Chapter Text
“What do you want?” Maekar said through gritted teeth and rolled his eyes at the shadow Baelor’s form cut through the dimly lit room. His gait betrayed no pain or ache, Maekar noticed, yet held his tongue from scoffing at the incredulous anger burning at his scalp.
Leave it to his brother to escape this miserable circus without a scratch, Maekar thought while his own chest ached, his ribs bruised where Baelor had driven the blunt spear to unhorse him.
“How do you feel?” Came Baelor’s soft, kind voice. A murmur just a sliver above a whisper, mindful of Aerion’s sleeping form.
The consideration only served to sharpen Maekar’s dull irritated mood.
“You can speak normally, brother. The maesters put Aerion to the deep sleep.” He did not turn his head to look at Baelor. He didn’t need to, he knew exactly what look would be on Baelor’s mismatched eyes as he said,
“I did not wish to disturb,” the bottoms of his boots dragged across the soft carpeted floor. He drew closer, yet said, almost unsure, “I will leave if you ask me to.”
The words were paired with that sad, disappointed sigh of his that Baelor so oft would take to in Maekar’s presence.
His irritation was now a blade, and with it he swung in the darkness. “Ugh,” Maekar groaned with disgust, “Quit the chivalrous bullshit. My son nearly died because of you. Your presence is hardly a favor to me right now. I am not asking you to leave. Do as you wish, as you already have.”
Unfortunately, Baelor knew him too well, and had easily sidestepped the dagger of his anger, serving him the opportunity to draw closer to where Maekar sat, settling his warm palm over Maekar’s shoulder.
Maekar did not startle. Could not bring himself to pretend, either. He knew Baelor would try to comfort him, the warmth of his hands a welcome reprieve from the cold, damp stone of Ashford castle.
He was so weak. Maekar wished he could drag himself away and reject Baelor’s stupid, bottomless compassion. That never-ending well of his understanding. One day he’ll run out of it, their father had warned him once. For some reason, Maekar highly doubted that would ever happen.
Behind him, Baelor had brought his other hand to Maekar’s empty shoulder blade, and began digging his thumbs in a soothing rhythm against the tight knot at the top of Maekar’s spine.
Here was the honey, and as was typical for his older brother, here came the sting: “Blame me all you want, Maekar, but we both know who is to truly to blame for today’s events.”
There was no accusation in Baelor’s calm voice, yet it had felt like a slap across the face to Maekar. He stood, despite the pain, driving an accusatory finger at Baelor’s face.
“Are you suggesting this is somehow my fault?” The words came out far more faint and broken than Maekar had intended. Cursed be the Seven. Cursed be this fucking day. First betrayed by his own kin, and now was betrayed by own fucking body. How utterly ridiculous was his existence. What a mockery of the Targaryen name. A sudden disgust came roiling through his belly. He turned away from Baelor before he was sick where he stood.
“Are you okay, brother?” Baelor asked, his warm, steady palms back on him wrapping tight at Maekar’s elbow, He hadn’t realized he’d been swaying until Baelor guide him back to sit and the room suddenly quit spinning.
“Let me go!” Maekar roughly pulled himself away from Baelor’s grip. There was a cold sweat building at his temple, his breath coming out ragged in the silence of the room. He may be haggard and in pain, but he still had his pride. Gods be damned.
“Bid me to leave, and I will do as you command.” Baelor’s voice remained level, betrayed no emotion, yet when Maekar dragged his eyes from the floor and met Baelor’s mismatched gaze he could make out the desperation, the pleading.
Do not shut me out, brother. I am here, for you. Please, please, please.
Maekar forced himself to look away. Forced himself to stare at the broken, bruised body of his son. This is all he was good for. Everything he touched crumbled and died. Everything.
The silence grew stale between them. Maekar, stubborn as a mule, refused to relent.
Baelor let out that little sigh again, and the heel of his boots clicked a path towards the door. Maekar nearly sighed out in relief, but Baelor’s steps paused at the door. It clicked open, a command was given to the impish boy standing guard at the door, and the door clicked close. Baelor did not leave.
“Maester Yormwell awaits your presence in your rooms.”
“What the fuck for?” Maekar hung his head between his open palms. Damn the Seven. He knew where this was going.
“You are unwell, brother. Come,” Baelor took Maekar’s arm between his warm palms, “I will not leave your side until I am sure that your full health has been restored.”
This was as close to an apology Maekar would get from his brother, and the sad, kicked look on Baelor’s face was simply exquisite.
He was getting old. The thought crossed Maekar’s mind as he stood, grunting in pain at the aches across his body. Maekar knew this song and dance well. Memories of the quarrels in their youth came rushing back. With them, the memories of what usually happened after did too.
The tilt sitting at the corner of Baelor’s smug smile and the way his fingers snaked around Maekar’s hips gave away his brother’s own reminiscing.
There was a twinkle of mischief in Baelor’s blue eye. For the first time in what felt like a month, Maekar bit back a lip-splitting smile.
This time, when Baelor held him, Maekar did not push him away, and let himself be led out of Aerion’s chamber.