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It is a strange sight to see, his strong brother laid up in bed like an invalid. Weak and reliant, debased to needing a nursemaid to eat and piss and bathe.
Never once in their youth did Baelor require such attention. He was a healthy, robust boy, never addled by disease or touched by mishaps. Even in the battlefield, he was a powerful bastion of strength for his men to gaze upon in times of need.
It is Maekar’s time now, but instead of an inspiration he instead finds his elder brother unable to provide for the first time in his life.
And it is Maekar’s doing.
His mace, his son, his pride. A lesser man may blame Aerion for his reckless behaviour, or Aegon for his misguided decision, or even the hapless hedge knight, but no. This burden is Maekar’s to endure, his to atone for.
“You look more miserable than usual,” comes from Baelor’s sickbed. In truth, it is Lord Ashford’s own featherbed and his bedchamber. Had Baelor had his wits about him, he would have refused. Maekar did not. “Come here, brother.”
He abandons his post in the doorway—where he has spent many a night since the ill-fitting helm was unwisely removed—and joins Baelor at his bedside.
“Brother,” he says stiffly, hands clenched behind his back. “I did not mean to wake you.”
It looks as though Baelor goes to shake his head, but thinks better of it at the last moment. The pained wince on his face is worse than any blow Maekar was dealt during the trial.
“I was only dozing,” Baelor assures, although Maekar has been watching long enough to know it is a lie. Baelor sleeps deeply these days. “Tell me, what chaos has my injury brought about today?”
Much, although Maekar will not say as such. Chaos is too kind a word. Lord Ashford is far too meek to control the masses and the meagre guards House Targaryen brought are kept close to the castle. The ruffians took what they wanted in the ensuing confusion of the trial, and many knights have since complained of theft and have threatened to take their own justice.
Maekar might have filled the void of Baelor’s absence and right the wrongs, but he has not. He has barely left this room, let alone the castle. Let the world crumble outside of these walls, for Maekar does not care.
“Nothing which cannot be contained,” is Maekar’s lacklustre answer. “You should focus on your own recovery. Do not dwell on Ashford’s paltry woes.”
“The woes of the people,” Baelor rightfully corrects. “Our people.”
Fuck the people, Maekar thinks cruelly.
“There is nothing for you to do,” he says sternly, although he fears it comes out weaker than he likes. “Remain abed. Rest. Soon, we might travel for Summerhall if the maester allows it.” Baelor stares, and Maekar busies himself with tucking his bedding in, to keep him comfortable and warm. “I thought it better to go there rather than King’s Landing. The smell is so horrid, I feel ill in its fetid air even in health. It would not be the right place to recover, and Maester Yormwell agrees with me. Besides, it is an easy ride.”
And if it is not, Maekar will make it easy. A comfortable wheelhouse, the calmest horses, at least three dedicated maesters, and plenty of rests along the way for Baelor.
“As you say,” Baelor acquiesces easily, eyes heavy and trained on Maekar’s face. “Are you well? You look tired. You should rest, too.”
“I’m fine,” Maekar dismisses immediately, instinctively, because he is in comparison to Baelor with the head wound many thought he would not return from.
“You cannot lie to me,” Baelor scolds gently. “I know you too well.”
“I—” Maekar hesitates, and glances away. He finds it difficult to look his brother in the eye and knowingly lie; he always has. Now, it feels impossible. “I am worried.”
“For me?” Baelor is smiling, he can tell from his tone alone. “You worry too much. Look, I’m alright. On the mend, even. The maester says another few days abed and I should be able to walk without the aid of the servants.”
To Maekar—who had to watch him be carried away, blood dripping from the back of his head as he babbled about stars and dragons—it is a hollow reassurance.
“I look forward to it,” Maekar says rather than what is in his heart. “Are you hungry?”
“I am, actually.”
It is a good sign. For days, the maesters had to force thinned broth past his lips.
“Good. I will call for the—”
“Come here.”
There is a queer tone to his voice, one of sharp desire which Maekar is well familiar with. It is from decades of experience which has Maekar responding in kind, his own body instinctively warming with want.
“Very well,” he says softly. “But only if you do not move.”
Baelor levels him a baleful stare. “Brother—”
“No,” he interrupts, voice firm. “Either you do not move, or we do not at all.”
Baelor stares at him for a long and poignant moment until he nods.
Maekar is careful.
He stokes the fire because even though it is spring the chill of winter remains in the air and he does not want Baelor to be cold.
Once the fire is raging, he undresses himself until he is bare and takes his time to fold his clothing, hyperaware of Baelor’s hungry gaze. Naked, he untucks the bedding before slowly drawing it back, pointedly not looking at the treated scrapes and grazes Valarr’s too-tight armour left on his body.
“I’m not in pain,” Baelor says quietly.
His brother has always been one to hide his aches, ever the stalwart eldest son. Maekar, the youngest and most forgotten, has become very good at reading him.
“I know,” he says. “I would not have agreed if you were.”
And I will stop if you are.
He flips Baelor’s long sleep shirt up to lay across his belly, exposing his cock. It rests against his thigh, slowly thickening as the promise of pleasure veers ever closer. The sight takes his breath away, and he cannot stop himself from leaning down and taking the fat head between his lips.
“Fuck,” Baelor hisses, his hands immediately darting up to grip Maekar’s hair.
He pulls off immediately.
“You’re not to move,” he scolds, lips wet with spit. “I will stop.”
For a moment it looks as though Baelor will argue before he changes his mind and releases him instead.
“Apologies, brother,” he says genially, as though they’ve argued over supper. “I’ll be good.”
Maekar does not bother giving him a reply, as he isn’t certain he won’t burst into undignified tears. Instead, he takes Baelor in hand and swallows him down once again.
His brother grunts, but he is prepared this time and remains where he is, although his hands fist at his side. It is good enough, and Maekar allows himself to fully sink into the sensation, throat relaxing around Baelor’s thick length.
He is large and imposing, cock spreading Maekar’s lips wide. He might choke on it if he were less familiar, but he has spent many hours like this; mouth on his brother, owning him in ways few have been allowed to.
A favoured squire or two in his youth, his late wife, and Maekar.
“This is cruel treatment for a man forbidden to move a single finger,” Baelor groans, jaw clenched tight. “Is this punishment?”
Maekar pulls off once again. “Never,” he breathes, reaching up to cup Baelor’s ruddy cheek. “This is—I would never think to—”
Baelor takes pity on him. He ignores his orders and instead draws Maekar up, insistently pulling until he is made to climb on to the bed, one thigh carefully guided over Baelor’s hips. He straddles him, Baelor’s cock nestled gently against Maekar’s backside.
“There,” his brother says, pleased. “Will you ready yourself for me? I would like to watch.”
Maekar is not without his own injuries. There are small, slow to heal cuts on his face, his ribs are bruised, perhaps even fractured, and his thighs and backside ache after the rough fall from his saddle. The maesters told him—long after they were finished drawing Baelor back from the Stranger’s grasp—to rest, although Maekar finds it difficult.
The bruises are gentle reminders of his mortality, and the press of his spit-covered fingers into his hole a welcome sting.
“The maesters made a salve for my bruises,” Baelor offers after Maekar hisses one too many times. “Use it, brother. Please.”
He wants not. It is a surrender, like he is choosing the easier route to atonement. He should experience the hurt, and if not the same as Baelor’s injuries, then an equivalent.
His hesitation must be clear in his face, for Baelor disobeys his orders and reaches for the proffered salve on the bedside.
“I told you—”
“I am not going to allow you to hurt yourself,” Baelor retorts, pressing the pot into Maekar’s hand. He settles back after that, unmoving once more. “Prepare yourself for me.”
Maekar fails to hide his grimace when he removes his dry fingers, and although he wishes to continue his own punishment, he will not allow Baelor to harm himself in the process. His brother is like to take over and push his recovery back for Maekar’s sake.
“Behave,” Maekar grumbles, dipping his clean fingers into the pot. It does help, the first finger slipping inside with ease. He sighs softly and sinks into the sensation, anticipating what is to come.
“I should make you do this more often,” Baelor muses below him, voice rough with need. His fingers twitch by his side with the desire to reach out and touch, but he remains still. “You are a vision, brother.”
Maekar flushes red. He never quite knows how to respond to Baelor’s praise, especially when it is about his appearance. His prowess in battle was once the one aspect of himself he would accept accolades for, but now it feels hollow.
“My brother’s mace, most like,” Baelor reportedly said before the wound was discovered. “He’s strong.”
Maekar never had to restrain his strength around his brother before. He will likely never need to, for he cannot imagine raising his weapon again. He will commit himself to his pleasure, instead.
Baelor is thick in Maekar’s hand when he grasps him, notching the spongy head against his wet, loosened hole. He sighs softly, sitting down and feeding his cock in until the head has lodged inside. The stretch is sharp, his brother far thicker than two of Maekar’s fingers, but the pain is welcomed.
He could spear himself on his shaft and give himself a wound to match. An eye for an eye, two injuries for two brothers.
“Gently,” Baelor warns when Maekar drops down another painful inch, as if he has read his mind. “We have time.”
Do they? He might have said the same a day before, but now he is not so certain.
Maekar does as he is told, however, and is gentle with himself, albeit for Baelor’s sake more than his own. He sits carefully, taking his brother so slowly at times he questions whether he is moving at all.
It is no difficulty, even as he is stretched near beyond his limits, for Maekar has always loved pleasuring Baelor. Theirs had always been a quiet thing, shared only between the eldest and the youngest; Aerys uninterested in carnal flesh and Rhaegel far too fragile. Maekar prefers it this way, a little secret of their own.
Maekar thought he would never have this again. Baelor, laid abed for days, unresponsive ever since he fell into the hedge knight’s arms. Maekar, despondent and broken by his sickbed. Never to feel his touch, to hear his laugh, or to have his cock held inside of him. It is a gift to have this now, one he will never squander again.
Maekar sobs once he has finally taken his brother to the hilt, hand pressed firmly to his mouth yet it does nothing to muffle his grief.
“It’s alright,” he hears through his cries, Baelor’s large hands softly stroking along his trembling thighs, his quivering hips, resting over his softened belly. He presses down, as though he can feel himself inside. “I have you, brother. I’m here. You’re doing so well for me.”
“Yes,” Maekar gasps wetly, back curving forward to chase Baelor’s very breath. The movement causes him to sink further, his girth mind-numbingly perfect. “For you, for you, brother.”
Baelor smiles, the crooked one Maekar adores, the one he thought he may never see again, then wraps his hand around Maekar’s weeping cock.
“Do not scold me for moving,” he says as Maekar gasps and jerks in unexpected pleasure. “You want to make me feel good, and there is little in this world which brings me as much joy as making you feel good.”
“Cruel,” Maekar forces out, shivering and overwhelmed. He remembers his promise to himself, and amends his statement. “Do not be cruel.”
Baelor strokes upwards, his touch light as a feather. “Not cruel. Addled, perhaps.” He squeezes tighter when Maekar attempts to reply, killing the words in his mouth. “Now fuck yourself on my cock. I want to see you fall apart above me.”
Helpless, Maekar leans forward, dragging Baelor’s cock out of his body until only the head remains. It places his mouth over Baelor’s, who cannot resist leaning up and kissing him despite his promise.
It is wet and filthy, barely a meeting of lips but a battle of tongues. Maekar whines into his mouth, desperate for more. To devour or to be devoured, he does not mind. He merely wants them to live within each other forever more.
Baelor breaks it first, as he has done everything between them, and urges Maekar to take his pleasure with a guiding hand and a gentle push upwards.
The ride is slow but devastating, a gentle ruin. Maekar’s thighs shake as he sinks back on his brother’s thick, perfect cock, the shaft carving out room for itself on every downward thrust.
Every time with Baelor is life-altering, but they have had few opportunities like this, where one’s life truly was held in the hands of the gods.
“You look so beautiful like this,” Baelor whispers, voice rough and wrecked. “Fucking yourself on my cock. You’re wanton, my beautiful wanton wife, aren’t you?”
Maekar sobs, landing too hard but the sharp pain only makes the pleasure sweeter. “Yours,” he promises wetly, gasping and wanting. “Your wife, brother. Always.”
Groaning, Baelor strokes Maekar firmly now, both chasing their release. Maekar is too far gone to protest his movement, heat building in his spine, cock weeping steadily on Baelor’s stomach, clear seed pooling in his navel. He wants to come terribly, but he will not before Baelor.
Attentive as he is, Baelor knows his intentions before he has even spoken the words.
“You were always so stubborn,” his brother grits out, teeth clenched tight. He abandons Maekar’s cock to grip his hips tight, to force him down harder and faster. “So competitive. I should make you spill before me simply to punish you.”
And oh, oh, the thought is too much to bear.
“Yes,” Maekar gasps out, eyes wide and beseeching. His cock spurts his release over Baelor’s stomach, painting his bruised flesh white. It is devastating and perfect and he didn’t mean to come first, but Baelor was always the better of the two of them.
“Maekar,” Baelor hisses, face clenched tight as he stills beneath him. “Brother. Maekar—fuck.”
Maekar believes he can feel it, his brother’s seed filling his belly. Hot and thick, it comes in ropes and floods him until he is bursting at the seams.
Weak and trembling, Maekar collapses forward, bracing himself just before he falls on Baelor and aggravates his injuries. They likely have worsened as it is, but he finds it difficult to feel the full extent of his guilt as he soaks in the pure pleasure and the proof of Baelor’s continued survival.
“Have you sent word ahead to Summerhall?” Baelor asks quietly, breaking the hushed silence as gently as he can. His hand strokes along Maekar’s shoulders and down his trembling back, inching closer to where they remain connected. “The castellan should prepare your chambers for our visit.”
Adoration rises in his throat. He is full and claimed, his brother lies beneath him—if not whole then close—and he wants to return home with him, to sleep in his bed and be held while he recovers.
“I was waiting until you felt better,” Maekar replies, voice choked with tears. He presses a kiss against Baelor’s neck, where he recalls blood flowing. “I will send a raven in the morning.”
“Good.” Baelor hums. The hand stroking along Maekar’s back stills over his heart. “And let the children return to King’s Landing. I would do better with only us, I think.”
Maekar nods, tears spilling and landing on Baelor’s flushed, warm, living flesh. Let their father deliver Aerion’s punishment, and their mother may decide on the fate of Aegon’s lumbering knight.
Maekar will care for Baelor, and Baelor only.