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Baelor Targaryen sat at the head of it, as he had so often done in countless meetings for both family business and the sprawling empire of investments that spanned Europe and beyond. He was dark-haired now, rich chestnut black swept back neatly at the nape, almost glossy under the soft overhead lighting, and his mismatched eyes—one a violet so sharp it seemed to pierce glass, the other a blue—scanned each associate in turn as if evaluating not merely what they were saying but the sincerity, the worth, the hidden motivations behind every word.
The business associates, men whose families controlled shipping, energy, and real estate across the continent, spoke in measured tones, referencing figures so high that most people could not even comprehend them, yet Baelor absorbed it all effortlessly, letting the discussion roll over him like water around a stone, occasionally tilting his head, briefly gesturing with the pale-tipped fingers of one hand, and making a note with the other.
He had been mid-sentence—expounding on projected investment returns across multiple European ports—when the phone on the polished surface beside him began to vibrate, faint but insistent.
There were murmurs of agreement.
A man across the table began outlining projected shipping revenues.
Another referenced tariffs.
The discussion continued in the quiet, methodical rhythm that characterized negotiations between families whose fortunes were measured not in millions but in billions accumulated over centuries of careful investments and inheritance.
Baelor spoke only when necessary, his voice even and measured, the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being listened to without needing to raise it, while the silver pen between his fingers moved occasionally across the documents before him in tidy, deliberate notes.
He had been mid-sentence—expounding on projected investment returns across multiple European ports—when the phone on the polished surface beside him began to vibrate, faint but insistent.
Once. Twice.
By the third buzz, the sound had begun to tug at his attention, and although the associates continued their polite, rehearsed discussion, Baelor’s focus shifted to the sleek device, expecting a minor update from his assistants regarding logistics or travel arrangements for the remainder of his business trip.
Instead, the caller ID glowed:
Barclays Private Banking.
A crease formed faintly between his brows.
“I apologize,” he said to the table, voice calm, almost gentle, though there was a quiet authority in it that brooked no interruption, “if I may step out for a moment.”
He rose with the easy, unforced grace of a man who had moved through rooms like this his entire life, and stepped toward the windows, phone pressed to his ear.
“Yes?”
The banker’s voice was careful, formal, almost hesitant.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Targaryen. I do apologize for disturbing you, but we have noted a series of unusually large transactions on your personal account and wished to confirm that they were authorized.”
Baelor’s dark eyes, cool and assessing, swept over the cityscape below, watching barges and ferries glide lazily along the river, as if the financial storm the banker described could not touch him.
Baelor’s dark eyes, cool and assessing, swept over the cityscape below, watching barges and ferries glide lazily along the river, as if the financial storm the banker described could not touch him.
“Unusual how?” he asked, deliberately slow, already knowing the answer.
The banker inhaled softly.
“Within the past two hours there have been purchases totaling approximately four million, eight hundred thousand pounds, and, given the international locations involved, we felt it necessary to verify that you, or someone acting on your behalf, authorized them.”
“Please go on.”
“Yes, sir. The first transaction recorded was one million four hundred thousand pounds paid to a private jewelry house in Paris for a collection of antique emerald pieces, followed shortly afterward by nine hundred thousand pounds transferred through Sotheby’s private catalogue for a nineteenth-century oil painting currently being held in Vienna. Roughly forty minutes later an additional one million pounds was paid toward a vintage automobile purchased through a Monaco collector’s registry, and several luxury retail charges in Milan brought the total to just under four million pounds.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “All of these transactions were authorized.”
There was relief on the other end of the line, a faint tightness in the voice that belied the thousand-pound-per-second magnitude of the account activity.
“And may I ask who—” the banker began.
“—is having a tantrum,” Baelor said flatly, almost gently, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as if speaking to a child he found simultaneously infuriating and endearing. “It is my husband.”
A long silence.
“…Ah. I see,” the banker murmured, caught somewhere between polite compliance and disbelief. “Very well, sir. Thank you for confirming.”
Baelor ended the call and allowed the phone to rest in his hand for a moment, the faintest smirk appearing now.
“Authorized,” he murmured softly to himself, the word tasting faintly like amusement and exasperation at once, because of course. Of course it was Maekar.
Baelor leaned back slightly, allowing the faintest chuckle to escape, soft and quiet so the associates, still mid-sentence about shipping contracts, would not hear. When they glanced toward him curiously, he returned to the table, composed as ever, sliding the phone into his pocket, and when one of the associates ventured the polite, hesitant question,
By the time he returned to the table, the business associates had waited silently, unsure whether to resume conversation.
“Everything alright, Mr. Targaryen?” one finally ventured, curiosity framed as civility.
Baelor folded his hands calmly on the polished table, the faintest trace of a smile touching his lips. “Very well, Mr Arryn”
Conversation resumed, careful and precise, with contracts and projections, but the faint hum of disbelief lingered. And though Baelor handled the discussion with effortless control, his mind was elsewhere, amused and quietly exasperated at the theater of Maekar’s fury.
When the meeting concluded, he unlocked his phone, intending to call Maekar—not to scold, but merely to be present, to remind him he was there. A glance at the screen revealed the truth: blocked.
He allowed a faint smile of resignation. Naturally.
By the time Baelor’s car rolled through the gates of the London estate several hours ahead of schedule, the sky had darkened into the muted indigo of early night. The estate was silent, the old trees lining the drive casting long, soft shadows across gravel, the faint light of distant streetlamps glinting off the roof tiles.
Inside, the house was unusually silent.
A senior house staffer approached, slightly startled by his early return.
“Good evening, sir. We weren’t expecting you back until tomorrow afternoon.”
Baelor handed over his coat.
“Yes. A change of plans.”
He paused.
“Where is Maekar?”
The staff member hesitated only briefly.
“Mr. Targaryen left yesterday evening, sir.”
Baelor’s mismatched eyes lifted slowly.
“Left.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“He mentioned the villa in Lake Como, sir.”
Baelor rubbed the bridge of his nose in quiet resignation.
Of course.
Because Maekar did not simply argue.
When he was angry enough, he relocated to another country.
Within the hour Baelor had arranged a late flight through the family’s private air service, and by the time the small jet crossed the dark expanse of Europe the world below had dissolved into scattered constellations of city lights beneath the clouds.
The descent into northern Italy came well past midnight.
The Targaryen villa overlooking Lake Como stood quiet beneath the pale wash of moonlight when Baelor’s car finally wound its way up the narrow hillside road, the old stone house surrounded by olive trees and terraced gardens that sloped gently down toward the black water of the lake far below.
Only a few lights glowed from the windows.
Which meant Maekar was there.
Still angry enough to block him.
Still irritated enough to spend nearly four million pounds in retaliation.
Baelor stepped out of the car and looked up at the house for a long moment, the night air warm and faintly scented with lake water and summer grass.
And in one of those rooms, hidden behind heavy curtains and guarded by silence, was Maekar, still furious, still blocked him, still a threat to every ounce of patience Baelor could muster—and, Baelor realized with a faint inward smile, utterly irresistible.
The villa was quiet, save for the faint hum of the air-conditioning and the distant rustle of leaves outside, the terrace doors slightly ajar letting in the scent of the lake at night, cool and clean, while inside, only a handful of the staff remained on the premises, bustling quietly in the kitchen or attending to the household’s needs.
deliberately giving the master bedroom and the adjoining suite space as though they could feel the tension before even seeing it.
Maekar was seated by the vanity, the soft glow of the bedside lamp falling across the planes of his face, his dark robes loosely draped over him, the silk sleeve slipping slightly from one shoulder as he toyed with the brush in his hand, preparing to wash and perhaps take a bath, though his expression was deliberately opaque, unreadable, a mask as cold and precise as frost over a still lake.
He had ignored the sound of the front door closing behind Baelor, the soft footfalls of his husband moving through the hallway, the quiet scent of him arriving that should have been comforting, but now merely prickled like fire under Maekar’s skin, an irritation he refused to acknowledge.
Baelor impeccably composed despite the rush of travel and the lingering fatigue of the flight, stepped lightly into the room, closing the door with a quiet click.
He let his gaze fall fully upon Maekar for a long moment.
As if memorizing every angle of his husband’s profile, the way his hair had grown slightly past his collar, the way his violet eyes avoided him, and the faint crease in the brow that suggested indignation or stubbornness—or perhaps both, and it both amused and tormented him in equal measure, because Baelor could not abide coldness toward him, could not tolerate the silence that radiated from the man he loved with a depth that made his chest ache.
Baelor’s lips pressed into a thin line.
He had been through the private storms of Maekar’s temper enough to know the tempest brewing in that quiet stillness, and every moment it went unaddressed was another moment of torment he was willing to endure only to no end.
He stepped forward.
The subtle click of his shoes on the hardwood resonating faintly through the room, circling as his fingers traced lightly over the ring on his own hand in a habitual gesture, a ritual that somehow steadied him while he measured how to breach the wall Maekar had raised.
“Maekar,” he said softly, voice low and even, carrying the weight of all the longing that had built up during his travels, “You know I am here.”
No response.
“Do you intend to ignore me the entire evening?” he asked again, softer, circling once more as though the motion itself might coax Maekar’s attention.
Violet eyes flickered faintly at the corner, just enough to catch Baelor’s gaze, and for a heartbeat, the silence stretched taut between them, the room heavy with all that was unsaid and all that simmered just below the surface.
Then, slow and deliberate, Maekar lifted his head.
Letting the longer strands of hair—grown slightly since Baelor had last seen him—fall around his face, eyes meeting those mismatched ones of his husband with a mixture of defiance and tentative relief, as if acknowledging the presence that had haunted his thoughts all day.
Baelor exhaled quietly.
The tension in his broad shoulders easing fractionally, and moved closer, kneeling carefully in front of the seated Maekar, hands reaching for his husband’s own with the gentlest of touches, a silent apology and plea wrapped into a single gesture.
His lips pressed lightly to Maekar’s palm, the faintest brush over the knuckles, then a tender kiss along the ring that gleamed softly in the lamplight, eyes lifting just enough to capture Maekar’s gaze and hold it, steady and unwavering, his voice low but utterly earnest.
“Please forgive me, my love,” he murmured, the words carrying the weight of every mile he had traveled, every lonely night, every thought of Maekar he had carried in quiet obsession, all laid bare in that single, careful whisper.
Maekar’s face remained unreadable for a heartbeat, a faint frown still set along the line of his jaw, but his fingers lifted to Baelor’s cheek, brushing lightly over the beard, a single, tentative affirmation that he was listening, that the bridge between them was not yet lost.
“I’m not easily going to forgive you,” Maekar said finally, voice low and sharp, eyes on the soaps.
“I know,” he murmured, watching for the smallest crack in Maekar’s armor.
“Have you eaten then?” he asked then, voice gentler, the kind of voice that asked because he cared, not to lecture.
“I’m not starving,” Maekar muttered without looking, tugging at the hem of the robe in a small, nervous habit that Baelor knew well.
“Are you well?” Baelor asked quieter this time, stepping closer, letting the faint scent of him drift across the room.
“Fine enough,” Maekar replied sharply, but the edge of tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
“That’s good,” Baelor murmured, voice soft, the faintest smile brushing across his lips as he kept his gaze locked on Maekar’s face, waiting, watching.
Maekar stood and began toward the bathroom, robe brushing along his thighs, hair falling in a slightly disheveled cascade. The bathroom was already prepared: a large tub filled with steaming water, soft ripples catching the candlelight, soaps and oils neatly arranged along the edges—lavender, sandalwood, a hint of rose—each chosen by Maekar himself.
Baelor followed, silent, feeling the heat of the night press in behind him. His pulse quickened, subtle but unmistakable. He watched Maekar pause, untying the robe just enough to hint at what lay beneath, the faint curve of his shoulders, the smooth line of his back.
Maekar turned slightly, eyes glinting faintly as he loosened the belt of his robe, letting it fall open just enough to reveal the smooth line of his shoulders, the pale curve of his chest.
“So… you aren’t going to join me?” Maekar asked, glancing over his shoulder, voice sharp but carrying that teasing undertone he knew well.
Baelor blinked once, almost caught off guard. “Oh..” he murmured, but began to unbutton his shirt, as he took a deliberate step closer.
“I would love to,” he said softly, voice low, carrying the hunger and restraint that had built over the week he’d spent away.
Maekar’s frown faltered only slightly as Baelor closed the distance, and then, without another word, Baelor’s hands wrapped around Maekar’s waist, pulling him down into a hungry, deep kiss that held all the longing and restraint of a man who had missed every inch of him. Maekar instinctively clutched at Baelor’s shoulders, tugging the robe fully away, letting it fall to the floor, leaving him naked beneath Baelor’s gaze.
But then Maekar pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around his husband as their tongues tangled, the kiss quickly turning heated.
Baelor leaned into it eagerly, hands gripping Maekar’s hips as he pulled him flush against his body, pressing him back against the counter. His mouth drifted down Maekar’s neck, leaving hot, damp kisses as he murmured against his skin.
“You’re not playing fair,” he said, voice low and rough with desire.
“You’re one to talk…” Maekar gasped as Baelor’s fangs sank gently into his skin—not quite hard enough to draw blood. Instead he pressed his bare body closer, his sex settling warm between Baelor’s thighs.
Baelor chuckled softly against his skin, fingers tightening on Maekar’s hips in a possessive grip. He could feel the tension coiling in Maekar’s body already—the desperate need he knew all too well.
His mouth moved lower, kissing a slow path down Maekar’s neck. He paused at the sensitive spot beneath his collarbone and bit down gently, knowing exactly how it would make him shiver.
“Perhaps I’m not playing fair,” Baelor whispered against his pulse. “But you started this, Darling.”
His hands slid down to Maekar’s thighs, spreading them as he sank to his knees between them. His gaze flicked upward—mismatched eyes dark with heat.
Slowly, deliberately, Baelor parted Maekar’s thighs further, exposing the soft pink flesh between them.
His gaze lingered there, hungry.
“Beautiful,” he murmured hoarsely, fingertips brushing lightly along the folds and drawing a soft gasp from his husband.
And then his mouth was on him.
Baelor kissed him in one hot, open-mouthed press—tongue dragging slow and filthy over every inch before sinking deeper with a groan. His hands held Maekar firmly in place as he feasted, relentless and greedy after days apart.
Maekar gripped the edge of the counter for support as Baelor’s tongue swept over his clit, sucking gently while his fingers slid between his folds.
His fingers curled just enough to stretch him open further, exposing every slick inch to the heat of his mouth as he rubbed slow circles over the entrance.
“B-brother…” Maekar whimpered, pressing a hand into his hair.
It was always a special kind of torture to hear Maekar beg—to watch the usually sharp-tongued man come undone beneath his touch.
Baelor smirked slightly and glanced up through his lashes.
He dragged his tongue upward in one long stroke before sealing his mouth over the clit again, sucking just hard enough to make Maekar jerk with a sharp gasp. His fingers curled deeper inside him while his thumb circled the sensitive nub, every movement deliberate.
Maekar gripped his shoulder tightly, rocking helplessly against his mouth.
“M-more… hah—”
Baelor didn’t let up.
He felt the moment his husband’s cunt locked tight around his fingers and knew he was close. Instead of easing off, he pressed deeper with his tongue and curled his fingers just right.
Maekar came with a choked cry, his back arching as pleasure tore through him. His fingers tangled violently in Baelor’s hair while he rode out the wave.
“Oh—f-fuck—”
His thighs trembled where they were still spread wide.
Baelor finally pulled back, lips slick as he wiped them slowly with the back of his hand. His mismatched eyes lifted toward Maekar’s dazed expression.
“Four million pounds,” he mused aloud, voice rough, “and yet here you are.”
A slow smirk followed.
“…coming on my tongue instead.”
“You deserved it…” he muttered weakly, still trembling.
“I do,” Baelor agreed quietly, pressing a kiss to his inner thigh.
He rose to his feet again, taking in the sight before him—his husband flushed and breathless, hair clinging damply to his forehead, lips parted around uneven breaths.
Baelor stepped forward again, fingers brushing gently along Maekar’s jaw this time.
Maekar heard then the sound of a zipper behind him.
His breath caught as Baelor’s lips returned to his shoulders before turning him around so they faced the mirror together.
Baelor’s hands wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him back against his chest. He leaned down to nuzzle beneath Maekar’s ear.
“You’re beautiful like this. he murmured.
Maekar shivered as Baelor’s gaze traveled slowly down his body in the mirror.
Then he felt it.
The thick heat of Baelor’s thick cock pressing against his arse, dragging slowly between his cheeks.
Maekar stared at their reflection.
The man had been hard for far longer than he’d realized.
Baelor only ground slowly against him at first, teasing circles against skin already oversensitive.
The length dragged along his slit, brushing his clit just enough to make him hitch a breath.
“Gods—just fuck me.”
Baelor exhaled sharply—half groan, half laugh.
“Gladly, love.”
In one rough thrust he sank into him completely.
Maekar jerked forward with a strangled sound as Baelor filled him to the hilt, the mirror showing every flushed inch of him stretched around that sudden heat.
Baelor didn’t slow down after that.
He drove into him again and again, hips snapping hard as he chased the friction. His teeth sank briefly into Maekar’s shoulder while the sounds of skin meeting skin echoed against the bathroom tiles.
slap-slap-slap
Moans spilled shamelessly from Maekar’s mouth as he clutched the counter, every thrust dragging through the warm, tight heat inside him.
Baelor groaned at the feeling—every movement deeper, rougher.
“That’s it, love,” he gritted out, fingers digging into Maekar’s hips.
Steam curled around them as the mirror reflected everything: sweat-slick skin, trembling thighs, the brutal rhythm between them.
And when Baelor hit just the right angle, Maekar broke completely.
His back arched violently, vision blurring as pleasure crashed over him.
Heat spilled out around where they were joined, clenching tight his brother's.
Baelor groaned and drove into him harder, chasing his own release until he finally spilled into him with a final series of uneven thrusts.
When it was over, Maekar slumped forward against the counter, boneless.
Baelor remained inside him for a moment longer, eyes drifting toward the cooling bath before returning to the mirror.
He guided Maekar gently into a slow kiss.
Eventually he slipped free, earning a soft, exhausted sound from Maekar.
A moment later Baelor lifted him effortlessly.
Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as they stepped in together, the lukewarm bath closing around their tired bodies.
Baelor settled against the back of the tub and pulled Maekar onto his lap.
“Comfortable?” he asked quietly.
“Fine,” Maekar muttered, though he let his forehead fall against Baelor’s shoulder.
Baelor wrapped his arms around his waist, holding him steady in the warm water.
“Just ‘fine’ after all that effort?”
Maekar huffed.
“Ask me again when I can feel my legs, Baelor.”
Baelor only smiled and pulled him closer, pressing a quiet kiss to his temple.
For now the fire between them had settled into something softer—leaving only the quiet warmth of the bath and the steady heartbeat beneath Maekar’s cheek.