Chapter Text
On The Dragon’s Wing Maekar climbs into Baelor's bed. The ship is a two mast, deep bellied merchant vessel flying the Redwine standard. She is one e of the few with a crew that quarantined away from the pox in the city. The captain was ever so pleased to moor by the royal dock and open his cabin for two princelings.
Baelor’s bed — or, rather, the captain’s bed — has cool, well worn linen sheets. They aren’t as soothing as silk on his scabby, inflamed limbs and they smell closer to tar than anything alpha or mannish but he can't care over much. It’s past the witching hour and he's aching from exhaustion. A ten day with the pox has left his body wracked, weak and sore.
“Take those off,” Baelor says as he tries to settle.
“What?”
“Your braies. It will help your skin dry."
“Nothing can help my skin,” Maekar grunts. Baelor has his braies tied neatly under his navel, hiding all but the top of the trail of hair that leads to his groin. Maekar can see it clearly in the light of the oil lamp. " The maesters have said as much.”
“The air will help you heal,” Baelor replies. “I care not if you’re scarred.”
Maekar huffs. “You care when Rhaegal only bathes himself with wet linens."
“That distresses mother.”
His terror at the sight of water distresses her more than his cleanliness — he keeps himself serubbed pink and smelling of lemons afterall.
“You imagine she won’t be distressed when she sees me?”
Mother and Aerys are in the Stormlands, having left three moons past to collect his older brother’s Penrose bride. Maekar has a good mind for maps. The port and castle Parchments are at an end of the Kings’ Road, on the Straight of Tarth. In the Summer heat the pox might run its way right up to Parchments' gates but there’s enough towns — three dozen, he thinks — and castles that Lord Penrose will have warning in time to seal the gates against the sickness. If it goes by ship, his mother and brother will have no warning.
Maekar's throat clicks as he swallows down his worry.
“Mother will be relieved to see you alive,” Baelor replies tiredly. He smells like horse and the brackish taste of blood in the mouth that he shares with their uncle, Daemon,
“She’ll be enraged father hasn’t sent Rhaegal with us,” Maekar grunts. He gropes around his own crotch, trying to find the tie. “Idiots. Unless Rhaegal’s convinced himself he’s glass he’ll get on a ship.”
Then he looks at Baelor sharply. The shadows cast by the oil lamp make Baelor’s nose seem even more dented and his eyes sunk into his skull. His brother is smiling sadly. "He’s — please tell me those fools haven’t let him —”
“Mother,” Baelor says firmly. “Will be relieved to hear your temper has already returned.”
Maekar glares at him. Rhaegal is one year Maekar’s senior; five years Baelor’s junior and four years Aerys’ junior. The Prince of Dragonstone was well out of the nursery when Rhaegal began his lessons. He’d earned his spurs and a seat on the Small Council by the time the madness first fogged Rhaegal’s mind.
Maekar was only ten when Rhaegal first heard a cat speaking. He was eleven when Rhaegal first refused to wear clothes at supper. He was thirteen when Rhaegal first believed he was glass — that Dornish rarity, sand ground and melted smooth and mixed with poison to make it reflect a man better than even silver could. His poor darling brother thought he'd shatter if he left his nest. It was the first time he remembered an omega reeking of terror other than the second Bracken girl — the one his grandfather killed. Maekar doesn't like to think of her.
“Take your braies off,” Baelor repeats gently. Maekar’s mouth presses into a hard line but he unpicks the tie’s first knot. It is double looped as is his custom. He dislikes the feeling of clothes sagging around his hips or the little soft part of his thighs rubbing together.
“Valonqar,” Baelor continues in Valyrian. “You frightened me.”
“You were frightened?” Maekar huffs. “No one told me how you were. I didn't know who I ought to be more frightened for — father at my bedside or you or Rhaegel locked in your rooms."
Next to him, Baelor purrs softly. He moves slowly but Maekar still jumps when he touches his navel. His broad hand is warm and dry, pressing down firmly. Maekar's fingers stop fumbling with the second knot.
“Don’t.”
“What?” Maekar grouses. Baelor rubs his thumb over Maekar’s inflamed skin. A scab lifts up. The tug of pain goes straight to his groin. He's properly aroused, he thinks. He's been too sick to lust, to want pleasure, to think of Dyanna in the comfort of his nest. His nest — fouled by his own sweat, pus and blood. There's still blood under his nails from scratching. He couldn't stop even when they put gloves on him — he'd gouged at the nodules on his scalp as his hair fell out. They'd shaved his head bare. He wonders if the hair will ever grow back properly.
“What?” Maekar demands. “I am tired.”
“Allow me,” His brother says. Maekar is well accustomed to obeying his older brother, even when Baelor is being a fool so he does as he’s told, taking his hands off the knot. Baelor reaches for the string then rests his forearm on Maekar’s hip as he unties it. The side of his hand sits on his mound — the curve of his pelvis right above his cock. Maekar thinks he must feel the thick thatch of hair through the linen.
Maekar is suddenly very awake.
“There we are,” His brother says. “Lift your hips.”
Maekar starts to sit up. Quick as a dart, Baelor’s hand presses between the flare of his ribs, right over his stomach, right over two raw spots. They sting.
“Just lift your hips,” He smiles softly at Maekar. The muscles in Maekar's legs immediately strain when he does as he's told. He hasn't been so weak since he was a weaning pup pawing the wet nurse's teat.
“I won’t have you playing nursemaid,” Maekar complains. His brother pulls the braies down his thighs roughly and Maekar feels the hot weight of arousal in his groin — he feels it rush through his head.
“What about maester?”
“Seven knows you’d make a terrible one of those,” Maekar grunts and kicks the braies off his legs. He wriggles under the linen sheet, needing to hide his groin. A wave of the tar scent hits his nose but Baelor's scent is stronger; it feels heavy, perhaps with worry, perhaps with exhaustion now some of the fear is gone — likely both. "Could you imagine? The Breakspear, spooning gruel down an invalid’s throat?”
“A king does as a king must,” Baelor replies. “And a king must be good to his people.”
His hand rests back on Maekar’s navel.
There’s scabs on his bellybutton. There’s scabs bunched so thick on his left thigh that the lump looks like a birthmark or a burn. There’s scabs dotting his mound. Grimly, Maekar thinks it’ll be a miracle if there’s nothing on his cunny. Seven, he’s got four on his cock. It's starting to chub against his thigh. Baelor’s hand leaves his skin as Maekar rolls onto his side to put Baelor at his back.
“Is father sitting with any more invalids?” Maekar asks. His brother throws an arm around him and pulls him against his body. Baelor runs warm — so warm he's never caught a fever. He has a Dornish face, Maekar's oldest brother, Maekar's lēkia, but his blood is Valyrian. His long abdomen is Valyrian. The thin sinews of his muscles and the narrow hips pressing against Maekar's buttocks are too. He feels almost light headed.
Maekar's cunt aches. Baelor will be able to smell his lust soon enough. He is not hungry for his brother but his core hungry for a body, for pleasure and its peak even if it comes by his own hand.
“No,” Baelor says. “Valyrian blood does not ward off this pestilence. If it were a mere Winter Fever it might but a pox is a deadlier pestilence."
“We’ve died of fevers before,” Maekar shuts his eyes. He can feel his brother's soft length against the curve of his arse.
“Only a young child did — Jaehaerys' daughter,” Baelor replies, nuzzling into his hair. “Father is well. Rhaegal is safe. Mother and Aerys are far from here.”
“And you are hale as a horse,” Maekar grunts. Baelor purrs softly and it strums through Maekar's ribs. His cock grows bigger, tip pressing into the linen sheet. The older man moves his palm back over Maekar’s navel. The other palm rests on his shoulder blade. He has the urge to tuck his chin and offer up the bonding gland at the base of his neck. A primal submission — an offering of a fuck to his older brother. A bite or a squeezing hand, a push or a muttered command and Maekar's leg could be pressed up to his chest, giving this alpha access to his cunt. A hot rush of shame wars with arousal in his belly. Baelor noses over to his ear. He takes a slow deep breath. Maekar protests. "I smell like the sick bed."
“That I won't deny,” Baelor replies.
"You should've been a maester," Maekar adjusts the sheet to hide his erection. "If you like the smell of the half-dead."
"I like knowing you are alive," Baelor hums. "Is that so offensive?"
"I'm not likely to die before the morning," Maekar replies. He adjusts the sheet again. The drag of the rough linen only serves to make it harder. The room is dark enough he recons his brother won't notice. He prays Baelor won't notice.
Baelor stops purring. Maekar thinks he stops breathing for a moment.
"I couldn't stop myself getting the damnable pox," Maekar protests. "It's not my fault."
"And I could not keep from worrying," Baelor replies. "Forgive me my relief."
Maekar feels the wetness of his quim. He lifts the linen sheet up to his neck, covering Baelor too. "You are forgiven."
Maekar wills away his arousal as he shuts his eyes. He is so tired he thinks he'll sleep it off. If his alpha brother does not notice it will not matter in the morning. He thinks of Dyanna Dayne, whispering that desire is no sin, puppy, in a dark corridor and the way her loose Dornish tunic hung over her hips, teasing at their curve and ruched under her breasts. That does not help his cock and cunny.
"Dame Dyanna," Maekar says, voice thick. "Did she take ill?"
"She is at a cousin's manse."
The merchant bastard from her Blackmont dam's side — it must be. Dyanna meant to take his little alpha daughter into her service once her current Dondarrion squire earned his spurs at a tourney. He wonders if any of the three will live to see the day. The pox will take another moon to run its course in the city if the Gods are good. Mayhaps another three if they are not.
It is spring. Trade winds will come off the bay and blow the foul pestulant air inland to dissipate over the Crownlands and the Reach — or run through through the Kingswood to Parchments —
Baelor's fingers start to rub again. "The Gods will keep her well, brother-mine."
"If they don't we shall curse them — call on Fire and Blood and the infected creatures our ancestors prayed too," Maekar replies. "And I'll do worse if Rhaegal is taken."
Baelor shushes him and starts to purr again.
"I will," Maekar's throat clicks as he swallows. Baelor's fingers continue to pet his stomach, their touch is firm where is skin is unmarred, but lifts over the scars, turning light as a common thief awed by polished Lengi jade.
"You will not curse the ones I spent days begging to spare your life," Baelor replies. Maekar imagines his brother kneeling before their grandmother's altar, long face tilted up to stare at the golden Maiden's empty eyes. He imagines the long line of his throat bared to the warm glow of the candlelight, the shadows as he swallows, the movement of his thin lips, the contours of his chest visible through the collar of his shirt and finds his groin aching. The tip of his cock sits just under Baelor's fingers. Under where they move in a slow, expanding circle.
"Not our ancestors' Gods? Or would they demand life for life?" Maekar's mouth feels dry. He needs to push Baelor away from him. He needs to order his brother from the bed; to tantrum and demand until Baelor consents to rest on the floor.
Baelor huffs against his nape. Maekar shivers, mortified. His cunt throbs — his cunny, his quim, the hole between his legs that had opened not a year ago in a torrent of blood, pain and limb wracking fever nearly as awful as the pox.
Baelor makes a curious little sound. His circling fingers widen until Baelor's nails scratch the edge of the hair on his groin.
"Baelor," The omega says, unsure if he wants his brother to stop or continue.
"I did not have the obsidian blade for the blood-rites," Baelor says and his fingers brush the tip of Maeker's cock. Maekar gasps. His brother stiffens against his back. There is a moment of silence. Of stillness. Of Baelor's thick fingers resting on him.
Maekar's breath sticks in panic. His body is rigid. He can't think to ask Baelor's forgiveness. He can't think to tell him to keep touching him — to stroke, to thumb, to pet down to his cunt and sink a finger past his hymen. He thinks he's wet enough there won't be any burn. They are Targaryens. It would be as natural as breathing.
Baelor rumbles softly and the hand on his broad back starts to rub but the one on his cock does not move. The ship rocks though a strong wave like a cradle. There is no window to see if the moon has come out from behind the clouds. The oil lamp flickers and with it the shadows on the floor. Baelor's purrs seem overloud, filling the little cabin. He used to purr to Maekar when they were pups in the nursery — his first memory was being curled abed with Baelor Aerys and Rhaegal, Maekar on his lēkia's chest as the eleven year old purred for him.
This is wholly different.
Baelor's breath rushes hot over his skin before he feels his brother's nose against his nape. Baelor does not nuzzle in but waits silently. His cock does not twitch but it's a near thing as it hardens further. His brother's fingers remain on the tip, touch so light it twists in his chest — the tease twists in his cunt. His body feels like a flame, his face is burning, there's wetness on his thighs, dripping, surely, like a sweet wax. He needs Baelor to reach between his legs and feel it — they are Targaryens. A century before Maekar would have been brought to his brother's bed for his maiden heat, his cunny would have been broken on Baelor's knot after the bleeding stopped and the slick came in. He'd have known the comfort of his brother draped over his back during the worst of the fever, stuffing him with a knot — Baelor would have been at his bedside, not kepa, when he fell ill with the pox.
"Valonqar?" Baelor says softly. Maekar turns his head. His brother lifts his nose off Maekar's nape. Maekar reaches up and cups the back of his head, pulling him down. Baelor's lips are dry against his — his scruff scrapes but he groans into Maekar's mouth. He kisses him tenderly, lips soft and firm. His scent fills Maekar's nose; his nostril is pressing into Baelor's cheek. He can't help but smell him. They haven't been so close since they were pups.
When Baelor pulls away Maekar tries to follow.
“My sweetling,” Baelor says into Maekar’s lips. He rubs the tip of his cock gently between his thumb and fingers. "You should have said."
Maekar tips his head back to his brother, mouth falling open. Baelor kisses the nape of his neck. His hand strokes down his cock. Maekar gasps. His chest feels tight. His belly hollows down and his cunt flutters. Baelor's hand is rough and too dry but he hardens further.
Baelor's hand moves back up, wrapping his fist around the tip. He keeps the tip in his grip as he strokes, not nearing the base or his cunt. Maekar's toes curl. He stares up at the ceiling, mouth agog.
"That must feel good sweeting," Baelor hums. "When was the last time you pleasured yourself? Before you fell ill?"
Maekar nods. He whines softly. "You haven't called me sweeting since I was a pup."
"You're rarely sweet," Baelor replies. "But you'll be it now, won't you, brother?"
"Fuck off," Maekar snorts. Baelor squeezes Maekar's cock gently.
"This little thing is sweet," Baelor says.
"It is the only sweet part of me," Maekar replies. Baelor hums softly. He nuzzles Maekar's neck starting at his shaved nape and down to his bonding gland.
He kisses the raised lump tenderly and Maekar shivers. "This is sweet too."
His fist sets a steady pace, still keeping the head of Maekar's cock in his grip. It is not how Maekar touches himself — his cunny feels bereft, leaking surely onto the bed. He clenches his thighs and feels how wet he is. The pressure is sweet. Baelor's hand envelopes his cock, it seems to dwarf it. The next kiss is open mouthed over his gland. Baelor lingers, his breath hot, then licks him.
"Gods," Maekar whimpers as his cunt flutters.
"They are good to me," Baelor rumbles. "They've spared my sweeting and brought him to my bed."
Maekar snorts but his face is burning.
"Is that not generous?" Baelor strokes his hand down, something pulls and Maekar squeaks.
"Sweeting?" Baelor's hand goes still. Maeker's throat closes with mortification. "Brother?"
"It's too dry," Maekar replies. A scab is going to peel up. It might be half lifted and he'll bleed on his brother's fist.
"My hand?" Bealor smiles into his skin. Maekar likes the sensation — and he likes the feeling of Baelor's cock, swollen, against his thigh. "Is it dry lower down?"
His fingers reach below Maekar's cock to the slit of his cunny. His touch is gentler then Dyanna's was the one time they wriggled their wrists down each other's hose. His fingers pet over his rough hair then one slips along the slit.
"Do you want me to answer that, lēkia?"
"I can feel you're wet," Baelor says. "I bet you have a pretty quim, don't you, sweetling? Does it taste sweet as your skin? I can smell it, can't I? It even smells sweet."
"No, it fucking doesn't," But Baelor's finger is between his folds, rooting for his opening. Maekar shuts his eyes. "It smells like a cunt."
"And that is a sweet thing for an alpha," Baelor replies, amused. One finger presses against his cunt. "Nothing is sweeter for a Targaryen alpha than the taste of his brother's quim. Nothing is more blissful for us than the feel of a Targaryen omega warming our knots. We run hot see —" A finger presses in. Maekar clenches around the intrusion. Bealor's finger thrusts almost timidly. " — Andal cunts are too cold to warm us and an Andal knot will turn you to ice."
He nuzzles Maekar then and presses his finger up as if trying to jab something. "Can you take a second finger, sweeting?"
"I take three of my own," Maekar replies. He feels hot, almost fevered, with Baelor's palm pressing into his folds. He rocks his hips up into the palm, his cock bumping Baelor's forearm.
"Every night?" His brother's voice is almost a gasp. A second finger digs against the edge of his cunt, stretching it enough he mewls with pleasure. The bite of the stretch is pleasure — he is an omega with a cunt made to be stretched, to be split, bled and broken on a knot and to take pleasure from the breaking. Baelor's fingers rub up and down his walls quickly. "Maekar."
"Most, aye," Maekar grits out. "Gods, lēkia."
Then the fingers are gone, the palm rubs up from his folds, the slick smearing his shaft.
"That's better," Baelor says as he grips Maekar. "I've never seen a maid so wet, sweetling."
"As if you've had —" Baelor nips him under the ear and Maekar is cut off by his own moan. The pain is sweet — gods, will he find every manner of pain sweet at his brother's hand? — and his cock pulses from it. The tip feels to wet; he's dripping clear fluid out. Less viscous than his slick, it comes rarely; during his heats, yes, or when he's painfully aroused, alone on a lazy morning, teasing himself slowly to a peak.
"My own sweetling," Baelor's voice is strained. "Your pretty, little cock is so thick. It will be a sweet mouthful if I suck you."
"Lēkia," He mewls. The peak is mounting in his belly. His legs start to quiver and his cunt clenches on nothing. He's empty — he's too empty. He thinks he feels hollow as if he were in heat. Baelor's cock is pressing into his buttocks — how easy it would be for his brother to push up his leg and thrust home. If Maekar hasn't lost his maidenhead to the saddle he'll bleed in his brother's cock, on his knot, on the captain's old linen sheets, down his on thighs and the wiry hair on his groin. Baelor needn't ask, he need only push and move and break Maekar as if he were his mate or some, ugly, penny slut selling her maidenhood in a back alley.
"Would you like that, brother-mine?" Baelor asks. "Would you like my mouth on your shaft? Or lower — is your quim as pink as your lips, I wonder."
Maekar reaches between his legs and rubs his folds. There's a wet sound then another rude slosh as he thrusts his fingers in his cunt. The almost relief makes him moan.
"Stop talking," Maekar says. Baelor rumbles softly and nuzzles into his bonding gland. The lump is both sensitive and dulled. The scratch of his day old beard gives him no sensation but his nose pressing into the gland makes him open his eyes and pant. His brother smiles softly again, pleased — Baelor smells pleased. He smells aroused; salt and musk and rosewater from his last bath. Maekar's cunt aches around his knuckles. He's clenching and his cock stiffens, twitching in Baelor's fist.
"Are you going to spill, sweetling?" Baelor asks then he kisses him. His hand tightens over Maekar's shaft. He purs. Maekar can feel the deep soothing rumble in his teeth, in his belly, in his cunt. His stomach hollows and he cries out into his brother's mouth.
"There you are, sweetling," His brother says. His cock jumps in Baelor's hand, clear slick spurting out it's head. Maekar thrusts his fingers in and out of his spasming cunt. His entire body is rigid and his mind is blissfully quiet. "There you are, my sweet imp — do you always need your quim stuffed?"
Maekar slumps into the bed, eyes closed, body limp from pleasure, cunt leaking around his fingerHe hears a little chuckle but his mind is too fogged to pay heed. Baelor lets him lie there for a moment, in silence, floating — he knows he has an alpha at its back, a good alpha, strong enough he needn't be alert.
Then there's a hand on the v of his knee. Maekar opens his eyes.
"Bring this up, sweetling," Baelor says as he tugs it up. Maekar lifts his leg to his chest.
"No, not that high," His brother replies. Maekar nods and let's Baelor manipulate his leg wider.
"Fuck," Baelor's hand wriggles between his legs. "You've still got your fingers up your little quim."
Maekar scowls and pulls them out. He can't think of a reply as Baelor kisses the back of his neck. He feels empty but sated. There'll be a familiar ache in the morning not a strain or pain but a looseness in his muscles that'll put him in a good mood.
Baelor's hand wedges further between his thighs and his thumb rubs over his folds. The touch is almost brusque, fingers curling and scooping slick to smear on his thighs. Then his legs are being pushed back together, putting pressure and heat on his cunt. Baelor thrusts his hips, cock bullying between high thighs. Maekar feels it's hot drag on the inside of his thigh.
"Press your legs together, sweetling," Maekar obeys, tightening them around his brother. Baelor winds his arm under Maekar's, palming his chest. He thrusts slowly and moans.
"Thank you," Baelor says softly. "By the Gods, I didn't think you'd be a delight."
His brother mouths at his neck again. "I thought you were lost to me."
His cock catches against Maekar's folds, making the younger man mewl. The bed reeks of lust — an actual mounting wouldn't make is stronger. "I thought you were lost."
Maekar reaches up and threads his fingers through his brother's. He squeezes his hand. Baelor must have truly been terrified. His brother is sweating against his back. The bed is hot, hot enough for a dragon to nest between their bodies.
His brother's voice hardly rises above a horse whisper. "They wanted to build a pyre for you. They said it best we be readied to burn you quickly."
"Am I gone?" Maekar's voice is strained, the drag of Baelor's cock makes his legs twitch. "I'm not lost to you. I'm yours."
"Sweeting," Baelor purs. Maekar breathes slowly through his nose. He's over sensitive. His leg kicks out and Baelor keens softly. "You're a perfect sweeting."
Arousal coils in his groin. His cock is still soft — fuck me, he almost says to his lēkia, roll your hips up and break m. Baelor's hips are bumping against his arse. Maekar squeezes his legs and a long whine slips out of his mouth. He tucks his chin to his chest. Baelor whimpers as his mouth closes over Maekar's gland. His tongue laps at the skin. Then he sucks and Maekar moans.
Baelor lets out a high sound and his entire body jerks. Maekar feels his cock spurt wet over his thighs. His brother shivers then goes still against his back. He's a heavy, heady weight. Maekar shuts his eyes and feels sleep fall over him, a thick blanket. It is a good sleep he recons until he feels hands running over his legs.
Maekar growls softly.
"Shush," Baelor replies. "I need to clean you."
Maekar feels cloth over his thighs, brusque, then it moves up over his cunt. Baelor's hand lingers, palming him.
"Did you not knot?"
"I need more than that sort of fuck to knot?" Baelor admits. He pets his fingers through Maekar's folds. There's a wet squelch when they press against his opening.
"Baelor," Maekar groans, belly tightening. Baelor pulls the cloth away. Maekar feels it drag over his chest then cheek. He opens one eye. Its his braies. There's a snuffling sound behind him and he realizes Baelor is sniffing his slick.
Maekar snorts softly — knot headed fool.
"Keep those if you wish," Maekar shuts his eyes. "Wake me when we dock."
"Avy jorrāelan," Baelor says, as has been his custom every evening since they were boys. " Dohaerās."
That night, Maekar does not dream.