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The morning cuts across the sky with a pale wash of blue that interrupts the long dormancy of the night. The young prince Maekar stands at his window watching as the first thin clarities of day begin to spread across the skies like the slow unfurling of branches, pale veins of light pushing outward into the fading dark, and he lets out a small, ill-tempered sigh while his serving boy behind him finishes fastening the last pieces of his hunting clothes. Though Maekar enjoys the hunt well enough—perhaps more than most things expected of him—he enjoys it far less when it must be done in a procession of forty riders, with half the castle trailing behind them, his father at their head, his bastard uncles close beside him, and what feels like half the garrison clattering along in noisy attendance.
Maekar would rather hunt with his brothers and no one else, the fewer the merrier.
“So that you may break your fast, my prince.” The kitchen woman murmurs the words softly, for the hour is still early enough that the castle remains wrapped in its quiet, and loud voices seem almost improper within those stone walls, as she sets down a small silver tray beside him, a cup of tea rest upon it and several pieces of bright fruit that have only recently come into the port from Gods know where, the colors strangely vivid against the dull morning light.
“Are you almost done?” Rhaegel Targaryen, black in hair and blue of eyes, is standing by the door.
Rhaegel has grown these past months, so quickly that the change still surprises Maekar when he looks at him; long arms and longer legs have carried him past Aerys in height, and there is something in the loose line of his frame that suggests the young man he is becoming, formidable if he cared to be so. Baelor has been urging him for some time to devote himself more seriously to the sword, to train with him in the yard as the older brothers do, yet Rhaegel never seems much stirred by such invitations, his inclinations bending instead toward the finer and softer pursuits of life.
Maekar studies him for a moment in silence. His brother’s silhouette—those broadening shoulders, that easy reach of limb—suggests a body that might well lean toward strength and athletic grace, and yet Rhaegel seems almost indifferent to it, as though such advantages had been placed upon him carelessly and might be worn or discarded according to whim. The boy’s eyes, Maekar thinks, are too pale by half, clearer even than the coldest morning sky and far closer in color to ice than to the dragonfire that is said to run in their blood, and the darkness of his hair together with the faint shadows beneath his eyes lend his gaze a strange, erratic quality, as though his mind were always moving somewhere just out of sight.
Maekar supposes his brother has not slept very much.
He wonders what it is that Rhaegel might have been doing instead. Enjoying himself, most likely. Having fun. Was it with Aerys? With Baelor? Is that what occupies them when Maekar excuses himself early from the table after the evening meal, leaving the hall while the others linger behind in talk and laughter? His teeth press together unconsciously as the serving boy behind him fastens the ruby ring he prefers to wear in his left ear. The touch lingers a moment too long, and Maekar pulls away with a small, impatient slap of the boy’s hands, a scowl of displeasure forming in the prince’s face.
Too many hands. Too many people. Too many brothers.
Rhaegel reaches idly toward the tray and takes one of the pieces of fruit, and Maekar rolls his eyes before turning to leave the chamber, though not before his gaze catches upon the thin circlet his brother wears upon his head—a narrow band of pale gold, almost white in the morning light, with a small gem set at its center, a stone of the same cold blue as Rhaegel’s eyes clasped delicately between two fine strands of metal. For a fleeting moment the sight makes Maekar wonder whether he himself ought to make greater effort with his appearance.
He hears Rhaegel’s footsteps fall in behind him as they make their way through the corridors toward the yard where the rest of the hunting party waits, and with each step Maekar feels himself growing more and more ill at ease, as though something about him were not quite in keeping with the dignity expected of a prince of the crown. Perhaps he ought to have taken greater care in dressing himself. Perhaps he ought to have arranged things properly, as Baelor always seems to do without appearing to try at all.
He finds himself wondering, with a quiet and slightly sour curiosity, what garments Aerys and Baelor have chosen for the morning. Aerys, who possesses a particular eye for such matters, especially when it comes to the shimmering silks of Lys or finely worked leather; dear Aerys, who seems to understand instinctively how a prince ought to look. Maekar reaches up to adjust the collar of his own garment, which has begun to feel strangely tight against his throat, though he cannot recall where the piece came from or who selected it for him. It had simply been placed among his things, and he had worn it without question. The thought occurs to him suddenly that it may very well be something passed down from one of his brothers.
The realization makes him feel foolish.
Should he, perhaps, begin to concern himself with such things? Should he learn the origin of the garments he wears, or even commission them himself? After all, it is still their parents who send the tailors to Maekar’s chambers whenever adjustments must be made, the men bustling in with their measuring cords and polite murmurs as though he were still a child being dressed by others. Maekar lets out a small, irritated sound beneath his breath. He is not a child anymore. He ought to be thinking about such matters on his own—about clothes, about jewels, about horses, about the way his hair is worn.
His hand rises unconsciously to his forehead.
Even now he still keeps his hair cut as it was when he was a little princeling—blunt, straight, simple, easily managed—and the awareness of it suddenly makes him feel absurd. A prickling embarrassment creeps up his neck, and for a fleeting moment the thought forms that he might claim illness and retreat back to his bedchamber, slipping beneath his blankets and avoiding the entire morning altogether.
Then, across the yard in the distance, he catches sight of Baelor standing beside Ser Corwyn.
Baelor is dressed in boiled leather and riding boots, his hair still slightly disordered as though he had remained in bed until the very last moment before being summoned to the yard, and the sight of him draws a quiet breath of relief from Maekar before he can stop himself. Baelor would never disappoint him. His brother is not dripping with scented waxes nor wrapped in elaborate finery, but dressed plainly and sensibly for the hunt rather than for the court, and somehow that alone feels reassuring.
He understands, Maekar thinks. The most gallant part of a prince ought to be his sword.
The thought returns to him suddenly, something Baelor once said long ago, and Maekar’s gaze falls almost at once to the longsword resting at his brother’s hip, the worn leather belt that supports it marked with small dragon shapes worked in bright silver—the only ornament in Baelor’s attire that truly catches the eye.
Without quite noticing it, Maekar reaches down and closes his hand around the hilt of his own sword, his fingers tightening there for a moment. And for the first time that morning, he smiles.
Baelor notices him almost at once.
It is the sort of thing that always unsettles Maekar a little, though he would be hard pressed to say why, for Baelor is speaking with Ser Corwyn when they approach and does not appear to have turned his head at all, yet somehow his gaze shifts at the precise moment Maekar steps into the yard, as though he had been aware of his youngest brother’s presence long before it could reasonably have been expected.
“Ah,” Baelor says lightly, one gloved hand resting against the pommel of his sword as he glances over, the mismatched eyes—one deep purple, the other a shade so dark it might almost be mistaken for black—settling on Maekar with that easy warmth which seems to charm every man who meets him. “There you are.”
Ser Corwyn turns as well, offering the younger prince a respectful incline of the head, though the knight’s mouth twitches faintly in what might be amusement.
“Your brother was beginning to think the hunt would have to start without you,” the knight says.
Maekar straightens slightly at that, his hand tightening unconsciously on the grip of his sword as if the gesture alone might lend him a measure of the quiet confidence Baelor seems to carry without effort.
“I was,” Baelor replies before Maekar can speak, his voice still mild, though there is something faintly amused beneath it as his gaze lingers a moment longer than necessary on the younger boy. “But Maekar has better sense than to miss a hunt.”
Maekar is not entirely certain whether that is meant as praise or simple courtesy, and the uncertainty leaves him awkwardly silent for a moment, aware in a sudden and uncomfortable way of the difference between them. Baelor stands easily beside the knight, broad-shouldered and relaxed in his riding leathers, his dark hair falling in loose disarray about his brow, yet the effect somehow only makes him appear more composed, more natural in his place than anyone else in the yard. Maekar, by contrast, feels abruptly young.
“You’ll ride close today,” Baelor adds after a moment, the words spoken almost as an afterthought while he adjusts the strap of one of his gloves. “The woods grow thicker beyond the lower hills.”
Maekar nods quickly, though he is not entirely certain why the remark seems directed particularly at him.
Ser Corwyn’s eyes flick briefly between them at that, a quiet sort of understanding passing through his expression before he looks away again, and Baelor’s mouth curves very slightly, as though the knight’s reaction amuses him. Maekar notices none of it. He is too busy trying not to appear foolish beneath his brother’s gaze, standing there with his hand still resting against the hilt of his sword as though that alone might make him resemble the warrior he wishes so badly to become.
Baelor watches him for another moment, the faintest hint of something thoughtful passing through his expression, before turning back toward the waiting horses as though the matter had never been of any consequence at all.
Maekar attempts to follow the slow-moving mass of men and horses that now fills the yard, riders mounting with varying degrees of haste while servants hurry between them carrying bundles of provisions—saddlebags heavy with bread, cold meats, skins of ale, and whatever other necessities the royal household has deemed fit to bring along for a hunt that already threatens to resemble a traveling court more than a morning’s sport.
From a small distance he catches sight of his father, King Daeron, already seated upon his horse with the quiet composure of a man who has long grown accustomed to waiting for others to finish their preparations, and beside him rides his bastard uncle Brynden Rivers, mounted upon a horse so white that Maekar finds himself briefly wondering whether the creature might also be an albino, as pale and colorless as the man who rides it, whose own skin and hair seem almost to drain the light from the morning air around him. The two of them are speaking together in low voices, apparently unconcerned with the half-formed disorder of the hunting party gathering around them, the lines of riders and servants still shifting and adjusting like pieces of some unwieldy puzzle not yet properly arranged.
Elsewhere in the yard Maekar notices a pair of stable boys struggling to calm a restless horse that stamps impatiently against the stones, and beyond them Aerys stands nearby wearing a displeased expression that suggests the entire affair has already tested his patience far more than the morning deserves. Curious, Maekar moves quietly through the shifting press of people in hopes of hearing more clearly what has drawn such irritation from his brother.
“Well, I did not wish to go in the first place,” Aerys is saying to their father in a tone that carries just enough sharpness to make the nearby servants glance nervously at one another while he gathers several of his belongings from the arms of a waiting attendant, evidently preparing to return to the castle rather than ride out with the rest of them. “Where is Maester Qymelle?”
Maekar blinks faintly at that. Surely Aerys cannot mean to abandon the hunt altogether merely to spend the morning studying with the old maester.
“Aerys,” their father says, the single word weighted with enough quiet authority that Brynden Rivers lifts a hand slightly, stepping in before the matter can grow sharper.
“Prince,” Brynden replies with a calmness that seems almost deliberate, the great red birthmark that spreads across his cheek shifting subtly as he speaks, its shape momentarily giving Maekar the curious impression of some crimson bird poised upon the verge of flight. “I am very sorry to hear of your dear mare, but such matters can be resolved.”
Lord Bloodraven, Maekar reminds himself silently. That mark truly does resemble a bird.
“What is happening?” Maekar asks at last of the knight standing beside him, a man whose face he does not recognize and whose shield bears a sigil unfamiliar enough that Maekar quickly decides he has little interest in learning it.
“The mare belonging to Prince Aerys died last night,” the man answers without turning his head, his gaze fixed intently upon the unfolding family dispute ahead of them. “Some sort of infestation—worms, they say. The news has only just reached the yard this morning, which means we are delayed yet again.”
Maekar frowns, his pale brows drawing together sharply above his eyes.
“Can they not simply find him another horse?” he asks.
The knight gives a small shake of his head.
“I cannot say,” he replies, his voice lowering slightly. “The larger stables lie on the far side of the keep, and who knows how many of the other beasts might be carrying the same sickness. Most likely some unfortunate fool will be obliged to surrender his own mount to the prince—unless His Grace is content to lose yet more daylight indulging the tempers of his sons.”
The man lets out a short laugh at his own remark, though it cuts off almost immediately as he seems to remember whose company he keeps. At last he glances down at Maekar and offers him an apologetic smile.
“No offense intended, my prince. Forgive me. It is very early yet.”
Maekar rolls his eyes in response and leaves the man where he stands, weaving his way forward through the crowd until he finds himself drawing nearer to his brothers.
When at last he manages to draw close enough to his family to hear them clearly, the red eye of Lord Bloodraven settles upon him with a peculiar sharpness that makes Maekar feel, for an instant, as though he has been singled out from the entire yard with deliberate precision.
“Little Maekar will ride with Lady Gwenys in the closed carriage,” Brynden says solemnly, delivering the decision in a tone so calm and final that it seems, to him, no more complicated than moving a piece upon a board. “And you may take his horse.”
“So be it, then,” Aerys replies with evident exasperation, running a hand back through the long fall of his pale silver hair as though the entire matter has already exhausted him beyond measure. “I shall take the stupid horse.”
Maekar would very much like, at that moment, to remember the lessons the maester once gave him regarding the nature of the human body and the balance of its four humors, and he tries to summon them now in the desperate hope that they might offer some explanation for the violent sensation overtaking him—blood, black bile, yellow bile, whatever strange fluids are said to govern the tempers of men—but whatever warm liquid might ordinarily circulate through his body seems to abandon him entirely, rushing instead upward into his face in a single burning wave.
A terrible weight settles in his chest.
He becomes suddenly aware of the eyes of the yard upon him—knights, grooms, servants—each pair of them turned in his direction now that the matter concerns him directly, and he is certain that his pale face must have gone completely red beneath their gaze. Surely they do not truly expect him to ride in a carriage, shut away beside Lady Gwenys, as though he too were some delicate lady of the court rather than a prince of the blood, as though he were nothing more than the sister of some lord sent to observe the hunt from behind glass and velvet curtains.
His throat tightens until he finds he cannot swallow.
He shakes his head before he quite realizes he has begun doing so, a strange and unpleasant heat spreading along the back of his neck, and he has the dreadful sensation that the humiliation alone may well rob him of his sight.
“No—no, not my horse,” he manages to say at last, the words coming out more strained than he would have wished as he directs them toward his father.
King Daeron sighs audibly, the sound carrying the unmistakable weariness of a man who has already endured far too many delays that morning.
“Maekar.” That is all he says.
Yet Maekar understands the meaning well enough, for he knows that his father cannot allow another son to challenge his authority before half the court after the small defiance Aerys has already displayed, and that of all the king’s children it is Maekar who ought most readily to obey without protest. He ought to behave. He ought to accept the king’s word. He ought, above all, to be the last of them to object.
And yet he finds that he cannot move at all, his body held fast where he stands while his stomach settles into a heavy, dreadful weight like a sack of stones within him. Another voice cuts quietly through the tension that has settled over the yard, smooth and unhurried in a way that seems to belong to Baelor alone, as though the morning itself has paused to listen.
“Maekar will ride with me.”
The words are spoken simply, without force and without ceremony, yet they carry across the small gathering with an ease that makes them difficult to question. Baelor is already mounted when he says it, seated easily upon his horse with the casual confidence of someone who has spent half his life in the saddle, the animal shifting beneath him with a patient toss of its head while its rider looks down toward the yard below.
For a moment there is a brief pause, no more than a breath’s worth of silence, before the matter seems to dissolve as quickly as it appeared.
“Yes, very well,” King Daeron says at last with the air of a man who is chiefly concerned with seeing the hunt underway before yet more of the morning is wasted, and Brynden Rivers gives a small nod of agreement beside him, his pale features betraying no particular interest in the arrangement beyond the convenience it provides.
“Then that settles it,” Bloodraven remarks calmly.
And just like that the matter, which has felt to Maekar like the collapse of the entire world upon his shoulders, is dismissed by everyone else with the ease of a passing inconvenience. Around them the yard resumes its movement almost immediately, the riders adjusting themselves in their saddles while servants step aside and the slow procession begins at last to take shape, horses turning toward the gates of the keep where the pale light of the morning now spills freely through the open archway.
Maekar, however, remains exactly where he is.
He cannot seem to make his legs obey him, though the rest of the company has already begun to move past, and for a moment he is dimly aware of the sound of hooves striking against the stones, the creak of leather harnesses, the low murmur of voices as the hunting party finally starts its departure.
Then Baelor’s horse draws to a halt beside him.
The animal shifts its weight with a quiet snort, and when Maekar lifts his head he finds his brother looking down at him with that same calm expression, one dark eye and one violet eye reflecting the pale light of the morning.
“Well?” Baelor says, though the word carries no impatience.
Maekar opens his mouth, yet nothing comes out. He feels absurdly rooted to the spot, as though the stones of the yard themselves have taken hold of his boots, and the knowledge that Baelor must now wait for him only makes the uncomfortable heat in his face return with renewed force.
After a moment Baelor exhales softly, a faint hint of enjoyment touching the corner of his mouth, and he nudges the horse a little closer until the great animal stands almost against Maekar’s shoulder.
“Come along,” he says quietly.
When Maekar still does not move quickly enough, Baelor leans down from the saddle and reaches for him with an easy familiarity, his hand closing firmly around the younger boy’s arm before pulling him upward with a strength that makes the motion almost effortless.
The ground falls away beneath Maekar’s feet in an instant.
For a brief and deeply humiliating moment he feels very much like a small child being hoisted up by an older brother, lifted bodily from the earth and set upon the horse before he has quite managed to gather his wits. By the time Maekar has gathered himself enough to understand the position he now occupies, he finds himself seated at the front of the saddle with Baelor behind him, the reins passing easily along either side of his body while the older prince settles once more into place.
The closeness is impossible to ignore.
Maekar sits stiffly, painfully aware of the warmth of Baelor’s chest at his back, of the breadth of his brother’s arms as they reach forward to guide the horse, the quiet steadiness with which he gathers the reins and turns the animal toward the gate where the rest of the party has already begun to disappear into the open morning. Relief floods through him first, sharp and undeniable, Baelor has spared him the carriage. Yet the embarrassment follows almost immediately after, heavy and suffocating, for the reality of the arrangement settles upon him with cruel clarity: he now rides before his brother like a boy far too young to manage a horse of his own, pulled up into the saddle and placed there without ceremony while half the yard looked on.
Gratitude burns alongside the humiliation, leaving him with the uncomfortable certainty that he ought to thank Baelor for the kindness, though the words refuse to come.
Instead he grips the front of the saddle a little tighter while the horse finally begins to move. For a long while after they pass beneath the shadow of the keep’s gate and descend into the pale breadth of the Kingswood, neither of them speaks.
The hunting party stretches and thins as it moves through the forest paths, the great procession of riders slowly loosening into smaller clusters that drift apart among the trees, and the sounds that once filled the yard—the iron ringing of hooves upon stone, the voices of servants, the restless stamping of horses—give way to the quieter rhythm of the woodland morning: leather creaking softly, branches brushing against cloaks and saddlebags, the distant calling of birds disturbed by the passage of so many men.
Maekar sits stiffly in the saddle before Baelor, his back straight in a posture that is almost painfully careful, as though any small movement might betray the discomfort he feels in occupying such a place. The reins pass along either side of him where Baelor holds them, and every shift of the horse beneath them carries with it the quiet, unavoidable awareness of his brother seated close behind.
He does not know where to place his hands.
For a time he rests them against the pommel of the saddle, gripping the worn leather with unnecessary firmness, but after several minutes that position begins to feel conspicuous, childish even, and he forces himself to relax his fingers while pretending instead to study the path ahead of them with great concentration.
The Kingswood unfolds around them in long green corridors of oak and beech, the light of the rising sun filtering down through the high leaves in pale drifting bands, and somewhere to their left the main body of the hunt moves steadily onward, the distant shapes of riders appearing now and again between the trunks before vanishing once more into the deeper thickets.
Ahead of them, riding somewhat apart from the rest, Maekar glimpses Rhaegel.
His brother sits easily among a small gathering of young lordlings whose bright cloaks and laughing voices carry faintly across the trees, a flask already passing from hand to hand despite the early hour while Rhaegel gestures with animated enthusiasm at some story that seems to delight the group. Even at a distance Maekar can recognize the loose grace with which he moves, the easy tilt of his head as he speaks, the careless charm that seems to cling to him without effort.
The sight makes something tighten faintly in Maekar’s chest.
Rhaegel belongs there among them, he thinks. It is the sort of company that comes naturally to him.
Baelor’s voice reaches him from just behind his shoulder after a time, low and warm in the quiet of the forest.
“You have been very silent this morning.” Maekar pretends not to hear it at first.
The horse continues along the narrow path with a steady patience, stepping carefully over exposed roots while the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves rises around them, and for several moments the only sound between them is the gentle jingle of the bit.
Then Baelor speaks again.
“What is it, little brother?” he asks, the words touched with an ease that might almost be affectionate. “Has the hunt already lost its charm for you?”
Maekar feels the faintest tightening in his jaw.
Little brother.
It is not said cruelly—Baelor rarely says anything cruelly—but the phrase lands upon him with a quiet irritation all the same, carrying with it the unspoken implication that he remains, in Baelor’s eyes, something small and manageable, a younger creature to be guided rather than an equal to be admired.
“Nothing is wrong,” Maekar answers after a moment, keeping his gaze fixed stubbornly upon the path ahead.
Baelor hums softly.
“Sweet Maekar,” he says then, the name spoken with such easy fondness that it almost sounds like a private delight. “You sit before me like a statue carved from marble, and yet you would have me believe that nothing troubles you.”
The horse shifts its pace slightly as the path widens, sunlight falling across them in warm fragments between the branches above, and Maekar pays attention to the way Baelor’s arms move lightly at either side of him while guiding the reins.
“I am not troubled,” he insists, though the stiffness in his voice betrays him almost at once.
Behind him Baelor lets out a quiet breath that might very well be laughter.
“Of course not.”
There is something unmistakably teasing in the words, a soft indulgence that suggests Baelor sees far more than Maekar would prefer him to see, and that knowledge alone makes the younger prince feel an uncomfortable heat begin creeping once again along the back of his neck.
He suspects, with growing certainty, that Baelor already understands perfectly well why the morning has unsettled him so badly—the carriage, the eyes of the yard, the humiliating moment of being lifted into the saddle before everyone like some small boy incapable of mounting a horse on his own.
And yet Baelor chooses not to say it.
Instead he lets the silence stretch between them again, broken only by the quiet rhythm of the horse’s hooves, as though he finds entertainment in allowing Maekar to struggle with his pride. Maekar stares ahead into the dim green passage of the wood and wishes, not for the first time that morning, that the hunt had never been called at all.
They ride on for some time after that, the narrow woodland track bending gradually deeper into the Kingswood while the voices of the larger hunting party fade into scattered fragments behind the trees, until the sense of being accompanied by dozens of riders begins to dissolve into something quieter and more private, broken only by the distant crack of a branch or the faint laughter of men who have chosen some other path through the forest.
Maekar remains very conscious of Baelor behind him. It is an awareness that refuses to leave him no matter how carefully he tries to ignore it, for the horse’s steady motion makes the presence of another rider impossible to forget; every small shift of the animal carries with it the reminder that Baelor sits close enough for the warmth of his body to be felt through layers of leather and cloth, his arms extending past Maekar on either side to guide the reins.
For a while Baelor allows the silence to linger again, though there is something almost deliberate in the way he does so, as though he has chosen not to hurry the conversation that must eventually follow.
At length he speaks.
“If you continue to sit so stiffly, sweet Maekar,” he says in that same easy tone, the words drifting down beside Maekar’s ear with quiet enjoyment, “the horse will begin to suspect it carries a carved statue rather than a living prince.”
Maekar exhales sharply through his nose.
“I am not stiff.”
“You are,” Baelor replies at once, sounding faintly pleased by the contradiction. “I can feel it.”
The remark makes Maekar realize the simple fact that Baelor is close enough to feel such things at all, just as he feels Baelor, and he straightens a little further out of pure stubbornness before realizing that the motion only proves his brother correct. Baelor shifts slightly behind him.
“Here,” he says after a moment, his voice gentler now, almost coaxing. “Take the reins for a while.”
Maekar hesitates, glancing down at the leather straps that pass along either side of him, uncertain whether the offer is meant seriously.
“You may hold them,” Baelor continues, as though the thought itself amuses him. “It is still your horse, after all.”
Without quite thinking about it Maekar reaches forward and gathers the reins in his hands, the worn leather warm from Baelor’s grip as he takes them, and for the first time since leaving the castle he feels a small portion of his dignity return to him. Riding before another man while he alone directs the horse feels far less humiliating than sitting uselessly in the saddle.
“Yes, like that,” Baelor murmurs.
Yet even as Maekar begins to guide the horse along the winding path, Baelor does not fully remove his hands. Instead, they remain there beside Maekar’s own, resting lightly against his wrists for a moment as though ensuring that the reins are held properly, the contact so casual that it would almost pass unnoticed were Maekar not already so acutely aware of every movement his brother makes.
Then Baelor adjusts him. The motion is small—no more than the gentle pressure of his hands settling briefly against Maekar’s forearms, guiding them a little higher so the horse’s head lifts properly with the reins—but the closeness of it sends an unfamiliar sensation creeping through Maekar before he quite understands what has happened.
“There,” Baelor says softly. “Better.” Maekar swallows.
He cannot explain why the placement of Baelor’s hands feels so strange, for there is nothing improper in the gesture itself; any experienced rider might easily guide another in such a way. Yet the warmth of that touch lingers in an uncomfortable way even after Baelor’s hands withdraw slightly, returning once more to their place at either side of him. The path dips gently between two long rows of trees.
Maekar focuses on the reins, determined to prove he is perfectly capable of managing the horse without assistance, yet the odd awareness remains, settling somewhere low in his chest where he cannot easily ignore it. After a moment he realizes that his face has grown warm again, he is very careful not to turn his head, and even more careful not to let Baelor see him blush.
The faint warmth that has crept into Maekar’s face does not escape Baelor any more than the rigidity in his shoulders had earlier, and though he says nothing of it. For a time he lets the horse walk on undisturbed beneath the green canopy of the wood, the reins still loosely shared between them while Maekar guides the animal along the narrow path. Then, as though some idle curiosity has occurred to him, Baelor’s attention drifts downward.
“Mm.” The sound is thoughtful.
Maekar feels the shift of his brother behind him taking off his mounting gloves, subtle but unmistakable, and a moment later Baelor reaches forward—not for the reins this time, but for something else entirely.
His fingers brush lightly against the side of Maekar’s head. Maekar startles.
“What are you—”
Baelor’s hand has already caught the small ruby ring set in Maekar’s left ear, turning it gently between his fingers so the stone catches the stray shafts of sunlight filtering through the leaves above.
“Is this new?” Baelor asks mildly.
The gesture is so casual that it would almost seem thoughtless were it not for the deliberate care with which he studies the jewel, his mismatched eyes lowering slightly as the red stone glints between his own rings. Maekar stiffens again.
“It is mine,” he says defensively.
Baelor hums, still examining it.
“I do not dispute that,” he replies. “But I do not recall seeing it before.”
“It was always there.”
“Was it?” Baelor tilts his head slightly, considering. “Strange. One would think I might have noticed.” Maekar frowns, uncertain whether he is being mocked.
Baelor releases the earring at last, though the motion of his hand does not end there. Instead his fingers drift idly downward, catching briefly against the collar of Maekar’s riding garment where the fabric has twisted slightly during the ride.
“This piece, however…” Baelor continues.
He smooths the collar with an absent sort of attention, straightening it with two small adjustments that bring the cloth properly into place.
“…I believe I have seen before.” Maekar goes still. Baelor’s voice remains perfectly mild. “Unless I mistake it,” he adds thoughtfully, “this belonged to Rhaegel.”
Maekar’s stomach drops. “It does not,” he says quickly and Baelor’s hand pauses.
“Does it not?”
“No.”
The answer comes faster than it ought to. Behind him Baelor is quiet for a moment, and Maekar suddenly has the uncomfortable sensation that his brother is smiling again.
“Well,” Baelor says at last, withdrawing his hand and settling easily once more in the saddle, “if you say so.”
The horse continues along the winding path, its hooves soft against the forest floor. After several moments Baelor adds, almost lazily,
“It suits you better than it ever suited him.”
It suits you better than it ever suited him.
The remark returns to him once, twice, several times in quick succession, and though there is no obvious insult contained within it, Maekar cannot quite prevent the thought that follows close behind: that Baelor has noticed, and not merely the garment itself but the effort—if effort it can even be called—of attempting, perhaps foolishly, to resemble those who stand before him in everything.
Rhaegel with his careless grace.
Aerys with his effortless devotion to his studies.
Baelor with that quiet, maddening composure that seems to belong to him as naturally as breathing.
Maekar tightens his hands upon the reins.
Behind him Baelor shifts slightly in the saddle, and when he speaks again there is that same faint note of amusement resting somewhere beneath his voice, the sort that suggests he has been observing Maekar’s silence with far more attention than he ought reasonably to have spared it.
“You have been studying your brothers,” Baelor says lightly. Maekar’s head turns halfway over his shoulder before he can stop himself.
“I have not.”
Baelor’s brows lift very slightly, as though the answer pleases him. “No?” he replies.
The horse steps over a fallen branch, its hooves muffled by the damp earth of the woodland floor, and Baelor’s arm moves briefly against Maekar’s side while guiding the reins around the obstacle.
“I thought perhaps you had,” he continues after a moment, his voice still carrying that same easy warmth. “The earring, for instance. I recall Rhaegel favoring something rather similar last year.”
Maekar’s jaw tightens.
“It is not the same.”
“Mm.” Baelor sounds unconvinced.
“And the collar,” he adds idly. “Aerys has a fondness for that cut.”
Maekar feels something unpleasant stir low in his chest.
“It was simply there,” he says, far more sharply than he intended. “Among my things.”
Behind him Baelor is quiet again for a moment, though Maekar can feel rather than see the way his brother’s expression must have shifted into that thoughtful, slightly pleased look he so often wears when observing some small curiosity.
“You need not defend it so fiercely, sweet Maekar,” Baelor says at last.
“I am not defending anything.”
“Of course not.”
Baelor exhales softly, and though the sound might easily be mistaken for a simple breath, Maekar has the sudden and terrible suspicion that it is very nearly laughter.
“You only sit before me like a prince awaiting judgment,” Baelor continues mildly, “while insisting the court has not gathered.”
Maekar’s grip tightens further on the reins, there is something in the gentle patience of Baelor’s tone, in the way he seems to understand without effort the thoughts Maekar would rather keep hidden, that makes the younger boy feel suddenly and painfully transparent.
“I do not wish to resemble them,” Maekar says abruptly.
The declaration surprises even him.
Baelor tilts his head slightly behind him.
“No?”
“No.”
Maekar stares straight ahead into the green passage of the wood, though the trees have begun to blur slightly at the edges of his vision.
“I am not Rhaegel,” he continues stiffly, the words emerging with increasing force as though each one must be driven out against resistance. “Nor Aerys. Nor anyone else.”
Baelor does not interrupt him.
That silence alone seems to make the next words worse.
“I ride as well as any of them,” Maekar says, though the statement feels suddenly fragile even as he speaks it. “Better, in some things.”
The horse’s ears flick forward as the path curves gently to the left.
“I am not—” Maekar stops. Something tight and uncomfortable has gathered in his throat, and he finds suddenly that finishing the sentence would require more effort than he wishes to expend. Behind him Baelor shifts again, and this time the movement is not quite so idle.
“Maekar,” he says quietly.
The gentleness in his voice makes everything worse.
“I am not trying to be them,” Maekar insists quickly, the words tumbling out now before he can properly consider them, each one carrying the faint, humiliating sting of something far too close to the surface. “I do not care what they wear, or how they sit a horse, or whether they laugh with every fool in the yard—”
He stops again, this time more abruptly, because there is a sudden and unmistakable sting behind his eyes that he refuses, absolutely refuses, to acknowledge. The reins tremble slightly in his hands. For a moment neither of them speaks.
Then Baelor moves.
It happens so quickly that Maekar barely understands what has occurred until it is already finished: one of Baelor’s arms slides firmly around his middle, the leather of his riding glove pressing against Maekar’s side as the older prince draws him backward in a single smooth motion.
The shift in the saddle is swift and decisive.
Where Maekar had been sitting stiffly at the very front before, he is now pulled several inches closer until his back comes solidly against Baelor’s chest, the contact unavoidable and immediate as the horse continues its steady pace along the forest path. Baelor’s hold is not rough, yet it is unmistakably firm, his arm settling securely across Maekar’s waist as though the adjustment had been nothing more than a practical necessity of riding.
“Sit properly,” Baelor murmurs near his ear.
The warmth of his voice, so close now that Maekar can feel it rather than merely hear it, leaves the younger boy strangely silent.
“You were about to slide off,” Baelor adds lightly.
Maekar does not think that is true.
Yet he does not argue.
Baelor’s chest is warm and solid at his back, the breadth of him impossible to ignore now that the distance between them has vanished entirely, and the steady rhythm of the horse beneath them carries both riders together in a slow, unbroken motion through the quiet green of the Kingswood. The sharp burn behind his eyes fades slowly, leaving behind only a strange, heavy quiet in his chest, while Baelor’s arm remains loosely around his middle as though the position were the most natural arrangement in the world.
“Shh.” Baelor’s voice comes again, low beside Maekar’s ear, softer than before, the teasing gone from it now and replaced by something quieter, something that seems meant not to provoke him further but to press gently against the agitation that has begun to rise in him like a fever.
“Peace, sweet Maekar.” The words are spoken with the kind of calm assurance that suggests the older prince believes the matter already understood, already settled, as though Maekar’s protests were nothing more than the restless movements of a creature too young to know its own mind.
“You are not them,” Baelor continues after a moment, his breath warm where it brushes faintly against the side of Maekar’s head as the horse carries them steadily forward through the shaded corridor of trees. “You are the little one. And sweet Maekar is quite enough.”
Little one.
Sweet Maekar.
Maekar’s teeth press together at once, the muscles in his jaw tightening with the same familiar resentment that rises whenever one of his brothers insists upon reducing him so neatly to that single position within the family, the youngest, the smallest, the one who must always be observed, corrected, guided.
Before he can answer, Baelor’s arm shifts again around him.
The movement is slow and deliberate this time, the large, steady hand that had settled earlier at Maekar’s middle drifting lower along the line of his body with an absent sort of firmness, as though the gesture were nothing more than another quiet adjustment in the saddle, another practical correction meant to steady him while they ride. Maekar becomes acutely alert of it at once. Every place where that hand passes seems suddenly too warm.
Baelor exhales behind him, a deeper breath than before, the sound heavy in the stillness of the forest as though he too has felt the strange tension that has gathered between them and seeks some steady ground within it.
Then, unexpectedly, Baelor bends his head, to kiss the his head. The touch comes light against Maekar’s hair, only the briefest brush of lips against the pale strands at the crown of his head, something so small that it might almost be imagined, yet the effect of it sends a sharp and bewildering heat through Maekar’s face all the same. The horse continues its patient walk beneath them, the forest slipping past in slow green shadows, and Maekar feels the firm weight of Baelor’s arm still resting against him, the quiet steadiness of his brother’s body close at his back.
Then the hand moves again.
This time the motion is less easily mistaken for simple guidance.
Baelor’s hand drifts forward, brushing briefly against the front of Maekar’s thigh as though searching for some place to rest, and when it settles there the pressure is unmistakable enough that Maekar’s breath catches sharply in his chest.
His legs tense at once.
The reaction is immediate and entirely involuntary, the muscles of his thighs tightening while his back straightens in a stiff attempt to pull away from the contact, as though distance alone might restore some measure of the composure he has just lost. He tries to shift forward again in the saddle.
Baelor does not allow it.
The arm around his middle tightens just slightly, firm enough to stop the motion without any real force, and once again that quiet voice reaches him beside the ear.
“Hush,” Baelor murmurs. Maekar goes still despite himself.
Behind him Baelor remains composed, as though nothing at all unusual has occurred, though the slow movement of his hand suggests a familiarity that unsettles Maekar far more than any sudden boldness might have done.
The realization arrives with uncomfortable clarity: Baelor does not hesitate because he knows exactly what he is doing. A man who has spent his years charming half the court, who has likely taken more willing companions to his bed than Maekar could count if he tried, does not move blindly in such matters; there is a quiet certainty in the way his hand settles, the subtle precision of someone who understands very well where a body might respond and how.
Maekar’s face burns.
The heat climbs rapidly from his neck to his cheeks, leaving him with the dreadful awareness that he must now be flushed nearly crimson, though he cannot bring himself to turn his head for fear that Baelor will see it plainly.
Worse still is the complete absence of any sensible thought.
He does not know whether he ought to protest, or pull away, or remain perfectly still and pretend the moment has not happened at all; every possibility seems equally humiliating, and the uncertainty leaves him frozen in place while the horse continues its steady rhythm beneath them.
Baelor says nothing more.
The kisses come unexpectedly, Maekar feels them first only as a faint warmth against the side of his neck, a brief pressure that might almost be mistaken for breath were it not followed by another, and then another, each one light yet deliberate enough that the meaning of them becomes impossible to ignore.
His teeth press suddenly into the inside of his own tongue.
It is not a sensation he knows what to do with.
Such things belong, he has always imagined, to other men—to the loud young knights who disappear from feasts long before the last cups of wine have been drained, or to his elder brothers whose lives seem to unfold in easy proximity to pleasures that Maekar has only ever observed from a distance. He has not yet found the opportunity, or perhaps the courage, to slip away into one of the noisier corners of the city where the taverns grow thick and the women lean from their doorways with painted mouths and bright eyes, nor has he quite managed to gather the reckless boldness required to press a gold coin into the palm of the dark-haired kitchen girl whose shy smile lingers sometimes a little too long when she sets bread before him.
He has told himself more than once that he would do it soon. That he would stop delaying. That some evening he would walk straight through the gates of the keep and down into the lower streets without hesitation, exchange a coin for warmth and learn at last whatever simple knowledge every other man seems to possess so effortlessly.
Yet the moment has never quite arrived. Something always interrupts it—duty, or circumstance, or simply the vague and inexplicable reluctance that clings to him whenever the thought grows too real. And now Baelor’s lips move again against his neck.
Maekar draws a sharp breath through his nose, biting down harder against the inside of his mouth as the unfamiliar sensation spreads along the back of his neck and downward through his chest in a way that feels far too immediate, far too close, for him to greet with anything resembling composure.
The presence of Baelor behind him suddenly seems enormous, the broad warmth of his brother’s body pressed solidly against Maekar’s back while the horse carries them steadily through the passage of the Kingswood, the steady rhythm of its movement doing nothing to loosen the tight and uneasy awareness that has begun to coil inside him.
Baelor Targaryen.
The perfect heir.
The eldest son whose name is spoken in the yard with quiet admiration by knights twice his age, whose calm authority never appears strained, whose confidence seems to rest upon him as naturally as his shadow.
And now that same Baelor bends his head again and places another small kiss against the pale skin just beneath Maekar’s ear.
Maekar lets out a faint sound before he can stop himself. It is embarrassingly soft. Thin. Too close to the startled protest of a girl caught unprepared by attention she does not yet understand, it sends a sharp flush climbing up his throat while he stiffens instinctively in the saddle.
“Stop—” he manages, though the word comes out weaker than he intended.
Baelor does not stop.
If anything, the quiet complaint seems only to draw a faint breath of enjoyment from him, warm against Maekar’s skin as his mouth lingers there another moment.
The hand resting against Maekar’s middle continues its slow, careful movement as well, not hurried and not forceful but deliberate in the way a man might soothe a restless horse—gradual, patient.
It occurs to Maekar with sudden irritation that Baelor must believe he is calming him. As though Maekar were some nervous mouse requiring gentle handling after a difficult day. As though the humiliation in the yard, the foolishness of his earlier anger, the entire cascade of feelings that had nearly overtaken him were nothing more than a childish storm to be quieted by warmth and a steady voice.
“I do not need—” Maekar begins.
The words falter.
Another light kiss brushes his neck.
The horse steps over a root and Baelor’s chest shifts firmly against his back, the quiet solidity of him impossible to ignore. Maekar swallows hard.
The heat in his face has not faded; if anything it burns now, spreading across his cheeks while the thoughts in his head refuse to arrange themselves into anything sensible. Part of him wishes desperately to twist away, to put distance between them and recover the brittle dignity he feels slipping from his grasp.
Another part—far smaller and far more troubling—remains perfectly still.
Baelor’s hand continues its slow work, patient and unhurried, and Maekar cannot decide whether the careful restraint behind the gesture is meant to comfort him or simply to prevent him from fleeing altogether.
Either way, he finds himself trapped between irritation and something far less familiar, staring ahead into the shades of the wood while the warmth of Baelor’s breath and the steady presence of him close behind make it increasingly difficult to remember why he had been so determined, only moments ago, to prove that he was no longer the smallest of them all.
He tries to breath through his nose, maybe the strange heat gathering in his chest will settle if he remains perfectly still, if he breathes slowly enough, if he ignores the quiet persistence of Baelor’s presence behind him and the faint brush of his lips that has not quite ceased along the sensitive skin of his neck. It doesn’t go away, it’s replaced by something he doesn’t fully know. It begins low in his body, a tightening that he cannot quite prevent, nor even understand at first, until the sensation grows unmistakably stronger and the truth of it forces itself upon him with a clarity so humiliating that it nearly robs him of breath. To his horror he can feel himself hardening rapidly beneath the heavy fabric of his riding clothes.
Maekar stiffens at once, every muscle drawing tight with the desperate instinct to conceal what is already far too obvious to the one person seated directly behind him, and the heat that had already been rising along his face deepens into something far worse, spreading downward into his throat while his stomach twists unpleasantly with a mixture of shame and disbelief.
He cannot stop it. He has no experience in such matters, no quiet understanding of the body that other men seem to possess so easily, and the unfamiliar rush of sensation leaves him feeling strangely exposed within his own skin, as though some hidden mechanism inside him has suddenly begun working beyond his control.
Perhaps it is simply his cursed sensitivity, he thinks wildly.
Some imbalance of those ridiculous humors the maester lectured him about—again, those strange fluids that are supposed to govern a man’s temper and health—though none of those lessons had ever included anything resembling this. The burning behind his eyes returns at once. For a brief, terrible moment Maekar thinks he might actually weep. He can feel the sting gathering there again, the sharp pressure that threatens to spill over if he so much as blinks too hard, and the humiliation of that possibility alone makes his chest tighten further while sweat begins to gather faintly along his brow despite the cool air of the forest.
“Baelor—” The name comes out strained. He swallows hard before forcing the rest of the words through the tightness in his throat. “Please—stop.”
The plea is quieter than he intends, though the urgency beneath it cannot easily be mistaken.
“You do not—” He falters, breath catching awkwardly in his chest. “You do not know—” How embarrassingly easy Maekar reacts to touch? How lacking in experience his little brother is?
He cannot finish the sentence.
How could he possibly explain it?
How could he confess, in the middle of the Kingswood with the great heir to the realm seated calmly behind him, that his own body has begun betraying him like some foolish stable boy overwhelmed by the first touch of a woman?
His breathing grows uneven.
Another soft sound escapes him—half protest, half something else entirely—and the embarrassment of it makes his jaw clench while his fingers tighten helplessly around the reins.
It feels as though his body has been seized by some unfamiliar influence, for the heaviness gathering low in his stomach leaves him faintly lightheaded at the same time, as though the ground itself might tilt beneath him if he moved too quickly.
The horse continues its steady walk.
The forest drifts quietly past them.
And Maekar sits rigid in the saddle, painfully aware that Baelor must feel every shallow breath he takes, every small shift of tension running through him, while the dreadful certainty settles deeper with each passing second that he is losing control of himself in a way he has never experienced before.
“Baelor,” he tries again, more urgently now, his voice thin with a mixture of frustration and something dangerously close to panic.
“Mhm?” Baelor’s answer comes lazily, as though the strained urgency in Maekar’s voice has not reached him at all, as though the younger prince has merely interrupted some idle morning ride with a trivial complaint rather than a plea that now sits lodged in his throat like a stone. “Something the little prince wishes to complain about?” Baelor murmurs, the words hot beside Maekar’s ear. “Some request you would like me to carry to the council?”
Maekar draws a sharp breath, preparing to protest again, to explain—though he does not yet know how he would possibly form the explanation—that something is very wrong, that his body has begun behaving in a way he cannot master, that if Baelor does not stop—
Then Baelor shifts in the saddle.
For the first time since they began this miserable ride Maekar becomes suddenly and painfully aware of the solid weight of Baelor seated directly behind him, the quiet strength in the arm still settled around his middle—and, worse still, something else he had not allowed himself to notice until that moment. The breath leaves his lungs in a startled rush. The realization hits him with such force that for an instant his thoughts scatter completely.
Baelor is hard. It’s not just him.
That knowledge alone is enough to leave him momentarily speechless, his mind struggling to reconcile the calm composure of the man behind him with the unmistakable evidence that Baelor himself is hardly untouched by the situation he has created. Before Maekar can gather enough breath to speak again, Baelor’s hand rises. Strong fingers close lightly around his jaw; with a small turn of the wrist Baelor guides Maekar’s head just far enough over his shoulder that their faces come within inches of one another.
Maekar barely has time to register the movement.
Baelor kisses him.
The contact is sudden, warm, and far more certain than anything that has preceded it, the kind of confidence that belongs to a man who has never doubted for a moment that he would be welcomed wherever he chose to lean closer. Maekar’s breath catches again, the world narrowing abruptly to the warmth of that mouth, Baelor’s tongue hot and heavy against his, the unfamiliar closeness of another presence invading a space he has never allowed anyone to enter before. His first instinct is to stiffen. Yet the hand still resting against his jaw steadies him there, and the closeness of Baelor’s body behind his own leaves little room to retreat even if he had the clarity to attempt it.
Embarrassment burns through him first—sharp, humiliating, impossible to conceal—followed quickly by something stranger and far less welcome, a bewildering sensation that leaves him momentarily uncertain whether the ground beneath them has tilted or whether it is only his own senses failing him.
He makes a small, strangled sound that might have been meant as protest.
It dissolves halfway into the air.
Baelor’s hand strays beneath the edge of Maekar’s clothing, and finds him hard and leaking all over his own under-clothes; the older prince pauses for a brief, considering moment, as though testing the truth of something he had only half suspected, and when he gives the faintest exploratory tug Maekar’s eyes fly open at once, wide with a shock he cannot quite conceal.
Baelor withdraws only far enough to study him.
He lowers his chin lightly upon Maekar’s shoulder, the weight of it warm and steady there, and from that close vantage he begins again with slow and deliberate patience, moving with the unhurried assurance of a man who has never doubted his understanding of such matters, he touches Maekar, his hand moving up and down from root to tip. The pace of it is almost unbearable, as though Baelor has decided that the moment ought to be prolonged rather than rushed, that Maekar’s mounting agitation is something to be observed with interest rather than quickly resolved.
Maekar’s hands have seized hold of his own thighs. His fingers dig so tightly into the heavy fabric of his riding clothes that his knuckles pale beneath the strain, the grip becoming almost painful as he forces himself to remain where he sits, rigid and upright in the saddle despite the trembling that has begun to creep through the rest of his body.
He cannot move. A ghost of a moan escapes him when Baelor presses just right over his slit, his brother’s larger hand swallowing his entire cock, Gods, he’s never felt so much precum on himself before. He tries to keep quiet, to keep still, the effort of it makes his shoulders tighten and his breathing grow shallow, each small shift of the horse beneath them sending another unwelcome tremor through him while the warmth of Baelor behind him seems to grow heavier with every passing second.
A soft chuckle reaches his ear.
Baelor’s amusement is unmistakable.
“Mm.” The sound carries the easy satisfaction of a man who has discovered something exactly as expected. “Has the maester assessed you lately?” Baelor asks after a moment, his voice low and conversational, as though they were discussing nothing more intimate than a lesson neglected or a horse poorly shod.
The remark, delivered with that same mild curiosity, feels almost absurd within the suffocating closeness of the moment.
“You still have time to grow, I suppose,” Baelor continues thoughtfully as he watches his younger brother’s cock disappear in between his hand.
Maekar feels the insult bloom hotly in his chest at once, the familiar resentment rising in him like a reflex whenever one of his brothers speaks as though he were still some half-grown boy who has yet to come properly into himself. Under any other circumstance he would have bristled at it, would have turned sharply with some bitter answer prepared on his tongue, if only to prove that he is no longer a child to be measured and dismissed so easily—but the words refuse to gather now, scattered by the baffling rush of sensation that continues to sweep through him, leaving his thoughts unfocused and his pride strangely dulled beneath the unfamiliar weight of pleasure pressing insistently through his body.
The humiliation remains, of course, prickling faintly along the edges of his awareness, yet it cannot quite take root the way it normally would, not when Baelor is there behind him—steady, attentive, impossibly composed even now—and the simple fact of that presence unsettles him in ways he cannot easily name. Rhaegel would have laughed, most likely, tossing some careless jest into the air before drifting away again toward easier company, and Aerys would have found a sharper way to expose the weakness, some elegant cruelty delivered with that cool disdain he wears so naturally; but Baelor does neither, and that difference alone carries a strange and stubborn comfort with it, one Maekar finds himself clinging to despite the embarrassment still burning across his face. For Baelor has always been the one who looks directly at him rather than past him, the one who notices when he is angry or silent or restless, and even now—when Maekar would almost prefer to disappear entirely into the shadows of the wood.
Every small movement from Baelor sends another quiet ripple through him, and the more he tries to remain rigid, to cling to that brittle pride which has always served him as armor among his brothers, the more futile the effort begins to feel; for the truth presses insistently upon him that it is Baelor who has brought him to this strange and overwhelming place, he becomes aware, with a faint and uncomfortable clarity, that he has stopped resisting, that he is whimpering and every part of him feels sensitive, heat bubbling under his skin, below his belly.
The tension that had held his shoulders so tight earlier begins to loosen by degrees, his grip upon his own thighs slackening as the stubborn effort to appear unaffected slips quietly from him, replaced instead by a reluctant surrender to the warmth gathering through him and the steady presence guiding it.
“That’s it,” he murmurs softly, the words falling close beside Maekar’s ear with gentle assurance, though there is something warmer beneath the tone now, something almost approving. “You see? You needn’t fight everything so fiercely.”
Maekar swallows, his breath catching slightly as the forest drifts past in silence around them, the narrow path unfolding beneath the horse’s slow and patient stride while the world beyond the two of them feels suddenly very far away.
“You are always so determined to prove yourself,” Baelor continues after a moment, his voice low and steady, each word shaped with quiet care as though he has no wish to startle him now that the resistance has begun to soften. “Always bristling like some young hawk convinced the sky is full of rivals.”
Baelor’s arm tightens just slightly around Maekar’s middle, reins in his hands, still in control of the horse, still in control of everything.
“But you need not prove anything here,” he adds, quickening his pace, the words gentler now. “Not to me.” Maekar moans at that, closes his eyes briefly.
The admission forms silently within him before he can prevent it: that he has always wanted Baelor’s attention more than anyone else’s, has always watched for the older prince’s approval even when he pretended not to care, because Baelor alone never seems to dismiss him the way the others do.
“I’ve got you,” Baelor murmurs after a moment, almost idly, though the words settle deep within Maekar’s chest all the same. “There’s no need to look so frightened.”
The possessiveness in the remark is subtle, woven gently into the quiet reassurance rather than spoken as command, yet it is there all the same, steady as the arm still resting across Maekar’s waist.
“You belong here for now,” Baelor adds softly. “With me.”
And though some stubborn part of Maekar’s pride might ordinarily have rebelled at the implication, he finds—much to his own irritation—that he does not immediately wish to argue. Baelor toys with him, with his cock, spreading the precum around while licking at his neck, Maekar thinks for a moment that he won’t ever feel like this again, not with his hand at least, he could never dream of replicating Baelor’s touch on him. He wants to beg his brother, to let him enjoy it a bit longer; to keep his hands on him a bit longer, he doesn’t want to lose it just yet. He whimpers again, his little noises becoming more and more agitated.
It comes upon him with a suddenness that feels almost violent, the long, unbearable tension that had been gathering inside him breaking all at once like a storm finally splitting open after hours of heavy, suffocating air, and for one dizzying moment Maekar does not even understand what is happening to him, only that the world seems to tilt sharply beneath him while his breath catches somewhere high in his throat and the tight grip he had kept upon himself shatters into something helpless and uncontrollable. His vision flashes white—truly white, as though the sun had burst behind his eyes—and the sensation that follows is so overwhelming, so strange and consuming, that his first instinct is not pleasure but shock, a stunned disbelief that his own body could betray him so completely and so openly, leaving him trembling in the saddle with his head tipped back against Baelor’s shoulder while a weak, broken sound escapes him before he can stop it.
The humiliation arrives almost immediately after, burning through him in a rush of heat that seems to spread from his face down through the rest of his body, because he is aware of how little control he has had over any of it, how quickly the careful composure he had tried so hard to maintain has dissolved into this clumsy, inexperienced surrender, and the knowledge that Baelor has witnessed every moment of it presses down upon him with a mortifying clarity that makes him want, for a fleeting second, to disappear entirely into the forest around them. Yet the shame cannot fully take hold, cannot harden into the sharp resentment he might normally feel, because the warmth behind him remains steady and unmoved, Baelor’s presence close and solid at his back in a way that feels almost anchoring while the last waves of sensation move sluggishly through him, leaving his limbs weak and his thoughts scattered like leaves in slow water.
His breathing grows uneven, each inhale dragging slowly into his chest as though the air itself has grown thicker, and there is a lingering dizziness that makes the edges of the world feel soft and distant for several long heartbeats, as though he has stepped momentarily outside of himself and has not yet quite returned. Somewhere within that hazy, trembling aftermath he becomes aware of a strange, reluctant gladness taking shape beneath the embarrassment, quiet but undeniable, because despite the confusion and the humiliating loss of control there is one thought that rises stubbornly above the rest: that it was Baelor who brought him there, Baelor whose calm voice and patient steadiness carried him through something he had neither expected nor understood, and the realization settles into him with a warmth that feels both deeply comforting and profoundly unsettling, as though some private boundary within him has shifted in a way that cannot easily be undone.
It takes Maekar a few seconds to understand the full meaning of it—that Baelor has made no attempt to satisfy whatever restless heat still lingers in his own body, that he has allowed the moment to end exactly where Maekar’s weakness left it, and the realization carries with it a strange mixture of relief and uneasy curiosity, because it would have been easy for Baelor to continue, easy for him to claim more than he has, yet he simply does not. Perhaps he does not need it. Perhaps he is simply that disciplined.
Or perhaps—Maekar thinks with a faint, unsettled awareness—it pleases him more to give than to take.
Behind him Baelor shifts slightly in the saddle, settling into a more comfortable posture, one arm still loosely resting across Maekar’s middle as though he intends to keep him there for the remainder of the ride, and the quiet steadiness of that hold makes it very clear that there will be no pause, no convenient stop by the stream where Maekar might clean himself and recover some small piece of dignity.
They are simply going to continue.
Maekar becomes painfully aware of the damp, cooling discomfort where the evidence of his humiliation still clings to him beneath the heavy fabric of his riding clothes, and the knowledge makes his ears burn with fresh irritation as he stares stubbornly ahead into the trees. Baelor knows. And yet he says nothing about it, offering neither apology nor indulgence, as though the matter has already been judged and settled within his own mind.
A just prince, Maekar thinks bitterly.
Baelor gives—but never without consequence.
The lesson sits quietly between them while the forest slides past.
Maekar shifts once, testing the possibility of moving away, but the arm across his middle tightens slightly in response, not harshly, merely enough to remind him where he has been placed. Maekar exhales slowly through his nose, forcing his shoulders to settle again as the last of the dizziness fades from his head, though another problem begins to form in its place, one that makes his stomach tighten with an entirely different sort of unease.
Because the truth presses upon him with embarrassing clarity: he has never felt anything like that before.
Not even close.
How, exactly, is he meant to manage himself after this?
The camp is still some distance away, and Maekar cannot help imagining the dim lantern-light of the tents, the idle laughter of soldiers, the wandering girls who sometimes trail the baggage wagons hoping for coins and warmth beneath rough blankets. Yet even as the thought forms he feels an uncomfortable doubt settle into his chest, because some instinct already tells him that the comparison would be unfair from the start, that whatever awkward fumbling he might attempt with some stranger in the dark would feel dull and clumsy beside what Baelor has already shown him.
Maekar feels his face heat again. Gods. He may well be ruined.
Baelor has spoiled something in him, and the worst part is the quiet suspicion that the older prince might know it perfectly well. Behind him Baelor exhales slowly, the sound warm against Maekar’s hair, and gives the reins a small guiding pull as the path curves gently toward the distant glow of the campfires ahead.
Neither of them speaks and Maekar has the troubled sense that the lesson is far from finished.