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Maekar taps his fingers, rather obnoxiously, on the map spread over the wooden desk in Baelor’s tent.
“It is fucking nonsense.”
“You worry too much.” Baelor replies readily, as if he was expecting his brother’s complaints.
“You take useless risks.”
“I do not.” Ever so sure of himself. “You know that, too, Maekar. If we wait too long this could turn into a siege.”
Maekar rolls his eyes. He’s right, he supposes. It’s a simple enough ambush. It wasn’t originally planned but the rebels have set their outpost in such a disadvantaged position it would be mad not to push their line forward. Unless it is a trap. Bloody Blackfyres wouldn’t be above it, Maekar is sure of it.
“Very well,” he concedes.
“We ride just before dawn, then. I’ll have House Hayford and the stormlords be alerted.”
Maekar groans, signaling to his squire to undo the clasp of his armour.
This battle could be good practice for the men to perfect the vicious tactic that he and his brother are consolidating on the battlefields.
“I’ll tend to your horse, my prince.” The squire bows his head to Maekar, then Baelor, before leaving them alone.
Baelor gets up from his chair, walks over to stand behind Maekar. He squeezes the muscle of Maekar’s shoulder, hard, sending a slow pang of both pain and relief through his body. Wearing armour all day gets his shoulders and back too tense. Maekar groans quietly.
“You push yourself too much.” He’s scolding him, brotherly.
“I learnt that from you.”
Baelor sighs.
“Do you remember your first tournament? In Lannisport.” When Baelor can’t have the last word, he tends to divert conversations to different topics. He has no interest in talking about war any further anyway. If he’s not riding his horse into battle, he is discussing strategies and intel from the scouts around the war table during what feels like all of his waking hours.
Now, alone with his brother, he needs to be granted a distraction.
“Of course I do. My memory is not as terrible as you might think.”
Maekar groans again when Baelor digs his thumbs in the taut muscle at the base of his neck.
“That’s not what I meant. It feels so long ago.”
Maekar was six and ten then, only still betrothed and Baelor’s Lady wife had been carrying his heir in her belly.
“Aye, it does,” he concedes. Then he goes on, “the excitement of it was special. I felt important, almost as much as a reflection of you.”
Baelor drops his forehead against the base of Maekar’s neck, his hands closing around his middle.
“Everyone’s eyes were on you. A new Targaryen prince jousting for honour, after neither of our brothers ever joined me. It was special. You were.” He adds the last two words in an exhale. There had been a fiery pride in him, when people cheered for Maekar, now his own knight, but also, deeper down, a guilty jealousy, as if being acclaimed by so many others could make Baelor’s own affection feel lesser.
Maekar drops some of his weight on Baelor, lets him carry it in their embrace.
“You won that tourney, Breakspear. You had Lord Baratheon yielding at your feet, in the dust. He had mocked me before the fight. The duel you won, it was…” He trails off, not really finishing the sentence as he closes his eyes, the noise of the horses and the cheers from the audience still ringing in his ears. He felt a burning pride that day as if he had claimed the victory himself.
Baelor holds him tighter. He remembers that day all too well. Lyonel Baratheon, bright smile constantly, defiantly painted on his face, had approached the young prince and asked for his favour, as if Maekar were a Lady, for the joust. He had the gall to bow from his stallion and wink at his brother, while Maekar spit on the ground. It was then that Ser Lyonel had raised his head and looked at Baelor, grinning still.
That day, Baelor fought with fire in his heart, a fire that he always keeps restrained, tamed and useful, then burning wild like forest fire, the same fire and blood that belong to their House and served to conquer the seven kingdoms, he is sure of that.
“I won for you.”
Maekar scoffs.
“I’m no princess.”
“I know,” he whispers before kissing the back of Maekar’s neck, under his nape. He’s never wanted any princess, ever. Only Maekar.
He presses his body more firmly against him, making sure Maekar feels his growing hardness against the curve of his arse.
“Baelor,” his voice drips with need, Baelor has learnt to recognize it well. It’s like a prayer between his lips, from a man that doesn’t pay his respect to the Seven as much as he should, but never spares words drenched in devotion for Baelor.
It does something to him, Maekar’s love. It undoes him at the seams. How many hours of his life have been spent learning, practicing how to be good? Nay, better than good. A paragon of perfection to show everyone, detractors and allies alike, that he is a worthy heir of Daeron the Good. He puts his life on the first line of this war to prove just that. When it comes to Maekar, however, none of it matters. He sins and has no regret about it, his brother is the only person he trusts to see him as he is, without his crown of perfection to shroud him. And he knows Maekar will love him all the same.
He pushes Maekar against the war table and he bends forward without needing Baelor to hint him to do so.
“Don’t make it too quick,” Maekar orders while his head drops between his shoulders, brow touching his folded hands on the table. The longer strands of his hair pool over the maps, hiding paths and strategies.
Baelor gets his quilted trousers out of the way, humming affirmatively while he kisses Maekar’s clothed shoulder.
His pavilion is well guarded and nobody has permission to come in. It’s late and the men prepare for battle by resting or whoring or sharing war stories. So Baelor takes all the time he can spare, with caring hands he makes sure Maekar will enjoy himself, then he fucks him slow against the sturdy oak while candlelight dances over the few inches of Maekar’s bare skin he could uncover.
They’re quiet, of course, but when Maekar’s breathing begins to come shorter, Baelor bends his back further so he can nibble at his earlobe and whisper Maekar’s name with love and need at once. Maekar rocks his hips back against Baelor’s, biting his lips to keep the most acute whimpers serrated between his teeth. Baelor smiles at that, he can’t help himself thinking how he’s always struggled to not make noise when his pleasure nears its peak. He strokes him faster until Maekar spills in his fist, the bitten off sound of Baelor’s name between his lips enough to make Baelor drive his hips into him harder, more deliberately.
He loves Maekar. He thinks it without voicing it, worried Maekar would frown at his sentimentality as he does, sometimes, now that they are at war. He only says his name when his orgasm reaches him and it sounds like a confession of love all the same.
Mere seconds after, as soon as he’s off him, Maekar turns around and kisses him, one hand around Baelor’s throat, as he likes to do, with a touch so gentle that it surprises Baelor time and time again. How can Maekar’s hands be so light and reverent on him when he’s seen them being vicious vessels of the Warrior in the dust of tourney rings and in the mud of battlefields?
“Don’t die,” Maekar breathes against his lips.
Baelor smiles, his eyes soft, recognizing Maekar’s own way of professing his love for him.
He grabs Maekar’s wrist, guiding it to his lips. “I won’t.” He kisses him, lips against his pulse.
They make themselves presentable. Maekar serves himself a cup of wine while Baelor washes his hands in the water basin in the corner of the pavilion but he doesn’t stay much longer after that.
They’re not likely to see each other again before the fight, Maekar is commanding the backlines while Baelor will drive the first assault. Usually, when they fight, Maekar stays close to him as his second in command but, really, he’s more like his shadow, a sword sworn to protect the firstborn Prince no matter how bloody the battlefield. Baelor feels safer next to Maekar than he does surrounded by the white capes of the Kingsguard knights.
He is also the commander he trusts the most and that means he can’t assign a duty as important as this to anyone but Maekar. They won’t see each other in the chaos of the fight but it is no matter, Baelor trusts that they will celebrate the victory they deserve, together.
***
There is something primal about war. Maekar has barely reached the second decade of his life but he recognized the enchanting song of it during his very first battle. Perhaps even before that. Did he hear the first notes when he fought his first tourney, seeing red blood rain on the dusty ground by his hand? Or even earlier still when he saw the magnificent strength of Baelor Breakspear shattering lance after lance and coming back victorious?
Now, he has two sons waiting for him in Kingslanding and he commands an army, men who put their lives in Maekar’s hands.
He is not a religious man, not as much as he should be, but he understands divinity, he can’t deny the act of a force bigger than men being at play when he lives through the noise, the fury, the smell of battle. They are pawns in the Warrior’s hands but he doesn’t doubt his favour.
His own yells are lost to his ears, noises muffled by his padded coif and his helmet, yet the ringing of metal against metal resonates through his core, his bones, until every blow, taken and lashed, becomes him. The battle is part of him as much as he is part of the battle and there is a certain irony in the knowledge that this is what it takes to maintain the peace of his father, The Good, among the realm.
His foe drops to the ground, helmet dented grotesquely by Maekar’s mace. He puts a foot over the dead man’s chest as he raises his shield and tanks the next blow, he walks over and past the slain knight, bashing his shield forward, and forward, corpses at his feet until the red dragon eats the black.
Soon enough, Daemon will be next.
Maekar pants, snares even, mouth wide open as he tries to fill his lungs with air, even though the exhaustion makes them burn. The grip on his weapon weakens until the metal hits the ground with an inaudible thud. He can barely hear anything at all. The last screams of war, cries of surrender of the Bastards still standing, the all so well known, damning whines of the wounded. He feels alive, he feels heavy, his armour bearing the same weight of a mountain.
Baelor.
He needs to see him. They won, the fight is over, so he will be victorious. Unscathed. He must. He promised.
An envoy approaches him on a fresh horse. Its white mane marred by mud. He says something that is lost to Maekar’s ringing ears.
“Where is my brother?”
The boy dismounts.
“Close, my prince. The frontline smashed the bastards back on themselves.”
Under his helmet, Maekar smiles to himself. It worked. And it will work on a bigger field too, Maekar will be the last line before Kingslanding and Baelor will take down the rest of Daemon’s blighted allies.
He takes the reins from the boy’s hands, mounting the white mare with a single stride, his body almost moving of its own volition, as if his muscles weren’t straining and burning.
He follows the red dragon banners, galloping between death and captive rebels, until he sees green and gold sigils.
“Prince Baelor?” He yells to who he supposes is Lord Hayford, his face still hidden behind his grandhelm.
“There, my Lord.” He raises his arm toward a great tree, five hundred yards away. There is a large pyre burning wild, perhaps too dangerously so on the open field, just next to it.
Maekar approaches it, dismounting the horse when it becomes agitated by the fire.
Only then he notices his brother’s own horse, beautiful, dark creature lying lifeless in the mud. A splintered lance still stuck through its chest. Maekar’s heart skips a beat.
He keeps walking, running almost, until he reaches the great tree. There, Baelor sits with his back to the treetrunk, hidden away from the rest of the lords. The visor of his bascinet is raised and his gaze seems to observe something so far away that it might as well be not on this battlefield. When he makes out the shape of Maekar’s armour though, there’s light sparking in his eyes again.
“Get up.”
Maekar stands in front of him. Baelor says nothing. He does nothing. He’s still gripping his sword as if ready to jump into action were a threat to approach them.
“Are you hurt?” Maekar speaks again, just slightly softer at the edges.
Baelor’s armor is covered in mud and blood. Red tint from his gauntlets to his couters. The black metal however seems unscathed, well fit around his brother’s broad figure.
“No.” He doesn’t sound tired either. Perhaps he feels like Maekar, carrying an impossible weight yet ready to fight a hundred more battles.
“Get up.”
He offers him a hand. Baelor takes it, pushing himself up and sheathing his sword.
“We won.” Maekar states the obvious, because that victory is buzzing in his head, rushing in his veins.
“There will be more battles to win.”
Maekar shoves at his shoulder and Baelor, unprepared to take the hit, takes half a step back.
“We won,” he says again, his voice coming clear even past the slit of his barbute helmet. He crowds Baelor, getting in his space, and he shoves at him again. This time, however, Baelor stands his ground, feet dragging slightly in the mud.
It only rouses Maekar further, who pushes against him with both hands, putting his weight into it. Baelor grasps at Maekar’s arms, trying to find leverage on the pauldrons of his armor, the leather straps that hold it up.
“We did. We did win, Maekar.” He pushes back against Maekar and it does nothing to hinder his brother. His back hits the tree but the noise is nothing compared to distant screams of soldiers, neigh of horses. Somewhere on the battlefield there might still be clanging swords.
Maekar closes the distance between them, as if he was seeking Baelor’s lips, but he only succeeds in smashing his helmet against Baelor’s, the loud thud of the metal on metal clash stunning them both for a moment.
“Mae-”
“I want you.”
Baelor blinks at him, his eyes wide. Maekar feels a rush all over and it gets worse and worse when he recognises that same want in Baelor’s eyes. His heart beats so fast in his chest he expects it to echo under his armor.
Maekar shoves at Baelor again, cutting off his chance to say anything in response, full body wedged against Baelor while he tries to push him further back, as if he could move a secular tree with his strength alone, unsure about what his ultimate goal here is. Thoughts and words feel useless in his head, he is action, he is a weapon. He wants Baelor.
Baelor grips his middle, just under his cuirass, one hand on his shoulder, and forces his knees to bend with his leg. Maekar hits the ground with the right side of his body, dragging Baelor down with him.
He doesn’t think, it’s a memory more than anything else that guides him to swing at his brother, trying to force him off as if he was foe, a rebel, an opponent knight and Maekar was fighting for his life. They struggle against each other, like children, like they had travelled to a decade past, but they’re armed, strong, skilled, and Maekar can see Blackfyre blood smudged on the side of Baelor’s face.
Baelor tries to push Maekar’s helmet off his head, one hand under the edge of it. The spikes on Maekar’s gorget rip the sturdy leather of his glove, they puncture his palm. Maekar grabs Baelor from the armpit of his extended arm, using his legs to throw him to the side and using the momentum to straddle him. When Baelor pushes back, he hits him on the chest with his forearm and when the back of Baelor’s helmet sploshes in the mud he quickly unsheaths Baelor’s offhand blade, pointing its sharp edge under Baelor’s chin.
Baelor stares at him, mouth open and panting. Sweat on his skin washes away some of the blood, some of the splatters of mud on his brow. It looks like he’s trying to make out the most of what he can see of Maekar’s face, his eyes, through the slit of his decorated helmet’s visor. It seems like he is at a loss for words too.
A distant voice in Maekar’s head, his rationality trying to reach him from thousands miles away, reminds him that this is treason. He breathes hard, through his nose, shaking all over, electrified. His hand is sure and steady though, dagger threateningly still against the throat of his brother, the heir of the Iron Throne.
As if burned, he throws the blade away and, as it falls without noise in the grass, he takes off his helmet, unfastening his coif and getting rid of it too. His hair is wild and drenched in sweat, white strands of it sticking exasperatingly all over his face. He passes his arm, awkwardly twisting it so that no spikes of the vambrace cut his skin, over his face to get it out of his eyes. He can feel the cakey texture of mud smearing his face too now.
Baelor gapes at him all the while, mesmerised and transfixed. What a fool, what an utter fool.
Baelor attempts to grab him by the edge of the gorget but his gauntlet slips uselessly against the metal. It’s no matter, Maekar gives him exactly what he wants and kisses him on the mouth.
It’s awful. It doesn’t soothe Maekar’s fire like he hoped, it is like winning a battle, it leaves him craving for a bloodier fight. There’s earth between their lips, blood.
Baelor bites him, Maekar kisses him some more. When Baelor reaches for the back of his head, to get his fingers between his hair as he likes to do, Maekar intercepts him, pinning both of his arms to the ground, above Baelor’s head. Maekar’s dirty hair flops over Baelor’s helmet and his face. With the next kiss, he drags his pelvis down against Baelor’s. They both groan, pained.
It hadn't really occurred to Maekar just how hard he has gotten under all the layers he’s wearing but it’s the only thing he can think about now. He closes his eyes, an embarrassing low sound escapes his lips, smushed half against Baelor’s cheekbone and the edge of his helmet. It’s that moment of distraction that gets him, he whimpers when he gets flipped over again, huffing out his breath as his back hits the dirt.
This time though, the sensation isn’t followed up by the weight of his brother and his armour driving him further down in the mud. He blinks in an attempt to put into focus his surroundings.
He can still feel the warmth of the pyre coming from past the tree. Baelor stands a few feet away from Maekar, retrieving his dagger from the grass.
“Fetch your helm, Maekar.”
Maekar frowns as he sits up. His head spins, he feels like he’s taken the blow of a mace to the head while wearing no protection because of how much his thoughts hurt. Baelor walks toward the fire.
“Wait.” His voice sounds pathetic to his own ears. What does he demand anyway? To have Baelor in the open field? Like animals, ignoring death and Lords running around them. Maekar bites the inside of his cheek and curses himself because yes, that is what he wants, the Other take him. With effort, he gets up from the ground, grabs his helmet, and walks fast to catch up with Baelor.
“Baelor, wait.”
The flames burn bright on Maekar’s left side, new sweat dripping down his temple. The specks of his armor yet not covered in dirt shine black and orange.
This time Baelor turns around. He walks back to Maekar who stops walking, waits for him.
Baelor wraps his left arm around Maekar’s shoulders, as if he wanted to hide both of their faces from the open field. His other hand, open palm, is splayed over Maekar’s chest plate. Above his heart. He presses his forehead against Maekar’s, their lips brushing against each other and Maekar feels his legs grow weak, he’s too heavy, he wants to fall to his knees and drag Baelor down with him again, kiss him until only embers remain of the fire.
Baelor doesn’t kiss him though, his head turning to the side before Maekar can close the distance between them. His lips, soft spoken and damning, are pressed against Maekar’s ear.
“My squire’s tent. Hurry.”
Maekar grumbles out a confused “what?” that sounds more like a guttural noise than a word as his thoughts take some time to catch up with his brother’s words. Maekar recognised the tinge of Baelor’s own desire seeping through them like thick honey. It’s rare for Baelor to lose his composure and witnessing it, being the cause of it, never fails to turn Maekar into a mindless man himself.
When he blinks again, Baelor is getting on the white horse that Maekar used to reach him. As the horse rears, scared by the fire, Baelor gives a last look to Maekar but if he says anything more it gets lost behind the high pitched neigh of the horse. He closes the visor of his helmet and spurs the horse onward.
Maekar just stands there, like a fool, gripping his helmet with such a strength one could think he is trying to crush it in his hand. Then he snaps, cursing Baelor out loud, vile, cruel villain. Leaving him to run after him, like they were children playing in the Red Keep’s gardens, back when Maekar still struggled to run as fast as Baelor and Daemon. He brushes the thought aside, running toward the closest banner planted on the ground.
“You!” He screams when he gets close enough to it and the handful of men gathered around it. “Lend me your horse.”
Maekar doesn’t know the young man who’s sitting on the saddle, as it is, he wouldn’t even be able to think of the name of his House despite seeing its colors on the embroidered coat he’s wearing over his armor. Sure enough, the knight can see his long white hair, however sodded, and has nothing to say to oppose the Prince’s rather rude request.
Maekar fits his helmet back on as he rides the horse, as a way of hiding his hair in hope that it will make him less likely to be stopped by Lords or couriers or anyone else that might put themselves between him and Baelor. They will be all gathered around the war table in no time, debriefing losses and advantages and planning the next battle, but right now that interests him none.
He’s only half sure he recognises the tent of Baelor’s squire, he enters it doubting himself yet holding on to an expectation so huge it makes his heart beat faster already. He closes the flap of the tent behind himself. His breaths come out short because he’s only a man and his body, however young, is being tested.
The tent of the lordling that squires for Baelor is smaller than what Maekar is used to. It’s warm inside, soft candle light illuminating the mess inside the tent. It’s not really a living space, only a place to survive in the midst of war. There’s a cabinet, a weapon rack that holds swords and maces, a small bedding and multiple wooden chests. Maekar notices Baelor’s helmet discarded on the ground alongside his belts, his weapons still attached to them. He drops his own helmet next to Baelor, throwing it perhaps with more strength than he meant. He follows a rustling noise behind the cabinet and finds Baelor there, busy in the attempt to remove his pauldrons, struggling without a squire to assist him. When he glances at Maekar, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip in, then bites it lightly.
Maekar feels his ears burn red at the sight, fists clenching and unclenching, a small creaking sound coming from his gauntlets.
“Nobody is going to look for us here,” his brother affirms calmly as he manages to grab the leather strap of his pauldron.
Maekar steps into his personal space without wasting a second more.
“What about your squire?”
“Broken leg, I’m afraid. The maesters are seeing to him.”
It’s been years now since the last time Maekar squired for his eldest brother, but he knows the rituals of it well enough still. He takes his own gauntlets and gloves off so he can deftly undo the straps of Baelor’s pauldrons. Without saying a word nor raising his eyes from his task, he moves his focus to Baelor’s couters and rerebraces next.
He knows Baelor is watching him, he’s sure of it like he is sure the sun rises up in the sky every morning, uncaring of men’s wars and prayers. He feels his gaze, dark like the night and deep purple like his dreams, searing a burning scar on his face. It’s not easy to be good, to be proper when eyes like that want you in such a way, so Maekar doesn’t meet them because he wins wars but he is nothing against Baelor’s love.
He breathes deeply through his nose, taking Baelor’s hands in his to take the vambraces off him, placing them on the table behind him with the rest of Baelor’s armor. Faulds and cuirass follow next and it’s like rehashing an old play that they still know by heart. He slips off Baelor’s chainmail with a bit of effort, raising his arms that high while he is still wearing most of his armour is impractical and complicated but Baelor helps the process by bending slightly forward until they succeed.
Baelor hisses quietly when he extends his arms but he reassures Maekar with a smile that it is nothing more than a bruise troubling him.
Maekar can’t help but bite his lip when he removes Baelor cuisses and his greaves, kneeling in front of him. He feels his brother’s gloved hand resting on top of his head, massaging his scalp slowly but he decides to ignore the instinct to turn his face toward his palm to chase that caress, that affection, like a dog would with his master. He leaves the armour pieces on the ground as his hands, shaky now as want turns into need and fire of the fight yet not extinguished can barely be contained by his will to be good, undo the knots that tie Baelor’s padded hose to his purpoint.
He stands up again, aware that Baelor’s eyes are following his every move, his every breath. He undoes the buckles of Baelor’s red gambeson next, standing so close that their knees touch, nothing like a squire, all like a lover.
Bravely, Maekar finally raises his violet eyes to meet Baelor’s. As he anticipated, they cut his breath away.
“Help me out of my armour now.” It’s meant to sound like an order not a question, yet his pleading voice betrays him.
“No.”
Baelor’s answer hits him like a fist and just like that rekindled rage joins the turmoil in his chest. He staggers in his next words, unsure about whether he wants to curse Baelor out again, kiss his lips until they bruise or bruise his face with his fist.
None of that matters when Belor pulls him even closer by the belt around his middle and touches him between his legs with his other hand. He finds him hard, Maekar’s cock pressed firmly on the front of his leather braies, now squeezed delightfully by Baelor’s hand.
“Fuck.” he breathes out, eyes closing, as he can’t help but thrusting his hips against Baelor’s hand.
“You still want me.” It’s that fond, mesmerized voice of his again, the one that by some divine mystery is directed to Maekar and no one else.
“Baelor, we’ve waited enough.” He says, grabbing Baelor’s hands to take the gloves off him, while Baelor struggles away from his grasp to undo Maekar’s belt and the strap that holds the faulds of his armor up, nearly ripping it apart in his haste.
“Aye, we have.”
As the metal faulds of his armor hit the ground, Maekar reaches for Baelor’s hand, finding it bloody. Viscous red oozes out of the tears shaped like the spikes of Maekar’s gorget when Maekar presses his thumb on the heel of his hand. Baelor doesn't flinch. He sighs then, dreamy almost, when Maekar brings his hand to his mouth and licks the blood away, rosy lips closing around his injuries as he swallows the red fluid, as if wasting even only a drop would dishonor their ancestry.
With his free hand, Baelor grabs him by the hair, his fist gripping a huge handful of it, twisting it around his hand. It hurts, yet Maekar’s mouth clings to his brother's skin for a second longer. They look into each other’s eyes, only for a moment, but it’s enough to see that ugly, scaly beast that is his desire for Baelor reflected back at him in his brother’s eyes.
Baelor’s lips are on his, one hand still fisted in his hair to bend his head at will while the other wraps around Maekar’s waist. The kiss is filthy, Maekar tilts his head to the side so as to leave more room for their tongues to twist together, while blood mixes between their mouths. Pink saliva drips down to Maekar’s chin.
Maekar grabs Baelor’s face with both hands, unsure if he wants him to slow down or if he wants more of him, more than their bodies allow.
“Brother…” he whispers, as Baelor licks sweat and blood from his chin. Maekar drops one of his hands from Baelor’s cheek to around his neck. He squeezes, to feel his pulse. It’s fast, wild, it wants him.
He grabs Baelor by the arms, using his strength to turn him around, then he shoves him against the back of the tall cabinet. Baelor, hastily, takes off his gambeson, letting it fall to their feet. Like this, Maekar can see the muscles of Baelor’s shoulders and back bulging against his undershirt, so drenched in sweat it looks transparent, under his purpoint. He moans at the sight and, shamelessly, he grinds his clothed cock against the cleft of Baelor’s arse, wishing in his mind he had stripped him naked already.
“Yes, Maekar.” There’s a soft thud as Baelor’s forehead drops against the wood and he grips the top edge of the furniture with one hand. “Yes.”
Maekar bites the side of his neck, low enough that the mark can be hidden under the collar of his gambeson. His armour gets in the way, he wishes he could feel Baelor’s warmth against his chest but he doesn’t have the patience to do anything about it. Besides, it’s clear that Baelor is getting something out of this so he keeps all the extra pounds of weight on himself.
“My armour will hurt you again.” He warns though, as the spiked gorget brushes dangerously over Baelor’s shoulder and he can hardly will himself to not crowd so close to Baelor.
“It’s no matter.” Baelor pulls down his braies, stroking himself to find some relief.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Maekar says, earnestly, his eyes fixed on the bare skin Baelor uncovered, staring at the perfect curve of his arse. He can’t help himself but grab one of his cheeks and squeeze it, to feel the thickness of his muscle.
“Let me be selfish and worry not about your wants.”
Maekar spits on his cupped fingers then, thick drool sticking to his chin too. He drags his thumb over Baelor’s hole and feels it twitch. He bites his lip.
Baelor, still pinned against the wooden cabinet, whispers something intelligible and reaches back with his left hand, blindlessly, pawing at the front of Maekar pants, to urge him on.
With one hand he grabs Baelor by the back of his neck to prompt him to stay still, with his other he pushes his spit soaked fingers past his rim. Baelor makes a very low sound, then gets quiet. Maekar pushes his long fingers in to the last knuckle, unable to look away, mouth hanging open at the sight and at the feel of how tight Baelor is around him.
With his free hand, Maekar finally pulls himself out of his clothes, giving himself a good squeeze as reward for waiting this long. The tip of Maekar’s length, dark red and leaking clear fluid, pokes Baelor’s cheek, making Maekar swear quietly and Baelor say words of temptation that force Maekar to tighten his fingers hard at the base of his cock not to ruin this entire thing before it even begins. He swears and curls his fingers inside Baelor, studying his reaction, the same way that they learnt together feels best.
“Maekar, brother, are you trying to make me beg? Because I will, if you ask.”
“Quiet.” Maekar warns him, past his limit of patience to play his brother’s games.
He spits on his cock and strokes himself as he pulls out his fingers and quickly circles Baelor’s waist instead, burying his face in the crook between Baelor’s neck and his shoulder. He inhales hard the stench of his old sweat and smoke, mouth open to taste it too. Helping himself with his hand, he pushes his cock inside Baelor, anticipating the broken sound he makes then losing his mind when Baelor says his name, once, twice, over and over as Maekar keeps thrusting into him. He feels tight, probably more than he should, but Maekar admits to himself that he loves it all the same.
He bites his lip and the thin fabric of Baelor’s purpoint to keep himself from moaning as he pulls back his hips and drives them forward again in his first proper thrust.
“Is it-”
“Yes,” Baelor grits out. “Don’t stop, Maekar, please.”
That’s the last thing Maekar needs to hear. He grabs Baelor’s hips with both hands, guiding him at an angle he prefers, and kicks his ankles further apart, metal of his greaves against the leather of Baelor’s boots. The black metal of Maekar’s cuisses must be cold against Baelor’s bare inner thighs, maybe uncomfortable even. Maekar pays it no mind, as Baelor requested, and begins to fuck him hard, his thrusts long and even and the sound of their heavy breaths, bitten down moans, make Maekar blush furiously from his face, to his neck, down to his hidden chest.
The clinking of his armour pieces barely reaches his ears, completely focused on whichever noise comes out of Baelor’s mouth next. He cares not if they’re too loud and obvious, there’s war horns and chaos in the camp, no one will know or care.
“Maekar.” A moan.
Maekar wraps an arm around Baelor’s chest, wanting him impossibly closer, even if the sharper edges of his vambrace and couter must be bruising Baelor’s ribs.
“I wish I could have watched you fight. You’re so strong.” Baelor huffs out, his voice stretched thin.
“Be quiet, please.” Maekar whines against his ear but Baelor did say he wants to be selfish today.
“No. I love you like this, my knight, my brother.”
Maekar snarls, snapping his hips forward hard, driving Baelor’s whole body against the back of the wooden cabinet and shaking it. Something heavy falls on the other side. Sound of metal colliding with metal. Maekar pulls Baelor back from against the precarious support and bends his knees, too exhausted to stay upright any longer, dragging Baelor down with him. Under him. Hands and knees on the earthy ground, nothing like princes, all like animals.
Baelor spreads his knees and Maekar quickly finds his way back inside him. Droplets of sweat fall to Baelor’s back, dripping from Maekar’s chin, they get in his eyes too and he forces them shut. He’s boiling under his armour, too many layers of clothes and metal on him.
“Baelor.” His voice is as strained as his body, wretched. He fucks him hard and fast now, with desperation, to the point that he wonders if his eyes are wet with tears and he cannot tell.
When Baelor comes, spilling on his discarded clothes and the hay scattered around, Maekar can feel it around his cock, a pleasure so great he can’t carry on any longer. His orgasm washes over him as he gasps and clutches at Baelor’s hips, holding him close and coming deep into him. Somehow, he feels like the moment lasts forever.
When it’s over, though, he falls back, kneeling down with his ass on the hay, trying to catch his breath with long, heavy sighs. He passes his palm on his face to rid it of his sweat and pushes back his hair that has once again got stuck all over his face. He tucks himself back into his braies then, still breathing hard.
He wants to say something but words fail him, so he just watches Baelor, in silence, as he gets on his knees and fixes his clothes too. Baelor turns to him then, both of them sitting on the ground. There’s a rosy blush on Baelor’s cheekbones, his curls are messy and dirty, sticking up in silly ways. He’s got a hand on the bottom half of his face, as if he was too embarrassed to show himself fully. Seven knows, if he’s only half flustered as Maekar feels, he’d be hiding his face in his arms and never look at him in the eyes again.
Their eyes do meet however, guilty but remorseless, and Baelor cracks out a laugh. Maekar’s full lips curl up easily enough and a moment later he’s also laughing with his whole chest which only prompts Baelor to laugh harder.
“Seven hells, Baelor, everyone must be looking for us,” he mutters but he’s still smiling like an idiot, fiddling with the straps of his cuisses, finally shedding them off.
“I am sure our valiant allies can manage just fine without us.”
Baelor crawls to him and helps him undo the strap of his pauldrons. Then he rubs his face against Maekar's cheek like a cat, his short beard itchy and wet with sweat and gods know which other fluid, before kissing him over the uneven texture of Maekar’s scarred skin.
Maekar makes an exaggerated disgusted sound. “Enough of that. You’re filthy. And you stink.”
Baelor steals a chaste kiss from his lips.
“You too.”
Maekar groans. “I know that.” As he knows Baelor can see the fresh new shade of red coloring his traitorous skin.
He does wish he would have time for a bath before any debriefing where he just sits on his arse and lets Baelor come up with speeches that deserve to be written down in history books. A vicious thought from his vicious mind strikes him then; if they were to join the war table council right away, then Baelor would be standing around all those Lords with Maekar’s come still— he suppresses the thought, groaning again, before blood can rush between his legs once again.
“What is it?” Baelor asks, curious.
“Nothing.” Maekar shuts down any further inquiry with a kiss. It works, thankfully, and he gladly lets Baelor deepen the kiss as he pleases.
Their lips part when the noise of fabric being ripped apart shocks Baelor. He looks down to see that Maekar ripped off a piece of cloth from the bottom of his undershirt.
Maekar takes Baelor’s injured hand without offering any explanation.
“You’re bleeding again.” He says as he wipes a layer of dirt with his thumb off Baelor’s palm. Baelor looks at nothing but Maekar’s face.
“You need to get it looked over by a maester.” Maekar continues, pointedly avoiding Baelor’s eyes, as he wraps Baelor’s bleeding cuts with the makeshift bandages.
“Aye.” Baelor agrees with him mostly only to avoid upsetting him “It’s nothing worth of your worry, Maekar,” he reassures him then.
Maekar just shushes him as he keeps fussing over his hand. Once he’s satisfied with his work, he releases it and Baelor uses that same hand to cup Maekar’s cheek. Baelor’s heart beats faster as he watches Maekar, almost imperceptibly, lean his head into the touch.
“Thank you, Maekar.” He sounds, once again, too fond and Maekar wants to tell him that he shouldn't be thanking him, that it’s his fault he got hurt to begin with but it’s Baelor’s turn to shut him up with a kiss.
His eyelids flutter closed on their own volition as he enjoys the feel of Baelor’s lips on his as war and fire can wait just a minute longer.