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“In the name of the King, yield!” – he shouted. – “Yield, you bastards, or I'll gut you!”
The stuffed straw man didn't answer, nor did the one of many Red Keep's cats. He was alone.
The King's entourage had gone hunting, alongside a few noble guests. And the King's sons. Maekar was four-and-ten now, grown enough to partake in the royal hunt with his brothers, and he enjoyed it well. Today, however, the whole idea made him sick. It certainly had nothing to do with the unworthy king's bastard, lodging once again inside the Red Keep's walls, with his retinue and his tyroshi wife. Nor had it anything to do with the way his eldest brother embraced said bastard the day he had arrived.
Maekar regretted his decision to stay back the very moment the hoofbeat had ceased. His brother would ride among some lords, pleasing himself, and Maekar would spend the whole day sulking in his chambers. It made him furious, and after a couple hours of loafing about the castle he ended up at the training ground, straining himself with practice until his joints ached and there was nothing in his head but lunges and feints.
He swung his sword. Cold metal pierced the sackcloth, exposing his opponent's straw bowels, and his only spectator of a cat hissed and ran away. Above the Red Keep's mighty walls, a horn blew. The King returns.
Around the corner, a hidden passage led up the wall. Baelor had shown it to him. The red stone crumbled under his feet and soiled his hands with rust, but he climbed up, anyway.
From there, he could see the royal progression as they rode down a wide walkway. A herald, first. A couple of gonfaloniers, bearing the Targaryens’ three-headed dragon. His Majesty the King, surrounded by whitecloaks. Maron Martell, the Lord of Dorne.
And then – Baelor, his dearest, his most beloved brother rode stirrup by stirrup with the bastard Daemon Blackfyre. His black doublet was buttoned up to his chin, and he wore a pair of riding gloves and a black-and-scarlet Targaryen cloak, not an inch of his sun-tanned skin visible. His black hair was cropped short to the roots, his posture upright and proud, and a smile on his face was courteous and meaningless. You never get a second chance to make a first impression, he would often say. At court, it was always about impressions, and gods forbid you make a wrong one. King Daeron has a dornish heir, – they would whisper. – He'd sold his sister off to a dornish savage. He'll throw the Realm to his dornish son.
His brother's many virtues would silence them. A victory at a tourney. A wise counsel. A bread handout in times of a drought. But then… it took but a tiny misstep for them to talk again. A spot of his bare olive skin. An unruly strand of black curly hair falling down his forehead. Our future king looks like a dornish whore. A smile too wide and passionate, meant for someone close. They are too fervent in their Dorne. A slightly colder reception to one lord or another. He will pour poison into my wine, you'll see. They're vicious creatures.
Maekar had sometimes wondered why the gods would curse his father's beloved firstborn with such otherness, and spare him, a useless fourth son.
The portcullis lifted with a heavy creak and a metal clanking, and the cavalcade rode inside.
Baelor and the Blackfyre seemed to be discussing something quite animatedly, as they rode past the gate, and the Blackfyre bastard leaned closer and patted his companion’s shoulder in the heat of it. Maekar's fists clenched. He shouldn't do it, he shouldn't touch his brother, the blood of the dragon, how dares he – he shouldn't even be here. And yet, Daemon Blackfyre definitely was, riding into the Red Keep's courtyard, and his long silver-gold hair fell down his back, untied and loose, and his smile was wide and bright and content, and his purple eyes glowed.
Maekar climbed down the wall and stormed towards the stables.
Down there, in a fuss of servants and lords and horses, Baelor handed the reins of his mount to a stableboy, smiling reassuringly, and measured Blackfyre's dainty grey mare with his gaze.
“She's good for hunting, indeed,” – he said. – “Agile and quick. Although I doubt she'd make it at a tourney. She lacks both the gallop and the strength.”
“She is but four,” – Blackfyre argued, his voice like a hundred silver bells. Alas, ill-played. – “And barely wayed. Give her a couple years, and I might get my revenge on you, Prince Baelor Breakspear.”
“And I will look forward to it,” – his brother smiled, patting Blackfyre's horse lightly.
Enough of that, Maekar thought. The bastard was put in his place last year. He is not getting anything from his brother.
“Baelor!” – he shouted, getting closer, utterly ignoring Blackfyre. He had no patience for fucking smalltalk.
“Little brother,” – Baelor turned to him with a nod and smiled graciously. – “How fare you? You did not get too bored in our absence, I hope?”
“You've missed our training,” – Maekar grumbled. – “Come on, I challenge you. Can't wait to beat you up bloody.”
The Blackfyre bastard tilted his head, still towering over them in his saddle, and laughed.
“Looks like you are in trouble, Baelor,” – he said. – “Not to worry, little one. I won't hold your brother any longer.”
“It's “Your Grace” to you, Blackfyre,” – Maekar hissed. – “And it's us who decide whether to hold anyone in here.”
A strong hand dropped on his shoulder, pinning him down to the ground. Say but a word…
Blackfyre's horse shifted its iron-shod feet, as he tugged on the reins, a smile still on his lips.
“The little one has grown teeth,” – he spoke. – “As well as claws. You should be heedful with him.”
The grip on Maekar's shoulder tightened, and he bit his cheek from the inside.
“It was a great hunt,” – Baelor said, courteously, his voice soft and melodious. – “Largely due to your presence, uncle, and I have no doubt the feast would be equally pleasant. I must take my leave now, but I hope to see you there.”
“It was indeed,” – the Blackfyre bastard smiled. And then he pulled at the reins and spurred his horse, as it reared and turned on the hindquarters. Maekar tried his best not to wince when a hoof flew in the air above his head. – “Good day to you, princes.”
And he rode away. The courtyard, otherwise crowded and noisy, seemed hollow with him gone. Good riddance.
The hand on Maekar's shoulder loosened, patted gently and then ruffled his hair.
“I suppose you won't let me change,” – Baelor asked.
Maekar shrugged off his hand and headed towards the training ground he'd left but a short time ago. He didn't have to look back to know that Baelor would follow. A petty revenge, it was, but sweet nonetheless.
***
Once they stepped into the training yard, his brother had put up a show of preparing himself. He pulled off his gloves, slowly, unbuckled his cloak and folded it carefully upon the well-kept grass, unbuttoned his doublet and remained in but his silk shirt – alas, the same Targaryen black – and rolled up his sleeves.
Maekar could not help but stare. The sight made his chest tighten and his mouth water. It was for him and him alone, and neither the court nor Daemon bloody Blackfyre won't have but a glimpse of this.
Baelor raised his eyebrow.
“Well?”
Stop gawking, little brother, or you'll burn a hole inside of me with your pretty eyes.
Maekar blinked, with some effort, and went to fetch their blunted weapons. A longsword, for his brother. A mace and shield, for him. Steel, not wood.
“Steel, not wood,” – Baelor weighed, gripping his sword, making a couple of trial swings. – “And after a day riding. You must be truly angry with me, sweetheart.”
There was no point denying it.
“Don't mock me,” – Maekar snarled, and attacked him.
They had found their rhythm, a cycle of blows and swings and steps, none of them ready neither to press forward nor to retreat, when Baelor spoke again.
“It was unwise to insult my guest like this,” – he said, his longsword nicked at Maekar's shield.
“He insulted you,” – Maekar grumbled, trying to focus.
“By doing what?” – a blow of his mace was warded effortlessly.
“By his very existence! He walks around like he owns the place and looks at you, patronizing, and does whatever he wants while you crawl out of your fucking skin to please the crowd,” – Maekar ran out of breath by the end of his rant, and Baelor immediately took this advantage to shift his position and outflank him.
“Alas, dear brother,” – he smiled. Maekar searched vainly for a breach in his defence. – “What befits a dragon does not befit an ox.”
“You are the dragon here!” – Maekar swung his mace only to be blocked again. – “And he's a gods damned bastard.”
“It’s a matter of perception. But enough of that, my love. You'd said you wanted to beat me.”
Perception. Fucking bastard was undoubtedly perceived as in all his splendor, no matter what he did. Son a king, son of a queen. Thick valyrian blood in his veins, sharp valyrian steel in his hands. Aegon reborn, and not the unworthy one. Only Maekar's eldest brother could match Daemon Blackfyre in his perfection, and it took him all his strength.
The flat side of a longsword slapped his forearm, a sharp spark of pain spreading up his shoulder. Maekar clenched his teeth and charged ferociously.
The Blackfyre, the court, the malicious tongues, even Seven bloody gods themselves may harm his brother, but no one can hurt him the way that Maekar does.
And the world turned into steel, and blood, and fire.
***
Baelor lay on the lush green grass, defeated, but clearly not displeased.
“You fought well, sweetheart,” – he murmured.
It was no fair victory. Baelor was stronger, more skilled and four years older. He could've tread Maekar in the ground in no time – gods, he'd managed to unhorse the bloody Blackfyre – yet he indulged him. He always did.
Maekar dropped down to the grass beside his brother. A new graze bloomed on Baelor's forehead, where Maekar had hit him with the edge of his shield. There would be rumors, definitely. Maekar wanted to touch it, to soothe it with his lips, to lick away the blood.
“Are you good now?” – his brother asked.
Maekar bit his lip stubbornly.
“I won't be good until he's here,” – he spat out. – “Why spend your time with him? Why favor him so much?”
“You won't let go,” – Baelor sighed. It was no question. – “Ser Daemon is a knight of the Realm. And he is good company. I see no reason why I shouldn't favor him.”
Maekar kicked him with his heel. Baelor didn't move.
“Speak plainly, would you?”
The last rays of the setting sun spilled down where they lay. Baelor closed his eyes, exposing his face to it.
“He is my friend,” – he admitted, his voice suddenly weary and his whole frame limp.
“Friendship ought to be reciprocal,” – Maekar grunted, plucking idly on the grass.
“I see you've reconciled with Aerys, little brother, hence the use of words?” – Baelor chuckled softly.
Maekar kicked him again.
“I don't believe you. He is a pretender and a bastard and a threat to your right to the Iron Throne.”
Baelor's eyes flew wide open, one blue, one brown under his dark lashes, and studied him thoroughly.
“One can't be both?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” – Maekar grunted. – “You are the fucking heir and he's a bastard. You ought to have his head brought to you on a spike.”
Baelor propped himself up with his elbows, suddenly self-collected and serious.
“You know I cannot do that, nor would I want to,” – he spoke. – “You are right. No matter how much I like Daemon, he is indeed a threat. To father, to me, to the Realm. And to you.”
Maekar tried to open his mouth, but Baelor had raised his hand, silencing his before he'd even managed to breathe in.
“Don't look at me like that. You're not as far in the line as you'd like to imagine,” – he continued. – “King Aegon had soaked the very soil beneath our feet with wildfire. It takes but a spark to ignite it. A wounded pride. Daemon is still mad about Princess Daenerys’ wedding. Gods only know what he might come up with now. And while I cannot grant him what he desires, I will do my best to soothe him. As long as he dines at our table and sleeps in our halls it will neither be perceived as our mistreatment towards him, nor would he be seen as the offended party worth fighting for.”
He lay back and exhaled deeply as if his speech had exhausted him more that their fight. He looked at Maekar once again.
“I belong to the Realm, my love,” – his voice came, soft as a whisper now. – “And as long as my affection can keep it from setting ablaze, it is granted freely. And you'd better make your peace with the fact of it, for your own good.”
Maekar felt the rush of hot blood blurring his vision once again. Within a heartbeat, he kicked his brother with his elbow, knocking his breath out of him, and climbed atop his hips, and pressed his wrists down to the grass. Baelor didn't even pretend to put up a struggle.
“I won't,” – Maekar hissed against his face. – “Make my peace. For you belong to me first.”
“Belong to you?” – Baelor chuckled weakly, his breath tickling Maekar's cheeks. – “And assuming it was so, what would you even do with me? You'll have my head, too?”
Maekar leaned against him, and pressed his mouth onto Baelor's furiously, and sank his teeth into his lower lip, drawing blood. He kissed his brother, messy and hungrily and desperately, as if he could kiss that kindly nonsense out of his mind.
“I'll have him dead,” – he gasped, finally, when he ran out of air. – “And I'll make you mine.”
“We'll see, my love,” – Baelor smiled. – “We'll see.”