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Silence stretches between them.
Not uncomfortable, not overbearing, but the kind of silence that leaves words unspoken. Or maybe, not yet spoken.
The chair underneath him is sturdy, the table well-made and polished. Maekar has never cared for the finer things. Prefers simpleness and efficiency. The intricate carvings on the legs have never been able to hold his attention for long, but now he finds himself looking at them.
Dragonclaws holding up the tabletop, made from darkened wood. Aerion used to be fascinated by these kinds of markings, chewing on them and then– when he had grown, tracing them carefully with his fingers.
Before him, Baelor shifts. He has his back turned towards him, arms resting behind his back. His clothing is simple, unbecoming of his position but then, they are in private and he asked Maekar to attend. In the light of the setting sun, the rigged scars on the back of his head are a stark reminder of what Maekar almost did to him. To himself. To the realm.
Months of bedrest, the best maesters from here to the narrow sea, and pure unwillingness to abandon Westeros had brought Baelor back onto his feet. Only a few weeks later, spring sickness had burned through the realm. Now, months later, the heavy burden rests on the table, the crown sometimes too heavy and painful to bear over the scars Maekar left there.
“I don’t know what to do,” Baelor admits, shoulders tense. He smells undecided and resentful but not angry.
“If you, of all fucking people, don’t know what to do we’re all lost,” Maekar remarks and the spike in Baelor’s scent tells him that his brother isn’t up for it today. “Talk to me.”
“I have no– After Valarr and Matarys.” Bitterness and pain. Maekar has never been someone who is very good at consoling others with his scent, but he tries his best to appear comforting. It’s a new day, after all. “Aerys is–” Baelor throws his hands up. “And Rhaegel,” hands moving towards his head. “His pups are-” A look of dissatisfaction. “And you–”
Maekar raises his eyebrows.
“Daeron is–”
“No.”
“And Aemond–”
“I believe you’ll be quicker if you only name those of my pups who are worth considering.”
Silence.
Maekar knows the failings of his own pups well enough not to take it personally. Still, shame burns through him, at the obviousness of his own shortcomings as a dam.
“I hesitate to name Aegon because he has spent so much time with the common folk,” Baelor says. “Have you thought of the suitors for Aerion? Is there anyone who might be suitable to tie him down and give the realm an heir?”
A laugh breaks out of him. There have been suitors, of course. Aerion is still in Lys, will remain there until Maekar recalls him but none of the alphas who have made a play for his oldest omega pup are even worth considering.
“That bad?” Baelor rubs his forehead, takes a deep breath. His nose is tilted towards Maekar, so at least the calming scent is working.
“The alphas are either so weak he’d break them within a week or they will beat him into submission. I am not thrilled at that prospect.” If all fails– Maekar is a realist. He knows of duty. Still, he wishes better for his pups.
There is one – well, maybe there are two – options Baelor hasn’t mentioned yet, as much as it pains him. “You could take another mate.”
Oh, that is anger radiating from him. Baelor turns around, his mouth set in a hard line.
“People have been asking about it,” Maekar simply says, as an excuse. He knows it’s still fresh. The loss of both of his pups more so than the long-passed death of his omega. Replacing them with someone else just for the sake of succession is most likely a painful thought.
But that’s why Baelor is king, after all. Great power and the responsibility to the realm.
He comes closer, sits down on the chair next to Maekar. Leaning forward, elbows on the table, head pressed into his hands.
For a second, Maekar hesitates. Then– he leans forward himself, one hand towards Baelor’s shoulders. Carefully, in case– Baelor has never shown himself to be afraid of Maekar since Ashford but still– guilt and shame ravage inside of him. He presses his palm against the alphas neck, the back of his head. Scent glands rubbing against skin, hair, scar tissue.
Baelor breathes.
“You could get mated,” the words are mumbled and Maekar lets out a high bitched laugh.
“You forbade me, do you not remember?”
A year since Dyanna’s passing, Jena long dead. Maekar had put away the mourning clothes only the day before, glad to be free of them, to be able to take care of his pups without the weight of them hindering him. Baelor had insisted they stay in King’s Landing, closer to family, closer to him and his own family. And Maekar had obliged, because when had he ever been able to say no to Baelor?
They had been drinking. Not much, just enough that tongues could be freely loosened, their movements a bit sluggish. Enough to walk in a straight line and ride a horse, possibly not enough to fight in battle, if pressed.
“I told sire I don’t want you to get mated off to the next lordling who wants to better themselves,” Baelor had said, sipping at his drink.
“It is appreciated,” Maekar, slouching on a couch, had thanked him. “But why?”
For a moment, there had been silence. Purple and brown staring at him intently, something burning in those eyes that might have been the wine, madness or a secret third thing.
“I would like to keep you to myself, for a while, brother. Raise your pups here with mine, let them be a good influence on each other.” Baelor’s tone had been strange. “I don’t like the thought of just anyone thinking they're worthy of–” he had broken off. And then settled on “having you.”
He had always wondered what Baelor had intended to say that day. Why it had been so important for his brother that Maekar remained unmated. Eight summers now, with growing pups and a cold empty bed. Evenings with the court or his family. Late nights sparring or talking with his brother, whose demand for Maekar’s time and space had always been a touch improper, were it not for Targaryen history.
“You’re right,” Baelor relents. “I need you here, I can’t have you on your back with some noble alpha rutting between your thighs thinking they are worthy of you.”
Maekar’s hand stills. His breath hitches.
Underneath his caress, Baelor has gone completely frozen. No motion, no breathing. His eyes are still hidden by his hands, but his scent– his scent.
There has always been something unspoken between them, ripped apart by alliances and matings, something that has festered not only for the years since their mates passed but before that, when Maekar was first struck with heat and Baelor’s eyes had burned even hotter than the fever inside of him.
In the tent during the rebellion, tired from fighting, celebrating their victory when Maekar had revealed the secret he carried for four moons, ever since Dyanna had last rutted him, Baelor’s eyes focused on the slight swell of his belly, hidden underneath copious amounts of armor and protection. Strong fingers touching the skin, the hunger and desperation with which his brother had welcomed Maekar’s second pregnancy, even if it was nothing but a stark reminder of Maekar belonging to someone else.
“Who,” Maekar struggles for words. “Who would be worthy then?” And then, because he might be closer to his fortieth year than to the thirtieth but he is still a younger brother, where it counts, he adds. “Am I meant to fuck myself for the end of my days or until you throw some poor sod my way?”
Maekar isn’t– he knows there are omegas who struggle with what they are. Who resent their fate, their urges and nature. Maekar, maybe because of the blood inside of him, has never felt that way. He was allowed to fight when it came to protecting his family, he was allowed to raise his children and rule the lands given to him by his sire. The price for that freedom was mating to whoever was deemed important enough. It’s a fate Aerion hasn’t made peace with yet, unlike his younger omega siblings. But even he will, eventually.
Responsibility to their family beats the fight out of all omegas or leaves them in ruin.
“Forgive me, brother,” Baelor says. He raises his head finally, looking directly at him. There’s something in his eyes, something in his scent. “I shouldn’t have– burdened you with these thoughts.”
“I’d rather you speak your mind unlike every fucking fool at court.” He sighs. His hand moves away from the damage he has done to Baelor and rests close to his neck, thumb digging into the scent gland there to release the tension in Baelor’s shoulders. “Am I meant to stand by while you pick a young omega and knot them until they are pupped? Envious of the life growing inside of them while I remain alone?”
“I won’t–” Baelor says. “One of your pups will be my heir or maybe Rhaegall will have one less touched in the head. I will not mate again–”
It is a fool’s wish. King Baelor, who will one day be known to nobles, maesters, and smallfolk alike, as King Baelor the Great for he brought peace and prosperity to the realm in the five decades that he reigned, cannot remain without an heir of his own blood, not as young as he is.
“Think clearly, brother. Don’t be a fool. You are too young to remain alone. If you feel you cannot mate while I remain alone and unfucked, choose someone for me.” He leans forward, rubs his cheek against Baelor’s clothed shoulder. “I will gladly be put on my back if it brings you peace.” Gladly is a stretch of course. The things he does for his brother. For the realm. If his dam could see him, she’d be struck down in surprise and joy.
“No.” The words barely pass his lips, the way Baelor’s teeth are pressed together. One of his hands reaches for Maekar, digging into the fabric of his sleeve, then his thigh.
“I cannot bear to see you with another. Not again.”
Ah. There it is. The thing they do not speak about.
Baelor doesn’t dare look at him. His eyes are trained forward, the fingers digging into Maekar’s flesh hot and painful even through multiple layers. He cannot bear to look at what he wants. But he cannot let go.
Great, kind, fearless Baelor Targaryen. King, brother, alpha.
Too much honor to demand one damn thing for himself.
Maekar must do it then.
“Is that it then?” he asks. “You believe you can’t have me, so no one else can?”
“That’s not– Maekar,” Baelor tries to explain himself. His scent betrays him. Yearning and want and jealousy, all mixed together in a combination that brings heat to Maekar’s core. His hand raises away from Maekar’s thigh and he cannot have that. He grabs it, presses it between his legs.
“Let me give you an heir, then, and be done with this nonsense.”
For a moment, Baelor’s hand remains completely still. His eyes, finally flicking over, those mismatched colors drinking him in. His hand is shaking and Maekar believes that the great honorable Baelor Targaryen might lose his nerve, might be too restrained to join his ancestors in their preferences. But then his hand grips the space between Maekar’s legs.
“I can smell you,” he says, raspy. “Feel you.”
“We should hang the tailor then, these clothes are supposed to be triple layered and scent-proof,” Maekar remarks. “Amateurs, all of them.”
It’s idle chit-chat to distract himself from the fact that Baelor’s hand is wrenching itself past multiple layers of belts, smallclothes, pants, the overcoat that falls open around his legs. When thick, callused fingers part the curls between his legs and dip right in, Maekar curses Baelor’s insistence. Could they not have taken their clothes off immediately?
Baelor leans over, presses his mouth to his cheek, the corner of his mouth, nuzzling as one would their siblings when younger, then careful and guarded. But Maekar is no virgin, has six pups to prove that. The next kiss that touches his lips is open mouthed, tongue and teeth and then there’s a hand around his throat. Just resting. Holding as Baelor growls, pushing his tongue into his mouth, his fingers into his cunt and–
“Clothes,” Baelor grunts. “I need to see you.”
Maekar snorts. “Are you going to let go of me then, brother?” He raises one eyebrow. “Alpha?”
Baelor lifts him to his feet. Or– tries to lift him and Maekar helps. They end up standing, awkwardly between chairs and table and Maekar’s own slick gets smeared all over his clothes, Baelor’s clothes when they tear at them. Parting them, ripping belts open. Maekar’s robe ends up thrown on his chair, with his undershirt. He parts the belts holding Baelor’s together, letting it hang open. Strong chest, dark hair, scars from the countless battles they fought.
Baelor’s mouth at his neck, tongue moving along the old faded scar of a mating bite and then teeth– testing. Maekar throws his head back. His hands open the multiple buttons of Baelor’s trousers, gripping him, hot and heavy and thick and– he hasn’t seen his brother bare since his years numbered single digits, when Baelor had gone through his first rut and it was deemed improper for the pups to bathe together.
The cock he holds in his hands now is – thankfully – different from what little he remembers and he has never enjoyed the act much, has never liked his face being pressed against hair, balls slapping against his chin but– his eyes zero in on Baelor’s cock, thick and veiny and his mouth is dry and–
Teeth break skin.
It takes him a moment to notice, so singleminded is the thought of choking himself on Baelor’s cock. “What are you doing?” he pants.
Baelor pulls back. Blood around his mouth. His neck burns, his heart hurts, his insides throb and–
“No bastards,” Baelor says. “Or are you–” Insecurity on his face for just a flash. “I assumed–” He grinds his teeth. “I want you in full, not– not just like this–”
Maekar blinks. Had he considered this, had he even entertained the thought? An heir needs to be legitimate of course, so the second he offered he knew. Or he should have known.
“If you changed–”
“Fuck off,” Maekar snaps. “Have me, do it. Make it hurt. I can bear the heat it will throw upon me.”
Baelor looks at him, mismatched eyes drilling into him. Whatever he finds there must be enough.
He leans in again, tongue over Maekar’s neck, then teeth again and Maekar breathes in.
Six-and-ten he was, when this happened to him last. Frightened, resentful, but reassured by the kindness in Dyanna’s eyes, the calming presence of her scent. Dutybound and content, with quiet fire simmering inside of him. So many omegas who had it worse, who were mated off to alphas their grandsire’s age, who were hit and abused, kept as breeders with their mouths shut. Being of the dragon blood had meant privileges for him, but still– he never craved to be mated and it hurt like hell. It triggered a heat that could only be sated by a knot inside of him, as is normal for all omegas, even if it made him feel horrible.
It still does. It hurts when Baelor sinks his teeth into his neck, one hand in Maekar’s hair to hold him in place, the other gripping his hip, pressing him against the table, like one of those meat between bread meals that Aegon has grown so fond of since he made off with the fucking hedge knight. Thinking about Aegon and the mutt he calls his knight is never good for his mood so Maekar tries to calm his thoughts which brings him right back to the pain in his neck. It throbs, right in tandem with his core. With some regret he abandons Baelor’s cock for now, puts his hand inside his own trousers, needs to relieve himself of the heat in his core, the wetness of his cunt.
Baelor slaps his hand away, holds it down next to him.
“Fuck you,” Maekar curses him. It burns inside of him. He needs to tame the fire somehow, needs to stop it, to make it go somewhere else.
Baelor’s teeth pull out, his face hovering over Maekar’s. His vision is blurry, he must be going cross eyed.
“Can you be good?” he asks. “Let me take off your clothes and don’t touch yourself?”
“Sure,” Maekar lies.
Never to be known as a fool, Baelor raises one eyebrow. “Hands on the table, omega.”
It slams into him like– well like a mace to the head. Immobilises him as the wound throbs, as the bond burns its way through his very being. Baelor kisses him and he opens his mouth, lets him devour him with the kind of lustfulness that gets omegas stuck in temples.
But then he’s gone, slipping his own boots off his legs before he kneels down. He unclasps the tiny belts holding them together at the calf, before tugging them off. Baelor’s hands shake as they pull on his trousers, then his small clothes. There’s sweat on his brow, his tongue licking over the blood on his teeth.
The bond burns inside him too and Maekar is hit with the sudden knowledge that they will leave this room not as two, but as three. Call it a prophetic dragon dream experienced while standing up and feeling his soul merge with Baelor’s.
“What are–” he breaks off when Baelor buries his mouth between his legs. One shaking leg over the shoulder, nose against silver curls, tongue at his clit, fingers– He’s balancing himself on one leg when Baelor sucks his clit into his mouth, thrusts his fingers inside. Draws the other one up as well and finds himself fully on the table with the force of Baelor’s hold, his movements.
Both his knees dig into Baelor’s shoulders and it is not enough, it can never be enough because there’s a tongue in his cunt, hot and wet and Maekar’s never been sweet or easy to please in any aspect of his life. But the bond, the heat.
Pressure builds in his core, too much, too much. It’s been too long. His legs clamp down around Baelor’s head, mouth open. He’s making a noise, he’s sure of it.
“Breathe–” Baelor orders. “Breathe through it, come on.”
It takes all of his willpower to take a deep breath as it shakes through him, wave after wave. He can barely hold himself upright on the table, one arm behind him, shaking. When Baelor’s head dips back down, he tugs on his hair. Short dark and grey strands between his fingers.
“No–” he says, panting, twitching from aftershock. “Let me feel you.”
Any other time, he wouldn’t have said that. What omega says no to more tongue and lips on their cunt? A fool. But with the heat of the settling bond inside of him– Cooking his insides until he’ll feel a knot lock them together, he has no patience for anything else.
For a moment it seems as if Baelor would fight him on it, an honorable alpha, making sure their bedpartner was fully satisfied. Maybe it is the proximity to Maekar’s cunt, the scent, the taste, his fingers still inside, playfully wiggling every so often, pressing against the soft walls in a way that makes Maekar twitch.
In the end, he pulls back, straightens himself up onto his feet. Kisses Maekar again and he can taste himself on Baelor’s lips, licks the corners of his mouth, bites at his chin.
They don’t speak as Baelor pushes him down, back against the table, hand pressing down against his throat, goblets of wine falling over or swept to the floor, but none of that matters. Something nudges at his entrance, dips in and out, testing, feeling and Maekar moans.
He’s not used to it after ages of just his own fingers and nothing else.
“You’re all swollen up here,” Baelor says. He’s staring at him, right where his cock insists on not fully breaching where Maekar needs him most.
“Someone’s been debauching me,” Maekar accuses him. “Wouldn’t let go.”
“We must put him on trial.” One finger presses against Maekar’s abused flesh, driving up and down and Baelor is still not fucking him, even though Maekar can’t breathe. “Are you always this sensitive?”
Leave it to honorable Baelor Targaryen to want to learn about the peculiarities of Maekar’s cunt when he could be getting his cock wet and knotting them together. As if they do not have the rest of their life to get to know how much pressure Maekar likes on his flesh or how deep he could take Baelor’s cock inside his mouth.
“No,” he relents. “And as riv– eh-ting as this is–Contrary to what I tell my pups, the tip does in fact not count, so get the fuck on with it.”
“So impatient,” Baelor says and it would sound condescending if it weren’t for the look on his face. His eyes are still stuck between Maekar’s legs. Pupils blown, both eyes dark now, one hand around Maekar’s hip, the other still holding onto his throat. The single-minded focus of an alpha not being able to think about anything but the cunt right in front of them.
“You’re right,” Maekar says, despite the burn in him. “How long have you waited? Twenty years? Five-and-twenty? Longer? Before or after my first heat?”
Baelor exhales.
“What’s another, huh? Let me go find some alpha who’ll keep me entertained until then, maybe pup–”
Baelor slams in.
“Don’t–” he warns. “Talk about others.”
Maekar blinks- Or maybe he thinks he blinks. Maybe he says something, maybe he doesn’t. He feels like he can’t breathe because– Baelor’s cock is so warm inside him, thick and filling him everywhere. There’s just the beginnings of the knot right where he’s pressed into his cunt and yet, Maekar doesn’t know how he’s going to bear that.
Baelor pulls back. His next thrust is slower.
His eyes are closed, his brows furrowed. Nails digging into Maekar’s flesh.
“How are you so tight?” he asks and it fills Maekar with something that no omega with his amount of children should still care about. “Six pups and you feel as if you haven’t had a cock inside of you.”
Flattery, Maekar decides, will get Baelor everywhere.
Go figure. Wars, death, politics, pregnancies and more nonsense than any parent should be forced to bear from their children and yet at the core Maekar is just like any other stupid bitch who wants to hear that they’re the best their alpha ever had.
Baelor’s eyes open finally, looking down on him, searching, finding. Something changes in his face, teeth grinding, grunts escaping his mouth. He starts to set a punishing rhythm, driving Maekar up on the table, pulling him down with his hands.
It’s loud in the room. Whines, grunts, moans. Hips meeting the inside of his thighs, balls slapping against his ass, the squelsh of a hard cock inside a wet cunt, Maekar’s own hands scrambling for purchase.
Maekar raises his hands, presses them against Baelor’s chest, holding onto him, drawing him in. “Look at me, brother”, he demands and Baelor’s eyes find his. “I hav– haven’t had a cock in– un– me since before Rhae was–” he breaks off for a moment. Baelor’s eyes are fixed onto his now. “I have been waiting for– You have been– taking your sweet fucking time.”
He loses his breath for a second when Baelor pulls him up by the throat, holding his hips close at the same time. Legs higher around Baelor’s waist, hands around him. Lips on his again, tongue plundering his mouth, keeping him quiet.
His words, he learns in this moment, have as much weight for Baelor in the bedroom – or on the table – as they do anywhere else.
Maekar doesn’t tell him then, that he imagined Baelor slipping into his room after Dyanna’s death, when Maekar was heavy with pup to hold him, fuck him, make him his. Suck on his teats, claim the pup inside of him for himself.
That’s a tale for another time, maybe.
Another time, when he’s not– when he’s–
He pulls his head back from Baelor’s, panting, gasping for breath. “Brother, alpha, I–”
“There you go,” Baelor says. He sounds strained. His hips snap closer, the knot slipping inside with some struggle. “Come around me, let me feel you–”
Maekar digs his heels into Baelor’s sides to hold him closer, feels his inner walks clamp around Baelor’s cock, his knot. It locks them together and if the thought it was too much before, it’s– it’s–
“Maekar,” Baelor says and Maekar looks at him, looks at his eyes, his face, that face that he has wanted, yearned for, lusted after, seen in his dreams and every waking moment for as long as he has been on this earth and–
It hurts. It hurts like a bitch, because the bond burns through him, tearing him apart, reshaping his very being into one belonging to Baelor, fitting right into the nooks and cracks of his own being.
It wasn’t like this with Dyanna.
It’s at the same time the best and worst feeling he has ever felt.
“Pull out,” he demands, somehow finding words. “It’s too much. I can’t–”
He tries to skid away. The knot won’t let him, swollen too big and Baelor holds onto him, watches him trash and struggle.
“You can take it, brother. Breathe– Let me, come on–”
Baelor’s cock twitches inside of him, seed hot and heavy, pumping into him as Baelor grinds his hips against Maekar’s.
He can’t breathe. He cannot– how could anyone.
Baelor pulls one hand up to his own mouth and licks his fingers. Presses them between Maekar’s legs, right against his clit and the peak he has been climbing for the past few moments crashes down upon him.
It buries him underneath, unable to speak, to do anything but hold onto Baelor’s sides, his shoulders, anything his hands can grip as his nails dig deep enough to draw blood.
“There you go,” Baelor says. He sounds strained, his own eyes hazy. They fall forward the both of them, bent over the table, Baelor above him, barely holding himself up, as Maekar’s cunt clenches around him.
“That’s right, take all of it,” Baelor mumbles against his neck, where the bite is throbbing. It’s mindless words, soothing and possessive at the same time. One of Maekar’s own hands drops down between their bodies, pressing against his own belly.
They breathe together, knot pulsing. It doesn’t stop filling him with seed. Seven above, Maekar was right, he will not leave this room with an empty womb.
“Did it–” he croaks. “Do you feel–”
“Yes,” Baelor says. Eyes closed against his neck, tongue lapping at the bite.
Maekar tries to tear his throughs away from his cunt and Baelor’s knot.
His own heartbeat.
The weight of Baelor’s body.
And then– something scratching at the edge of his own subconscious, pushing towards him, merging at the frays.
Mine, mine, mine, echoing not inside his mind, but inside his soul.
“Possessive,” he mocks Baelor and feels nothing but contentness.
“Jest all you want, brother,” Baelor mumbles. “But I felt your hysterics pass into glee and belonging as if they were my own feelings.”
“I was not in hysterics,” he says. One hand on Baelor’s back, drawing circles. He gets to do that now. This is his alpha, at last. “A bond is a painful act for an omega, alphas don’t know shit about it.”
“Of course,” Baelor agrees, but Maekar can feel the laughter in his soul. “I will make it up to you.”
“Naturally.”
Baelor finally pushes himself up onto his hands, face hovering over Maekar's. He leans up, kisses his alpha, because he cannot stop thinking about it. He gets to do that now.
“And while I will start with that the moment your cunt has space for my face again–” Maekar rolls his eyes, but does agree that this sounds like a wonderful plan. “I have recalled Aerion from Lys.”
“Why? And why are we talking about this now?” He’s not ready. And Maekar still hasn’t decided what to do about him.
“I have sent word to Ser Duncan to intercept him and take him home the long way around. It will do him some good.”
“No.” Aerion is obsessed enough with the giant alpha as it is. And Maekar yearns to see his second-oldest, as difficult as he is. “He can come home. I will deal with him.”
Baelor caresses his face. “You need to be careful now.” Something calming floods his mind and Maekar pushes back with nothing but wrath. “Let him rage against someone who cares very little for his antics. It will be a good influence for him. And maybe he and Aegon will grow closer as well. We’ll send for him when you’re closer.”
Baelor wiggles his hips above him and Maekar’s breath hitches. Very very carefully, the knot slips free and he immediately feels empty, too empty. Seed dripping from him.
“Baelor,” he snaps and Baelor laughs. Fingers inside, stuffing them full. Maekar’s flesh feels raw and abused but Baelor grinds his palm against his clit, plays with the soft flesh right where lips meet inner walls and it distracts him for just a moment.
Hands over his face, he mumbles. “Aerion is going to fuck the Hedge Knight, you realise that, right?”
“Possibly.” Baelor’s breath is hot, tickling the soft curls between his legs, the hot flesh just waiting for him.
“He will have bastards that will pop out fully grown, just to punish me for sending him away.”
Baelor hums.
And then doesn’t do anything.
Maekar pushes himself up on his elbows. “What are you waiting for?”
“For you to stop complaining.”
He laughs, loud and ugly. “Good luck.”
“I think it’ll be good for you. If you don’t complain, I will make you feel good. They say positive thoughts are good for expecting dams.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“And yet I don’t hear any more complaints.”
Maekar rolls his eyes, but Baelor finally puts his mouth on him.
He doesn’t know if he has any more peaks in him, if his body and mind can take another but within moments he can barely remember his own name, let alone why he would care about Aerion and the fucking Hedge Knight.