, “Well, I'm glad that's your priority, seeing that time is of the essence, given your advanced age-” this earned a truly withering look, “but I was going to ask if you might join me for dinner?”
Maekar blinked. “Where the fuck else would I eat?”
“To clarify, I meant in my apartments.”
Maekar's eyebrows rose ever so slightly. They usually ate in the hall, nothing formal, but the noise and the bustle seemed to comfort Baelor in the absence of his family, and the Seven knew that with six children Maekar hadn't known a quiet meal in decades.
“Alright,” Maekar said. Baelor nodded.
“Alright,” and with a flash of that crooked smile of his, he turned and headed toward Maegor's Holdfast.
Maeker turned another way and made his way towards the Maesters’ wing. He tried not to feel like he was headed toward the gallows instead.
—
It was a quarter past their usual mealtime when Maekar bustled into Baelor's sitting room in a flurry of foul temper and fine Myrish silks. The Hand of the King yanked a chair from the table and unceremoniously poured himself into it, reaching for the goblet Baelor had filled ahead of his brother's arrival.
“Fucking Celtigar,” a pause while Maekar took a first sip, apparently approved of the wine, and continued, “cornered me in the corridor on the way here. He's been trying to get a moment of my time for ages, Baelor, simply fucking ages- Because somehow suspending import duties means he needs more ships to protect the veritable flood of merchants entering our harbor. Which seems unlikely, as these merchants are either completely fucking invisible or don't fucking exist in the first place. You'd think the Master of Ships would have at least a bit of shame about trying to line his own pockets- Why haven't we replaced him yet?”
The question was rhetorical. Baelor said nothing, merely sipped at his own goblet and waited for Maekar to continue.
“Isn't there anybody else? No Velaryons? No Redwynes? Not even a Mallister? At this point I'd even give a Greyjoy a run at the job.”
“I hear Theomore Greyjoy is available,” the king said with a completely straight face. His brother, who had been picking at a bunch of grapes, scowled at him.
“Why? So if the Blackfyres invade we have somebody ready to kick them all in the cunts and tell them it was a fair fight?”
“He swore it was an accident, Maekar. The mud does get so slippery during the melee.”
Maeker flicked a grape at his brother, watched it bounce off his cheek. Baelor remained infuriatingly placid. Rolling his eyes, Maekar got up long enough to assemble a plate from the modest feast the kitchen had sent them, grousing under his breath that he'd probably prefer Greyjoy, questionable tourney wins and all, over the loathed Gorman Celtigar.
Baelor changed the subject. “I spoke to Kiera. She was… reluctant, to express an opinion at first.”
Maekar gave him an unsurprised look.
“Yes. I know. Eventually, she admitted that she's less than comfortable at court without Valarr but...”
“She's got nowhere else to go except Tyrosh, and that'll be worse than uncomfortable.”
“Yes. I said she was, of course, welcome to stay at Dragonstone indefinitely if she preferred-”
“Fuck that. Send her to Summerhall. She'll like it better.”
“- which of course I also suggested, pending discussion with you, as Summerhall isn't mine to offer.”
“It's barely even mine these days. Everyone comes and goes as they please, and the gods know I'm never there. She'll be doing me the favor if she stays put long enough to give the staff someone to report to. I'm tired of getting ravens about every loose flagstone and leaky roof.”
“I will mention that to Kiera, when I speak to her again. I think it'll help her to feel she has a purpose there.”
They discussed a few more minor matters as they ate, as well as the latest letter Maekar had had from Aegon and Ser Duncan. It seemed they were headed back north, towards the Dornish Marches and then the Reach.
After a while, they lapsed into silence. Which was not unusual for them. What was unusual was the very obvious thing they were not discussing.
“Stop trying to wait me out and just ask,” Maeker said at last.
“Is it not working?”
“No, it is not.”
Baelor smiled at his brother, which only caused the other man's scowl to deepen more.
“So. What did Maester Yormwell have to say?”
For a man who usually spoke so very crudely, Maekar was oddly quick to blush when it came to the topic of his own body.
“He said he sees no reason I could not bear you an heir. I am healthy enough, my cycles are regular, and I was. Quite fertile. In my youth.” The last came out clipped.
“He didn't say anything about your age being an impediment?” Maekar glowered at him, which was a huge improvement over the distant look Maekar's face took on as he referenced his past.
“Oh fuck off. You know he did. It was humiliating. Sent me off with some foul smelling tea to drink morning and night to increase my chances, because after all, we have no time to waste. I have more babes in me, but not so many as a twenty year old would.”
“Be that as it may, there is no one else I would rather do this with.”
“Fuck off. I don't need your sweet nothings.”
“No?”
“No!” Maekar huffed, and Baelor tried to suppress his fond smile. He knew he was fiddling with his rings. He knew Maekar noticed.
“Very well. We will share our decision with the council tomorrow, and proceed with the wedding as soon as practicable.”
Maekar drained his goblet. Baelor refilled it.
—
As soon as practicable was a fortnight, as it turned out. There was enough time for Daeron and Rhae to make the trip to court, though not Aemon and Daella. Aegon could not presently be reached, and Maeker could only hope that one of his letters reached the boy before he found out another way. After the subdued wedding festivities, Kiera would quietly join Daeron on the road back to Summerhall. Rhae was to stay, joining her father at court. Not that he had any hope left of molding her into a proper princess, but she had grown increasingly wild without supervision and he had to do something. Aerys came from Dragonstone. Rhaegal sent his regrets from the Eyrie. Their Martell cousins sent theirs from Dorne.
Both Baelor and Maekar loathed the thought of an elaborate state wedding, and they had it put about that the prince and the king were having a minimal ceremony out of respect for the hardship the kingdom was presently enduring. In the city, simple meals and favors were given away. The court was feted with a respectable luncheon. Then they proceeded to the castle sept.
Baelor would have preferred a private ceremony on Dragonstone, and suspected Maekar would have as well. The old Valyrian rites were not well understood, and there were no priests to perform such a wedding anyway- but there was a small sept there, and a few septons in the town. When Baelor had allowed himself to dream of this day, that was what he saw: Maekar joined with him in their ancestral home, where he would be comfortable, safe, and happy. Sometimes their family was there, other times it was only the two of them. During his most shameless musings, he even imagined that Maekar might be marrying him for love.
In reality, he turned and saw Daeron leading his own father gingerly down the aisle. Daeron, the newly dubbed Prince of Summerhall, was decently dressed and sober enough to look cowed. Maekar, for his part, was stiff as a board and digging his fingers into his son's arm. He was grimacing, and when he caught Baelor's encouraging smile, it deepened into a scowl.
Love swelled in Baelor's chest. His Maekar, his surly, prickly, foul mouthed brother. His Hand. Soon his husband. And his mate.
In the end, Maekar had told Baelor he was being ridiculous and that if they were getting married, his brother better fucking bite him about it too. They would wed and mate each other on the same night.
Words were exchanged. Daeron removed the cloak with the quartet of red dragons, the arms of Summerhall, and Baelor replaced it with the single red dragon of the King. Maekar turned to face him, uncharacteristically hesitant as he met Baelor's gaze.
“I am his, and he is mine,” they both said, Maekar's pale hands in Baelor's olive, “from this day, until my last day.” Maekar licked his lips, Baelor leaned in. They pressed their mouths together chastely. Baelor felt only the slightest brush of his brother's wetted lips, the surprising softness of his mustache.
They broke apart to subdued applause. They had a quiet dinner with only immediate family. When they left to retire to their chambers, it was alone. There would be no public bedding. Baelor had engineered the wedding so as to make that impossible.
—
Baelor shut the doors behind them and watched his brother visibly relax.
“I can't believe there's anything worse than sitting through a wedding, and that it's sitting through your own fucking wedding.”
Baelor chuckled, finding himself still watching Maekar as his brother dropped into a chair and started working his boots off.
“Count yourself lucky. When I married Jena, we endured three days of pageantry. And Mother wouldn't even let me participate in the joust.”
Maekar snorted, “Yes, I remember. You were up in the box, sweating in your court clothes and criticizing everyone else's technique. Jena looked ready to faint every time a lance broke.”
“She was kind, and never enjoyed violence for its own sake. I don't believe she ever willingly went to another tourney.”
Meanwhile, the second he had been at liberty, Maekar had descended on the tourney circuit like Balerion the Black Dread come again. It was a strange echo of that time to share a space with his brother like this, undressing together after a long day.
“Too kind. It's good you took her to Dragonstone.”
“To keep her safe. She was lonely there but…”
“But safe.” Maekar agreed. The unspoken contrast being that Maekar had not been. It had not occurred to their father that his eldest son might be in danger in King's Landing. That mistake had haunted him all the rest of his days.
“So,” Maekar said abruptly, “how do we do this?”
The prince-consort had stripped down to his shirt and his trousers, and was looking at Baelor expectantly.
“Honestly? I don't know. I've never done this before.” Jena had been a beta, and therefore could not form a mating bond.
Maekar grimaced. He had done this, although not willingly.
“Take off your clothes, Baelor, unless you want them ruined.”
“Is it serious as all that?”
“Yes, you lout. I'm biting you back and there will be blood.”
Baelor grinned, and started undoing the clasps on his doublet.
“As my queen commands.”
“Fuck you, not your queen.”
“No. You're my king. My consort,” Baelor removed the doublet, and the tunic beneath. He stepped into Maekar's orbit and tipped his chin up with a finger. His brother's lip curled and he made a faint growling noise. Baelor pecked him playfully on the lips. Maekar's growling cut off with a surprised squeak. “My sweet brother,” Baelor concluded.
“What did I say about your sweet nothings?”
“That you adore them?”
Maekar rolled his eyes, but he also blushed faintly.
Baelor undid the laces of his undershirt and pulled it over his head. He then reached for Maekar's, and when the other man nodded, Baelor did the same for him.
He didn't know how much he should or shouldn't look. He had seen Maekar shirtless, even naked, many times. But he had never allowed himself to look.
His brother's body told a story of contrasts. The shoulders were broad and muscled, with very little softness to round them out. Those shoulders, his arms, and hands were littered with numberless scars. Most minor, some more substantial. The knuckles were slightly reddened and raised from layers of scar tissue. His fingers and palms were calloused.
His chest was muscled, though not as lean as a beta or alpha man's would have been. There was a slight, rounded layer of flesh sitting over his pectorals, culminating in pale pink nipples. Dimly, Baelor recalled hearing that Maekar insisted on nursing his own children.
As Baelor's gaze continued downward he traced the definition of the muscles in Maekar's sides, along his abdomen. His lower stomach was gently curved, with a slight fullness to it that spoke to his six pregnancies. There were stretch marks, of course, so silver they were almost invisible on the pale skin of his belly.
Baelor hadn't realized he had looked rather longer than he should have, and Maekar shifted to cover himself. Baelor found himself catching Maekar's hands, squeezing them gently.
“There's no need,” Baelor said, sincerely. It was Maekar's body. Of course he loved it.
Flushing deeply, Maekar dropped his hands. And Baelor saw Maekar look back, and hoped he liked what he saw as well. If he did or did not, he gave no sign.
At last Maekar huffed and tilted his head to the side, revealing his mating gland. And the old scar there.
“Get on with it.”
Baelor stepped closer. He looked. It wasn't just one scar, he realized. But several. Their grandfather had bitten him several times. He would have had to, seeing as he obviously wouldn't have allowed Maekar to bite him back, and nor would Maekar have wanted to. Baelor cupped one hand on the back of Maekar's neck, the other around his shoulder. His thumb brushed over the old, raised marks. Maekar erupted in gooseflesh.
“So I just… bite you?”
“Yes.”
Baelor hummed. It felt, somehow, like there should be more to it. Much like when he had arrived to the consummation of his first marriage with an understanding of the mechanics but very little idea of how to put them into practice. The king swallowed and leaned in, nosing at the puckered flesh.
Maekar's skin smelled warm, and comforting. This close, Baelor could also distinguish the sweet something that gave away Maekar's omega nature to anyone looking carefully enough. Without apparently consulting his brain, Baelor's tongue licked hesitantly across the topography of raised scar tissue and soft, unmarred flesh. Maekar made a sudden, choked sound- which might have been a gasp. His scent bloomed, the sweet undertone expanding into something not unlike the fragrant tobacco imported from the east. Baelor licked him again, more firmly. For his trouble he received another fine shudder and another bloom of that delicious scent.
Maekar arched back, away from Baelor, trying to gain a little distance. Baelor's body reacted again without his permission and he heard himself growl softly, and tighten his grip on Maekar. He found himself mouthing at the skin of his brother's neck, sucking lightly at the different ridges and valleys. Something within him, that he might have been ashamed of in another frame of mind, was mapping that skin and finding the best angle to cover as many of the old bites as possible.
“Come on, Baelor. I said bite me, not maul me,” Maekar said, a little breathlessly. He had also, Baelor noticed, brought his own arms around Baelor, his fingers flexing restlessly against his back.
Baelor licked another stripe over the skin, and something inside him preened to find it had become swollen and ready for him. Like a peach, he thought a little deliriously. He opened his mouth, checked the angle one last time, and bit down. The flesh gave easily and Baelor sunk in, feeling a rush of blood, and scent, and pheromones burst in his mouth. Maekar moaned, short and shocked, pressing his whole body into Baelor as his fingers dug into the meat of his mate's back.
After what seemed a small eternity, Baelor managed to remove his teeth and pull back. The wound bled sluggishly, a neat oval in the swollen flesh. The old marks were barely visible against the flushed skin. Again, something inside Baelor was quietly and fiercely pleased.
“Gods,” Maekar breathed. His eyes were screwed closed, his head rested on Baelor's shoulder. Baelor raised the hand that had been on the back of Maekar's neck to pet through his hair instead. Maekar's hands were back to flexing restlessly on Baelor's back.
“Are you alright?” Baelor asked when the silence began to make him nervous.
Maekar nodded his head, breathing noisily through his nose. “Just. A moment.”
Baelor waited, and continued petting Maekar's hair.
“That was…” Maekar straightened, working his jaw. “... It wasn't like that. Before.”
“Bad?” Baelor asked, acrid concern rising in his gut.
“... No.” Maekar scowled.
Baelor waited, but no further explanation was forthcoming.
After a moment, Maekar reached up and fisted his hand in Baelor's short hair, wrenching his head to the side.
“Come on. Your turn.”
Baelor felt his eyes flutter shut, and he nodded as much as he could with the iron grip on the back of his head.
Maekar came closer and his breath brushed over Baelor's exposed skin. The alpha was already more aware than he ever had been of the glands in his neck. They felt hot, swollen, almost itchy. When Maekar brushed his nose over them a hot bolt of arousal shot through Baelor's body. He barely caught the moan that tried to slip out. The omega did not tease, instead he buried his teeth in his alpha's neck.
The bite was like that first bolt, but much more intense. There was pain, but it was a deep, dull, penetrating pain. And it sunk through him like a hot stone into water, settling in the pit of his stomach. It filled him completely and warmed every part of him. Baelor gasped, then he moaned Maekar's name.
Gods, he hadn't known the bond felt like this. It was impossible to describe, this sudden blooming awareness of his mate. Maekar's scent was larger, more present. The texture of his fingers stroking over Baelor's shoulder was somehow more pronounced. The heat of his brother's body pressed against his was somehow both stifling and necessary. Baelor's hands had gone to Maekar's hips and were squeezing there in time with the pulsing ache at his neck and in his groin.
Maekar withdrew with a gasp, head thrown back as he heaved for air. A fine sheen of sweat had broken across his forehead and neck, his pupils were blown wide and dark. Blood shone in his beard and on his teeth.
“Baelor-” he began, strangled. He got no further, as Baelor hauled him back against him and licked into his brother's mouth without preamble.
There wasn't much of a kiss about it. He simply needed to taste his blood in that mouth. Needed to feed Maekar's taste back to him.
Maekar opened wantonly, moaned at the flick of Baelor's tongue against his, and then again when Baelor used Maekar's answering invasion to suck on the omega's tongue. The darker iron tang of Baelor's own blood filled his mouth, mingling with the brighter copper of Maekar's.
Maekar bit Baelor's lip as soon as Baelor released him, sucked at the blood he drew. His hand flexed in Baelor's hair, stinging. It hurt, it all hurt but if anything that seemed to stoke Baelor's lust higher. They kissed, they sucked on whatever flesh they could reach. Baelor bit Maekar's lip back. On principle. Another bright bloom of copper on Baelor's tongue, and he was giddy with it.
At some point he had started humping into Maekar, his hands still holding the omega's hips flush to his own. He could smell the omega's growing arousal, his wetness soaking the linen between his legs. Baelor could just barely feel Maekar's smaller cock brushing against his through the layers of fabric whenever the rolling of their hips lined them up just so.
The alpha's hands slid to his brother's small, tight ass, kneaded. Slid lower, gripped his muscular thighs just below the shallow globes. Gods he wished he could pick him up. Carry him to the bed. Throw him on it. As it was, his hands went back to his brother's hips. Gripped. Started walking him back.
Maekar made eager sounds of assent, his hands snaking around Baelor's chest and back. His pointy little fingers raked across Baelor's shoulders, his chest, his stomach. A nail grazed Baelor's nipple a little too hard and he hissed. Maeker's smile against his mouth was wicked. He brought both hands up to Baelor's pecs and squeezed, dragging his thumbs across the nipples, then the edge of his nail. Baelor hissed, bucked into Maekar, tearing his mouth away. A string of pale pink saliva stretched thin and snapped.
“Gods,” Baelor gasped. He had never felt like this. The more he breathed, the more he smelt Maekar. The more he needed. It wasn't quite a rut, not exactly. It was something beneath his skin, a full throbbing at his shoulder and in his core, that was answered by the same thing in his brother.
Maekar chased him, tried to bite at his lip again. Baelor, still with his hands on his brother's hips, spun him around and shoved him face first into the bed.
Maekar laughed once, startled and then went about wriggling out of his breeches. They were, Baelor noted distantly, fairly glued to the apex of his brother's thighs with his arousal. Baelor made short work of his own remaining clothing. He did not particularly care, at the moment, whether any of it would be wearable on the morn. Below him, Maekar peeled his smalls off with a hiss and tossed them off the bed.
Baelor climbed onto the mattress behind Maekar, nudging his legs apart as he did. Maekar pulled a pillow from the head of the bed and tucked it under his head and chest, wiggling a bit. Apparently comfortable, he scooted his knees under himself, arched his back, and presented his holes.
Struck dumb, Baelor could only swallow. His brother flushed against the pale linens.
“Get on with it,” Maekar gritted out, voice choked with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment.
Get on with it. Gods. Baelor set his hand to the globe of Maekar's ass, curled his fingers around his hip, and dragged his thumb along his slick folds, the cleft of his ass. Repeated the movement, spreading the folds, his slick, just a little. It was- everything. The reality of Maekar here, whining, visibly needy. Baelor could feel his arousal, could smell it, hot and musky and filling the room.
Maekar whined again, arching deeper, wiggling his ass. Baelor laughed a little meanly, dragged his thumb up and down the flushed, velvety flesh before him. His other hand was gripping the meat of Maekar's other thigh, ready to hold Maekar's legs open if he should even so much as try to close them.
“Baelor,” Maekar whimpered, fisting a hand in the sheet beside his head.
“I didn't take you for a traditionalist, brother,” that earned him another frustrated whine, “you want me to mount you like a common omega in a field?”
“Gods, shut up and fuck me.”
“You present so prettily, I can't wait to see what you look like in heat.” Baelor leaned closer to his brother's impatient little cunt. His small cock was hard, red, and twitching between his legs. He knew Maekar could feel his breath on that sensitive flesh.
“Baelor. Please.”
“Since you beg so nicely, sweet brother.”
Baelor leaned in and licked a greedy stripe from the base of Maekar's cock, across his folds, and to his arsehole, giving the tight pink hole a deliberate flick. The fine white hairs between his brother's legs dragged against his tongue. Maekar jerked in Baelor's hold, but Baelor gripped him too tightly for him to do anything but endure his mate's exploration.
The angle was not ideal, and Baelor could not reach Maekar's cock like this. Not without losing his balance. Another night, he vaguely promised himself.
Instead, he obeyed his brothers garbled but insistent commands, and focused on his cunt. He sucked the folds into his mouth, tugging lightly with his teeth, rolling them and separating them with his tongue. Then he licked between them, flicking at Maekar's fluttering entrance, tasting his arousal. Maekar jerked at the first pressure against his slit, and then cursed Baelor for a bastard when he didn't press in.
Instead Baelor circled and circled, flicking his tongue against Maekar's entrance, pressing just the tip in and retreating, earning a high wine, a pulse of muscle, and a dribble of slick.
Maekar's thighs trembled, he rocked back against Baelor's face. He was reduced to nothing but an endless litany of curses. Meeting his rhythm, Baelor finally deigned to push his tongue inside Maekar's tight hole, only shallow thrusts, focused toward the base of his cock.
In between gasps and whines, the omega gradually stopped cursing his mate and started pleading with him not to stop. And Baelor wouldn't. If it wasn't for the ache in his jaw, his neck, his back he would happily do this forever. He could not do it forever, of course, but he did so until he felt the omega's hole tighten and pulse against his tongue. Maekar tensed, thrashed uselessly in Baelor's grip, and came.
Baelor kept up the insistent, gentle thrusting until Maekar cried at him to stop, one hand flapping uselessly in Baelor's direction. The alpha granted mercy, withdrawing to sit back on his haunches and rub his hands across Maekar's heaving flanks. He had slick all over his face and beard. Probably even his chest, at this rate. Baelor licked his lips. He decided he liked his brother's taste.
“You asshole,” Maekar wheezed, unconvincingly, from where he was mostly face down in the pillow, “You still need to fuck me.”
“Yes,” Baelor agreed, smiling. He dragged the point of a crooked finger through his brother's swollen, wet folds. His other hand was dug firmly into Maekar's thigh to hold his hips up. His brother, it seemed, had become boneless. Maekar whined.
“Stop that,” a whole body shudder, a gasp, “I'm sensitive.”
“I can see that.” Baelor did not stop.
“I ought to kick you out-”
“These are my rooms-”
“Leave the marriage unconsomated-”
“What would be the point of that-”
“Only yourself to blame-”
Maekar was nearly thrashing on the pillow, his hips having resumed their earlier desperate little rolling motion. He all but wailed when Baelor removed his finger.
“Hush, brother. I am going to consummate the marriage now.” And with no further preamble, Baelor shuffled closer, and guided his cock into Maekar's cunt.
“You bitch-!” Maekar choked out, fingers scrabbling for purchase, as Baelor sunk as far as he could in one thrust. He didn't quite bottom out, and he tutted condescendingly, as though it were Maekar's fault.
Baelor pulled back, adjusted his stance, and pressed back in, aiming toward the base of Maekar's cock and the sensitive flesh there. The omega was tight, gasping and shuddering beneath him, but did not seem to be in any pain. Baelor leaned forward, one hand clamped around Maekar's hip, the other he placed at the top of his back, slid around the junction of shoulder and neck, cupping the mating bite. He pressed Maekar down, deepening the arch of his spine. On the next thrust, Baelor slid all the way in, his stones bumping against the underside of Maekar's softened cock.
He paused to suck in some much needed breath. “Alright?” He asked, when he could.
“Yes. Alright. Gods. Go slow.”
Baelor did. He rocked in and out of Maekar in shallow, controlled thrusts. The omega below him relaxed, grew looser. As he did, Baelor increased the depth and speed of his fucking. Maekar met him, rocking back as hard as he could, Baelor's hand on his hip now guiding more than restricting.
It did not take long, after that. They rutted like animals. Baelor had discovered an angle that had Maekar babbling his name and pulsing around him and rapidly approaching a second peak. Baelor tightened his hand over the mating bite every time he bottomed out. He could feel the head of his cock pressing against the deepest parts of his brother and it was making him feel insane.
Mine, he thought. Mine, mine, mine.
Realizing, dimly, that he was nearing his peak, Baelor released Maekar's shoulder and reached around for his cock. It was still mostly soft, and fit entirely into Baelor's blood and sweat slicked hand. He closed his fist around it, let his own faltering thrusts push Maekar's cock into that tight, wet channel.
Maekar's cunt went tight around him and the omega screamed, collapsing entirely as Baelor lost the ability to hold Maekar up. The omega was so tight around him he could barely move, shuddering and crying through a second orgasm. Baelor continued rutting into his hole, chasing that tight heat, groaning as he spilled his release deep and his knot began to swell.
He nuzzled into the sweaty, blood slick hollow of Maekar's shoulder. He was sure he had never felt this good in his life. He kissed the abused flesh over Maekar's mating gland, then rubbed his cheek against it.
It was only a few moments later that Baelor realized that something was suddenly very, very wrong.