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It was a seemingly normal afternoon in the Red Keep. The sun beat down mercilessly on the training yard, baking the dust into fine powder.
Baelor, just a week past his twelfth nameday, was an absolute, unadulterated force with his blunted sword.
And from the shadowed alcove behind the armory, Maekar—just eight namedays old—watched, perfectly still.
The dull thwack of wood against wood echoed rhythmically as Baelor drove the master-at-arms backward. He was growing taller, broader in the shoulders, shedding the soft edges of boyhood for the sharp, unforgiving lines of a prince.
But Maekar’s eyes did not track the swing of the blade. His gaze was anchored lower, fixated entirely on his brother’s hands.
They were changing. They were losing their boyish smoothness, the skin pulling taut over newly pronounced knuckles, blistered and wrapped in rough leather.
Maekar watched the way his brother's long fingers gripped the hilt, the knuckles white with strain, the tendons shifting beneath the skin like coiled serpents.
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, a strange ache blooming in his jaw.
He wanted to press his teeth against those callouses, to see if they tasted of salt and iron and the bitter sting of polished wood. He caught himself chewing furiously on the inside of his cheek, the metallic tang of his own blood blooming on his tongue.
It was a maddening contradiction.
Maekar always felt the crushing weight of being the fourth son pressing down on his chest. Daeron’s youngest. The spare to the spares.
Looking at Baelor—radiant, effortless, perfect Baelor—was like staring directly into the midday sun. It burned. It filled Maekar with a profound, bitter inadequacy.
He would need to be this fast. He would need to be this strong. He would need to swing a sword with that same casual brutality just to be noticed in the vast shadow of the heir.
Yet, beneath the stinging resentment, there was a violent, humming energy that Maekar possessed no name for.
It pooled low in his belly, a coiled tension that made his skin feel entirely too tight and his breath come in ragged hitches.
He watched Baelor wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of that fascinating, scraped hand, and Maekar’s stomach swooped. The heat radiating through his veins had nothing to do with the summer sun.
He bit down on his thumb, the sharp pinch grounding him as he stared at the damp sheen of sweat clinging to Baelor’s collarbone.
Suddenly, the rhythmic clatter of swords stopped.
Baelor lowered his weapon, his chest heaving, his mismatched eyes scanning the perimeter.
He found the shadows of the alcove with unerring accuracy, like a predator scenting his prey.
Maekar froze. He expected a reprimand, a teasing remark about hiding like a rat in the dark.
But instead, his brother’s face shifted instantly. The fierce, untouchable warrior vanished, replaced by an expression of sharp concern.
Baelor dropped the wooden sword into the dirt. He bolted across the yard, his boots kicking up clouds of dust, completely ignoring the baffled master-at-arms.
"Maekar?" Baelor’s voice was breathless, rough with exertion as he closed the distance. He fell to his knees in the dirt right in front of Meakar.
Those large, battered hands reached out.
Maekar flinched backward as if burned, his eyes locked on those fingers as they hovered mere inches from his shoulders.
"What is it? Are you hurt? Why are you hiding out here?"
Up close, Baelor smelled of leather, sweat, and the sharp bite of crushed summer grass.
Maekar’s pulse thundered in his ears, an erratic drumbeat. His brother’s dark hair was plastered to his forehead, his lips parted as he panted, a drop of sweat catching on his bottom lip.
Maekar stared at that lip. His own mouth watered violently.
"I wasn't hiding!" Maekar snapped, the words bursting out in a defensive bark to cover the desperate trembling in his voice.
He scowled, pulling his shoulders up to his ears, fighting the overwhelming urge to lean forward and close his mouth over Baelor's bruised knuckles.
"You're pale," Baelor insisted gently, oblivious to the storm raging inside the younger boy. He reached out again, his broad hand coming to rest firmly against Maekar’s cheek, checking for a fever.
The contact was electric.
The rough, calloused palm scraping against Maekar’s soft skin sent a shockwave straight down his spine.
Panic immediately clawed up Maekar’s throat. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.
"Leave me be!" Maekar shoved Baelor's arm away with all his meager strength. His face burned with a chaotic mixture of shame, anger, and that unnamed, foreign hunger.
Before Baelor could utter another word, Maekar spun on his heel and bolted out of the alcove, fleeing as fast as his small legs could carry him, desperate to escape the suffocating heat of his brother’s hands.
He felt those mismatched eyes burning into the back of his skull as he ran away like a coward.
He found that he didn’t mind it. Not one bit.
Maekar had spent years convincing himself the urge was a phantom. A bizarre, childish aberration born from the pressure of being the final, forgotten son. A fleeting madness he would outgrow once he finally had a real blade in his grip.
Oh, was he so, so wrong.
Puberty hit Maekar like a mace to the skull, bringing with it a simmering rage and an agonizing surge of hormones that shattered his carefully constructed denial.
And worse—infinitely worse—Baelor grew up.
The gangly perfection of youth solidified into a devastating, aristocratic beauty. Baelor’s jaw sharpened into a weapon, his shoulders broadened to block out the sun, and he moved with a fluidity that made the court swoon and Maekar’s teeth grind until his jaw ached.
One day, they were in Baelor's solar.
Alone.
Baelor sat opposite him, slouched carelessly in his chair, a heavy silver ring gleaming on his index finger as he lazily peeled a blood orange with a small hunting dagger.
The afternoon light painted his face in soft hues of golden light. Perfect for the golden heir.
Maekar was trying—and failing—to read a treatise on Dornish supply lines. His eyes kept snagging. Over and over again.
The dark, sweet juice of the orange ran down Baelor’s thumb, pooling in the dip of his knuckles. His hands were larger now, heavily scarred from tourney melees, the veins thick and prominent against the tanned skin.
Maekar’s tongue pressed hard against the roof of his mouth. The phantom ache was no longer a dull throb but a frantic, insistent hunger.
He wanted to drag Baelor's knuckles across his own teeth. He wanted to lap the citrus and salt right off his brother’s skin, to feel the scrape of those callouses against his tongue.
"If you scowl any harder at that parchment, brother, I fear it might burst into flames," Baelor mused, not looking up. His voice had dropped an octave in the last year, a dark timber that vibrated down Maekar’s spine.
"If you chewed with your mouth closed, I might actually be able to concentrate," Maekar shot back, rougher than intended.
Baelor popped a glistening segment of the orange into his mouth and sucked the juice from his thumb with a wet, obscene little pop.
Maekar’s breath hitched. He dug his nails violently into his thighs under the table.
"I'm not eating loudly," Baelor said, an infuriatingly amused smirk playing on his lips. He tossed the dagger onto the table. It landed with a sharp clatter. "You haven't turned a page in ten minutes. Are the supply lines truly that captivating, or are you plotting to murder me for breathing your air?"
"I'm plotting your murder, obviously," Maekar snarled, finally looking up to meet Baelor’s eyes. "It requires intense concentration. I need to figure out how to make it look like a tragic jousting accident."
Baelor laughed warmly. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
The distance between them vanished. Maekar’s vision tunneled, hyper-fixating on the scarred wrist resting mere inches from his book.
"You'd miss me," Baelor teased, his voice dropping into a quieter, more intimate cadence. He reached out, his long fingers casually flipping the cover of Maekar's book shut.
Maekar stared at the hand resting on the leather binding.
The urge to snap his jaws around that wrist, to sink his teeth into the meat of the forearm, was so violent it made him dizzy. His mouth watered, pooling with saliva.
"I would throw a feast," Maekar managed to choke out, though the venom lacked its usual sting. His voice was breathless, already undone by the proximity.
Baelor’s smirk faded, replaced by a measuring look. He let his fingertips drag languidly across the embossed leather of the book cover, tracing the Targaryen dragon.
"You are a terrible liar, Maekar."
"And you are an arrogant nuisance."
"Then why," Baelor murmured, his eyes entirely devoid of their usual brotherly warmth, replaced by a sharp, probing intensity, "are you staring at my hand as if it is a banquet and you are starving to death?"
Panic, hot and bright, spiked in Maekar’s chest.
He jerked back, his chair scraping against the floor. "I am not staring at your miserable hand."
"You were." Baelor finally withdrew his arm, resting his chin thoughtfully on his knuckles. The gold light caught the fresh pink scar running across his palm. "You've been staring for years. It used to be amusing. Now it's just… fascinating."
Fuck. He knows.
Maekar felt exposed, flayed open. The defensive rage flared, a desperate shield burning through the thick fog of his arousal.
"You think everyone is obsessed with you," Maekar spat, standing up so fast the chair wobbled dangerously. "You think the sun rises and sets on your command."
"I do not think everyone is obsessed with me," Baelor said smoothly, his gaze tracking Maekar’s erratic movements.
He didn't stand. He didn't need to. He commanded the gravity of the room entirely from his seat.
"I think you are,” Baelor stated calmly.
"Go to the Seven Hells."
"Come here."
The command cracked through the air like lightning. It was the unquestionable tone of the Crown Prince.
Maekar froze. His boots felt filled with lead. Every instinct screamed at him to bolt, just as he had when he was eight namedays old.
But he wasn't a child anymore. He was a man grown himself, fueled by a terrifying, dark desire that demanded an outlet.
"No," Maekar said, his chin lifting in stubborn defiance, though his pulse thrummed a frantic rhythm.
Baelor tilted his head. He slowly lifted his right hand—the hand sticky with sweet orange juice and sweat, the hand scarred from the sword and calloused from the reins—and held it out, palm up, in the space over the table between them.
"Come here," Baelor repeated, softer this time, a velvet trap laid bare. "Show me what it is you want to do."
Maekar’s breath shuddered out of him. The air in the solar felt thick, unbreathable. The raw challenge in Baelor's eyes stripped away the last of Maekar's brittle defenses.
His jaw locked. His mouth watered until it felt like he was drowning in his own need.
He took a step forward.
Then another. And another.
He was close enough now to smell the acidic tang of the citrus mixed with the warm, musky heat of his brother’s skin.
Baelor’s hand remained suspended in the air between them. The golden afternoon light caught a sinful drop of dark orange juice gathering at the base of Baelor’s thumb. It swelled, trembling delicately on the precipice of a jagged scar.
Maekar’s jaw locked with a violence that made his teeth grind. He wanted to catch that drop before it fell.
The urge was a physical compulsion, an animalistic drive entirely bypassing his rational mind.
He wanted to wrap his lips around the thick meat of that thumb and draw hard, to taste the salt of the training yard mingling with the bruising sweetness of the fruit. His mouth watered so profusely he had to swallow.
"Go on, then," Baelor murmured, his voice a low hum that seemed to rattle Maekar's bones. "You're salivating, Maekar. Lick it clean."
The blunt, filthy command struck Maekar like a mace. His pride, always a volatile and defensive creature, reared its head, clashing violently against his crippling desire.
"I am a prince of the blood," Maekar rasped, trembling with a mixture of outrage and barely restrained lust. "I am not your fucking hound."
"Could have fooled me," Baelor countered smoothly, his eyes glittering with wicked amusement. "You're certainly panting like one."
Maekar’s fists clenched. "You flatter yourself.”
"And you torture yourself." Baelor leaned forward just a fraction, the scent of him washing over Maekar in a dizzying wave. "It is pathetic, little brother. The feast is laid bare. All you have to do is take it. Or are you simply a coward?"
"I fear nothing about you!"
"Then prove it."
The challenge hung heavy in the stifling air of the solar.
Maekar stared at the outstretched hand, his chest heaving. He was paralyzed, caught in the agonizing haze between his iron-clad pride and the blinding hunger gnawing at his sanity.
Baelor held his gaze for a long moment before a slow, dark smirk curved his lips.
"As you wish," Baelor whispered, the dangerous edge in his voice replaced by a maddeningly casual lilt. "I suppose it is a shame to let it go to waste. I shall have to manage on my own."
Slowly, deliberately, Baelor brought his hand toward his own face.
He never once broke eye contact with Maekar.
Maekar watched in paralyzed awe and horror as Baelor extended his tongue. The wet, pink muscle dragged a slow path up the heel of Baelor’s palm, capturing the trail of sticky juice.
The sound of it—a slick, wet slide of spit and skin—was deafening in the quiet room.
Beneath the fabric of Maekar’s breeches, his cock surged, growing brutally, painfully hard in an instant. The throbbing length of it strained against the wool, pulsing with every erratic beat of his heart.
Baelor’s eyes remained pinned on Maekar, dark and entirely predatory, as he licked the juice from the dip of his knuckles. He made a show of it—a slow, meticulous cleaning—turning his hand to capture every lingering drop.
An intense, irrational fury ignited in Maekar’s chest.
You’re taking what’s mine.
It was a vicious possessiveness. Those bruised, calloused knuckles were his to soothe. That sweet, sticky nectar was his to claim, his to devour, his to claim.
Watching Baelor consume it himself felt like a desecration, a theft of something that belonged entirely to Maekar.
It was his job. It was his right.
His duty.
Baelor parted his lips and slowly drew his index finger into his mouth. The silver ring scraped audibly against his teeth as Baelor sucked the digit deep, his cheeks hollowing slightly with the suction.
Maekar’s vision went white at the edges.
The agonizing friction of his breeches against his erect cock was driving him mad.
"Stop."
The word ripped out of Maekar’s throat—a raw, desperate, and furious command that shattered the silence of the room.
But Baelor did not stop.
If anything, the wicked amusement in his eyes deepened into something sharper, something entirely knowing.
He slowly withdrew his finger with an obscene squelch that echoed off the walls, only to replace it with his thumb, pressing the bruised pad against his bottom lip before drawing it deliberately past his teeth.
"I said stop," Maekar snarled, closing the remaining distance until his thighs hit the table. His hands clamped onto the edge of the wood as he fought the overwhelming urge to lunge across the surface, snatch Baelor's wrist, and wrench it away from his mouth.
Baelor paused. He kept his thumb resting against his wet lower lip, tilting his head.
His gaze swept lazily over Maekar’s flushed, furious face, before drifting downward, landing heavily and deliberately on the unmistakable strain tenting the front of Maekar's breeches.
"You speak as if you are not asking for a favor, brother," Baelor murmured intimately.
It sent a fresh jolt of electricity straight to Maekar's cock.
"A favor?" Maekar spat, his chest heaving. His voice was a jagged rasp, lacking all the authority he tried to inject into it. "You are deliberately provoking me. You are being a foul, arrogant bastard, doing… that, just to humiliate me."
"Humiliate you?" Baelor withdrew his thumb, finally lowering his hand to rest casually on the arm of his chair.
The dark orange juice was gone, replaced by a glistening sheen of spit that caught the fading light, turning the scarred landscape of his knuckles into a wet, tempting feast.
"I am simply enjoying a piece of fruit. You are the one standing there, trembling like a starved stray, demanding I cease my own affairs because you cannot control yourself."
"I am in perfect control!" Maekar fired back, though his voice cracked on the final syllable, betraying the aching throb in his breeches and the heavy pool of saliva flooding his mouth.
"You are unraveling at the seams," Baelor corrected softly.
He leaned forward, the indolent slouch vanishing in an instant, replaced by the gravity of the heir to the Iron Throne. The air between them crackled, charged and thick.
"If you want something that is mine, Maekar," Baelor said, his tone dropping into a silken quiet that left no room for defiance, "you will not bark commands at me like I am a servant. You will ask nicely."
Maekar swallowed hard, the sound a dry click. "I am not asking—"
"You will plead," Baelor cut him off, the velvet edge of his voice hardening into iron. He turned his wrist upward, spreading his fingers slightly, offering the damp, shining palm to Maekar's ravenous gaze. "In fact, I think a prince who demands what he has not earned requires a lesson in humility. If you want to taste my skin…"
Baelor leaned closer, his eyes burning with an intoxicating dominance that shattered Maekar's fractured composure into dust.
"If you want to clean my hand so desperately, little brother… get on your knees and beg for it."
The sheer audacity of it should have summoned a dragon’s wrath. Maekar was the blood of the dragon, a prince of the realm, a fearsome warrior in his own right. His pride was a vicious thing, forged in the fires of his own insecurity.
He should have drawn a blade. He should have stormed out, cursing his brother's name.
Instead, a dark, violent thrill ripped through his gut, pooling heavily in his cock.
He stared at Baelor’s outstretched hand.
The wet sheen of saliva caught the fading light. The thick, scarred digits. The absolute, unshakeable authority radiating from his older brother.
Maekar was fighting a losing battle against his own depravity.
His thighs trembled. The pressure inside his breeches was agony—a thick, throbbing ache that demanded release, demanded submission.
Baelor did not rush him. He simply sat there, an immovable force, his eyes tracking every minuscule flinch of Maekar’s crumbling resolve.
"You are cruel," Maekar whispered, the words slipping out not as an accusation but as a confession.
"I am generous," Baelor corrected softly, a wicked promise laced through the velvet of his voice. "I am offering you exactly what you crave. The floor, Maekar."
Maekar closed his eyes. A shudder wracked through his body.
And then, he dropped.
The impact of his knees striking the floor sent a jarring shock up his spine, but it was eclipsed entirely by the dizzying rush of finally surrendering. Down here, the world shrank to nothing but the hem of Baelor’s tunic and the hand suspended just inches above Maekar’s face. The musky, citrus-laced scent of his brother wrapped around him, intoxicating and absolute.
Maekar tilted his head back, exposing his throat, his eyes pinned on Baelor’s. From this vantage point, his brother looked terrifyingly magnificent—a dark, sovereign deity claiming his rightful worship.
"Please," Maekar choked out. The word tasted like ashes and copper, entirely foreign on his tongue, yet it sent a blinding spike of arousal straight to his cock.
The amusement in Baelor’s eyes darkened into something utterly ravenous.
He lowered his hand just a fraction, the tips of his fingers brushing the chaotic mess of Maekar’s hair. "That is a start. But I told you to beg. Tell me what you want to do with my hand, little brother. Plead for it."
Maekar’s mouth fell open, a thin string of saliva connecting his lips. He was already undone, a creature driven wholly by instinct and years of festering, unspoken starvation.
"I want to taste you," Maekar rasped. He crawled forward a single inch, his chest brushing against Baelor’s breeches. "Please. I want to clean them. Let me lick the sweat off your skin. Let me soothe your bruises. Please, big brother. I am begging you. Give it to me."
A ragged breath escaped Baelor’s chest. The naked desperation in Maekar’s plea had finally cracked the Crown Prince’s composure.
"Take it," Baelor growled, low and commanding.
Maekar surged upward like a starving hound unleashed. He seized Baelor’s wrist with both hands, his grip bruised and frantic, and dragged the large, calloused palm directly to his mouth.
Maekar feasted.
He parted his jaws wide and pressed his face into the center of Baelor’s palm, his hot, wet tongue swiping broad strokes across the scarred skin.
The taste was a blinding revelation. Sharp, acidic citrus mingled with the biting salt of sweat, the metallic tang of old blood, and the dark, musky flavor of Baelor himself.
“Fuck,” Maekar groaned into the skin.
He latched his lips around the thick meat of Baelor’s thumb, drawing it deep into his mouth, sucking hard enough to hollow his own cheeks.
The rough texture of the callouses scraping against his sensitive tongue sent shockwaves of ecstasy straight to his cock. He hummed against the digit, utterly lost in the blinding euphoria of finally claiming what he had coveted for years.
Above him, Baelor let out a stuttering hiss, his other hand tangling deep into Maekar’s hair to hold him firmly in place.
The sight of his fiercely proud, volatile brother brought so low, completely undone and worshipping at his palm, shattered whatever fragile restraint the heir to the throne still possessed.
With a sudden jerk of his wrist, Baelor tightened his grip on Maekar's hair, forcing the younger prince’s head to tilt further back. He ruthlessly pulled his thumb from Maekar’s lips.
Maekar let out a wounded noise at the loss, his eyes snapping open. He chased the hand, his mouth open and slick with saliva, desperate to reclaim the rough friction against his tongue.
"Patience," Baelor soothed.
Before Maekar could formulate a thought, Baelor’s hand returned. But this time, it was not an offering but a conquest. Baelor bypassed the lips entirely, driving his index and middle fingers deep into Maekar’s mouth.
The pads scraped aggressively against the roof of Maekar’s mouth, a friction that made Maekar’s entire body lock rigid in shock and blinding pleasure.
Baelor angled his knuckles, pushing deeper until the tips of his fingers met the sensitive ridge at the back of Maekar’s throat. With ruthless pressure, he bore down, trapping Maekar’s tongue and pinning it flat against the floor of his mouth.
Maekar’s breath hitched. His eyes went wide and unfocused, tears of strain rapidly pooling at the corners.
The dominance of the act was absolute. His jaw was forced wide, his airway entirely at the mercy of Baelor's scarred hand.
"You wanted to taste me," Baelor murmured, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of Maekar’s ear. "Taste me, Maekar."
And then, he began to move.
He withdrew his fingers slightly, the knuckles dragging over Maekar’s teeth, only to drive them back down with a brutal, deliberate thrust.
He fucked his brother’s mouth with the same unforgiving, punishing precision he wielded a broadsword against his foes.
Thrust. Drag. Push.
Maekar choked around the intrusion, a wet, sloppy sound escaping his throat. But he didn't dare try to pull away.
Gods, he didn’t even consider the notion.
He leaned into it. His hands flew up, clamping frantically onto Baelor’s forearm to hold him firmly in place, anchoring himself to the source of his ruin.
Every time Baelor’s thick fingers sank past his lips, stretching his jaw, pinning his tongue immobile, a bolt of blinding electricity shot down Maekar’s spine. He was suffocating on it, drowning in the taste of his brother, and he never wanted to breathe real air again.
"That's it," Baelor praised. The rhythm grew faster, rougher. Baelor’s thumb settled firmly into the hollow of Maekar’s cheek. "Take it all."
Maekar’s hips jerked involuntarily, grinding his painful erection into the floor. A pathetic whine broke from the back of his throat, completely muffled by the fingers plunging in and out of his mouth. He sucked greedily around the digits, trying to milk every ounce of flavor, every drop of sweat from the scarred skin, his nails biting into Baelor’s sleeve.
He was entirely consumed, completely hollowed out, and filled by the force of his brother's hand.
"Look at you," Baelor murmured. He dragged his fingers out slowly, letting a thick string of spit bridge the gap between them, before plunging them right back in. "So needy already, begging for it like a starved hound at a feast."
Maekar didn't care about the insult. The degradation only fueled the blinding fire in his veins. He tightened his lips around Baelor’s knuckles, trying to suck the very marrow from his brother's bones.
"That's right, take it," Baelor praised. "You're so desperate for it, aren't you? All those years glaring at me from the yard, acting so proud, so untouchable. And here you are, practically swallowing my hand whole."
He twisted his wrist, pressing hard against the roof of Maekar’s mouth.
Maekar's hips bucked, grinding helplessly against the floor.
"Pathetic," Baelor hissed, though his grip on Maekar's hair was agonizingly tender. "The grouchy Prince Maekar, reduced to a weeping, drooling mess just because I offered him a taste. You look beautiful like this, little brother. Filthy and ruined and entirely mine."
Maekar wanted to speak, wanted to agree, wanted to scream.
But all he could do was swallow convulsively around the fingers, tasting salt and sweat and absolute subjugation.
Baelor leaned down, his chest brushing against the top of Maekar's head, his breath hot and ragged against Maekar's flushed cheek. He withdrew his fingers just enough to let Maekar gasp for air, only to trace the swollen line of Maekar's bottom lip with his thumb.
"Tell me, little brother," Baelor whispered, his voice dripping with intoxicating dominance. He pushed two fingers past Maekar's teeth once more, pinning his tongue down with unapologetic force. "Does it please you to serve your future king?"
The title rang in the room.
Future king.
The ultimate authority.
The man he was sworn to kneel to, to bleed for.
Doing it like this—on his knees in the shadows of the solar, mouth stretched wide, utterly consumed by Baelor's power—shattered the last fragile piece of his sanity.
Maekar couldn't form words, but his response was enough. He surged forward, taking the fingers deeper, his throat working frantically around the intrusion. He stared up at Baelor with wide, fever-bright eyes, tears freely tracking down his cheeks, nodding his head with raw devotion.
"Good boy," Baelor groaned, the sound raw and tearing from his chest. "Fucking perfect. Keep going. Clean every last drop for me."
The approval of his older brother, laced with such heavy dominance, acted as the final strike of flint against steel. Maekar was entirely ablaze.
He worked his jaw furiously, taking the digits as deep as his gag reflex would allow. The silver ring scraped against his mouth, a grounding pain that pierced the hazy euphoria clouding his mind. He sucked hard, using his tongue to map every ridge, every jagged line of scar tissue, every rough callous on Baelor’s skin.
He was worshipping at the altar of the very hands that had tormented his waking thoughts for years.
"Such a filthy mouth for a prince," Baelor taunted softly, the cadence of his voice turning ragged and breathless. He twisted his wrist again, dragging the heel of his palm firmly over Maekar's nose, forcing him to inhale the musk of sweat and leather. "You're making a spectacular mess of yourself. Can you feel it? You're ruining your breeches just from tasting me."
It couldn’t be more true.
A hot, slick rush of precum was already soaking through Maekar’s trousers, pasting the fabric to his painfully rigid cock. Every time Baelor thrust his fingers down, pinning his tongue flat, Maekar’s hips jerked against the floorstones.
"I want to hear you," Baelor demanded, withdrawing his fingers until only the tips rested past Maekar’s lips, leaving the younger prince gasping for air. The spit painted Maekar’s chin, dripping down to stain his collar. "Tell me how good it tastes. Use your words, Maekar."
"It tastes…” Maekar rasped, his voice utterly wrecked, stripped of every ounce of its usual venom. "It tastes perfect. Please. Don't stop. I need it."
"You need it," Baelor repeated, the dark satisfaction in his tone thick. "Look at me. Look at your king."
Maekar obeyed instantly, his breath catching in his throat.
"You are a spoiled, arrogant little brat," Baelor murmured, his thumb returning to stroke Maekar's swollen bottom lip. "But you serve me so beautifully. I could keep you on your knees all day, couldn't I? Just feeding you my hands until you forget your own name."
"Yes," Maekar whimpered out, a pathetic sound that he didn't even recognize as his own. "Yes, whatever you want."
"Then take it," Baelor growled, his eyes flashing with predatory fire. He drove his fingers back into Maekar’s mouth, burying them deep.
Maekar surrendered to it completely, his eyes rolling back.
The blinding sensory input—the ghost of the blood orange, the bitter salt, the abrasive drag of the callouses—was pushing him dangerously close to the edge.
He didn't even need to touch himself.
The weight of the degradation, paired with Baelor's hand claiming his mouth, was dragging him straight toward a shattering climax. He tightened his grip on Baelor’s forearm, whining as he rode the exquisite high straight to his ruin.
The fingers pinned Maekar’s tongue down.
That was all it took.
His orgasm tore through his body with no warning, full-body convulsion that locked every muscle.
A muffled, strangled sob broke past the thick digits invading his throat. Maekar’s hips jerked sharply, grinding helplessly against the floorstones as he spilled his seed in his breeches. The thick wool was instantly soaked through, pasting wetly to his thighs as wave after wave of pleasure wracked his spine.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the solar were Maekar’s ragged breaths and the wet slide as Baelor finally, slowly withdrew his hand.
Maekar slumped forward, his forehead coming to rest against the table.
Saliva dripped continuously from his bruised, swollen lips, leaving a dark stain on the stone beneath him. He was completely hollowed out, utterly destroyed, and remade by his brother's whim.
Above him, Baelor huffed.
“Tsk.”
With a calculated pull, he hauled Maekar’s head back up, forcing the younger prince to look at him.
His free hand—the hand still gleaming wet with Maekar’s saliva, the knuckles bruised and beautiful—hovered just inches from Maekar’s flushed face. The amusement was gone from Baelor's dark eyes, replaced by a cold, silken authority that made Maekar’s breath catch painfully.
"Did I give you permission to cum?"
The question hung in the stifling air, a blade pressed flush against Maekar’s throat.
A fresh, icy spike of adrenaline pierced through his exhaustion. He stared up at his brother, panic and shame tightening his lungs.
"N-No," Maekar stammered. The word slipped past his bruised lips in a pathetic, wet rush. "No, Baelor. I—"
"Your Grace," Baelor corrected smoothly.
His grip in Maekar’s hair tightened just enough to force a quiet gasp from the younger prince.
"Or my Prince. You seem to have forgotten your station the moment your cock found a shred of relief."
"My Prince," Maekar amended instantly, his voice a desperate rasp.
Baelor’s eyes narrowed. He lowered his wet hand, tracing the slick pad of his thumb along Maekar’s jawline. The cool air hit the drying spit, a shocking contrast to the burning heat of Maekar’s flushed skin.
"Selfish," Baelor murmured.
The rebuke was soft, yet it struck with the force of a mace.
"I laid out a feast, and you behaved like a mindless stray. Spilling your seed on my floor without a single thought for the man who provided it. A prince who cannot control his own desires is a pathetic sight."
Maekar flushed crimson. The shame was absolute, a heavy chain wrapping around his neck.
Yet, sick as it was, the degradation only stoked the dying embers of his arousal back into a violent flame.
"I couldn't help it," Maekar whispered, his eyes dropping to the floor. "The taste… it was…"
"Look at me."
Maekar’s head snapped back up.
"I did not give you permission to look away," Baelor said coldly. He dragged his thumb down, pressing it firmly against the pulse fluttering frantically at the base of Maekar’s throat. "And I certainly did not give you permission to finish. You stole your release."
"Forgive me," Maekar choked out.
"Apologizing does not clean your soiled breeches. Nor does it appease your king."
Baelor stepped closer. The movement forced Maekar to tilt his head even further back, his spine bowing.
The scent of Baelor’s own arousal—dark, heavy, and undeniable—finally hit Maekar’s senses, cutting through the sharp citrus and sweat.
Baelor was hard too.
He lifted his hand once more. The knuckles were still wet, the callouses gleaming in the low light.
"You owe me a debt, little brother," he whispered, his voice a rich, dark velvet. "You took your pleasure selfishly. Now you will earn it."
Without warning, Baelor shoved his fingers right back into Maekar’s mouth.
Maekar gagged. His throat was painfully oversensitive, his entire body trembling with the aftershocks of his climax. The rough plunge of those thick digits sent a violent wave of sensation straight to his core.
"Take it," Baelor commanded, his voice devoid of any mercy.
He didn't fuck Maekar's mouth this time. He simply held his fingers deep inside, pinning the tongue flat, forcing Maekar to simply endure the suffocating intrusion.
Tears pricked the corners of Maekar's eyes. He swallowed convulsively, his throat working desperately around the knuckles. The phantom ache in his jaw was gone, replaced by a deep, hollow devotion.
"Coat it," Baelor ordered quietly. "Use every last drop of your own spit. Make it shine for me."
Maekar obeyed.
He sucked the digits meticulously. He ran his tongue along the crevices of Baelor's scars, licking the salt and sweat with a fervent, desperate energy.
He wanted to please. He needed to prove his worth.
Baelor watched him, his jaw set, his eyes tracking the frantic movements of Maekar's mouth. Slowly, the cold authority in his gaze melted back into that raw, consuming hunger.
He withdrew his hand with a soft squelch.
Maekar sat back on his heels, his chest rising and falling in ragged, shallow breaths. He wiped a stray trail of saliva from his chin, his eyes wide and fever-bright as he awaited judgment.
Baelor inspected his hand, then let it drop to his side.
"Better," he murmured.
He reached down, brushing against the collar of Maekar's tunic. He gripped the fabric, pulling Maekar up slightly, forcing the younger prince to bear his own weight.
"Now," Baelor growled, his gaze dropping heavily to Maekar's bruised lips. "Let us see how well you serve the rest of me."
He released Maekar’s collar. Then, those hands dropped to the leather belt at his waist.
Maekar remained kneeling, watching the deft, fluid movements of those calloused fingers as they worked the iron buckle. The metallic clink sounded deafening in the heavy silence of the solar.
With a swift, downward tug, Baelor pushed the thick wool of his breeches and his smallclothes past his hips.
Maekar’s breath caught in his raw throat.
Baelor’s cock sprang free, heavy and violently rigid against his stomach.
It was magnificent. Thick, imposing, and flushed a deep, angry red. A bead of clear precum wept from the blunt tip, catching the fading afternoon light. The musky, aggressively masculine scent of him intensified, wrapping around Maekar in a thick, intoxicating cloud.
"Well?" Baelor challenged softly.
His hands came to rest on his hips, pushing his pelvis forward just a fraction. An invitation. A command.
"You wanted to feast, little brother. Prove that you are worthy of my table."
The devastation of Maekar’s earlier climax had left his mind wiped completely blank of anything resembling pride.
There was only Baelor. Only his king.
He leaned forward, his hands coming to rest on Baelor’s muscular thighs. The skin was hot, corded with the same iron-hard muscle that made Baelor so lethal in the yard. Maekar parted his lips and closed his mouth over the blunt, weeping head of Baelor's cock.
Baelor’s hips instantly bucked forward, a harsh, guttural groan tearing from his throat.
The taste was entirely different from his hands, yet fundamentally the same. It was dark, salty, and utterly consuming. Maekar’s tongue, already tired and sore, went to work with desperate devotion. He swiped broad circles around the thick ridge, lapping up the slick precum before sinking his head lower.
He took as much of the thick length into his mouth as his jaw would allow, the stretch agonizing and exquisite.
"Fuck," Baelor hissed. His voice was ragged, completely stripped of its usual silken composure.
Those heavy, calloused hands moved, tangling violently into Maekar’s hair. Baelor’s thumbs pressed hard against his temples, anchoring him in place.
Maekar began to pump his head, a sloppy, wet rhythm that filled the quiet room with the sounds of his ruined pride.
He sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks, drawing the heavy flesh deep against the back of his throat. His nose pressed firmly against Baelor’s dark, sweat-dampened pubic hair, forcing him to breathe in the scent of his older brother.
Every time Maekar bobbed his head back, Baelor’s hips chased his mouth. The Crown Prince was losing his immaculate control, his breathing fracturing into stuttering pants.
"That's it," Baelor grunted, his fingers tightening in Maekar's hair until it stung. "Take it deep. Relax your throat for me."
Maekar complied. He forced himself to open, letting Baelor dictate the punishing rhythm. Baelor began to thrust, driving his heavy hips forward, fucking Maekar's mouth with the same ruthless, demanding energy he had used with his fingers.
It was a violent, breathtaking assault. Baelor bottomed out against the back of Maekar's throat with every downward thrust.
Maekar choked, a wet, pathetic whine escaping his nose. Tears streamed freely down his cheeks.
But he kept his hands locked onto Baelor’s thighs, anchoring himself to the hurricane. The rough callouses of Baelor's hands scraping aggressively against his scalp sent continuous, blinding shockwaves straight to his belly. Even with a soaked pair of breeches, Maekar felt his own cock painfully twitching with a renewed, impossible ache.
"Look at you," Baelor praised. He pulled out slightly, just enough to let Maekar drag in a desperate, sobbing gasp of air, before slamming back down. "My perfect, obedient little brother. Swallowing my cock like a starved whore."
The degradation sent a fresh, sickeningly sweet bolt of pleasure straight through Maekar's spine.
"Good boy," Baelor chanted, his thrusts turning rapid, entirely erratic. He was close. The muscles in his thighs were locked rigid under Maekar’s hands. "Fucking perfect. Keep your jaw wide. Don't you dare flinch."
Maekar squeezed his eyes shut. He sucked furiously as Baelor’s pace turned punishing. The silver ring on Baelor's hand scraped against Maekar's ear as the older prince anchored his grip.
"I'm close," Baelor snarled, his voice dropping into an animalistic growl. "I'm going to fill your filthy mouth. Drink it all, Maekar. Every fucking drop."
Maekar nodded frantically against the heavy cock. He flattened his tongue, opening his throat entirely.
Baelor let out a deafening roar. His hips locked forward in a brutal, bone-jarring thrust.
A thick, boiling rush of seed shot directly against the back of Maekar's throat. It was heavy, rich, and blindingly hot. Maekar gagged at the sudden volume, but the hands tangled in his hair held him utterly immobile.
He swallowed convulsively.
Then again.
And again.
Pulse after pulse of thick heat flooded his mouth. Maekar drank it down, his throat working frantically to accommodate the magnitude of the spill. He didn't waste a single drop. He drank down Baelor's cum, tasting the salt and the stark, ruinous power of his future king.
Baelor’s chest heaved. He remained buried deep in Maekar's throat, his entire frame shuddering with the aftershocks of his violent climax.
Slowly, the iron grip in Maekar's hair loosened.
Baelor pulled back, his cock slipping free with a thick, wet pop.
Maekar collapsed backward onto his heels, completely spent. His jaw ached with a magnificent throb. A single, thick white drop of Baelor's seed clung to the corner of his swollen lips.
Baelor stood over him, panting heavily, his eyes dark and entirely satisfied. He reached out with that beautifully scarred hand and swiped his thumb across Maekar’s mouth, collecting the stray drop.
Without breaking eye contact, he brought his thumb to his own lips and sucked it clean.
"Good boy," Baelor whispered.
The silence of the solar stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the uneven cadence of Maekar’s breathing.
And as the euphoric haze of his climax began to recede, the post-seed clarity rushed in.
He looked down at himself. His velvet tunic was wrinkled and stained with sweat. His breeches were ruined, plastered wetly to his thighs with his own seed. His knees throbbed from the hard stone.
He was a prince of the blood. A fearsome, angry warrior who spent his days trying to outshine everyone in the yard. And yet, here he was, reduced to a trembling, thoroughly dismantled mess at his older brother's feet.
Shame crashed over him. It burned hotter than the arousal had, scorching his throat and stinging the backs of his eyes. He felt pathetic.
The forgotten fourth son, weeping and begging just to devour his brother.
Maekar scrambled backward. He wanted to fold in on himself, to disappear into the darkness of the alcove where he belonged.
"Don't look at me," Maekar snapped. He aimed for a ferocious snarl, but his voice betrayed him, fracturing into a wet rasp. He threw his arm over his eyes, turning his face away from the fading golden light.
Baelor, who was calmly fastening the buckle of his belt, paused. The dark, predatory heat in his eyes shifted, melting effortlessly into tenderness.
"If I intended to avoid looking at you, little brother," Baelor stated, his voice a smooth, rich timber, "I would have left you hiding in the armory shadows years ago."
Baelor stepped forward. He reached the table and picked up a cloth and a pitcher, pouring a measure of cool water over the fabric. Then he crouched down, bringing himself to Maekar’s level.
"Release me," Maekar growled, blindly batting a hand out as he heard Baelor approach. He hit solid, immovable muscle. "I said stay back. I am a disgrace. I am…"
"You are dramatic," Baelor interrupted smoothly.
Those large, magnificent hands caught Maekar’s flailing wrists with effortless precision.
Maekar squeezed his eyes shut. A single, traitorous tear slipped free, tracking through the drying saliva on his cheek.
"Open your eyes, Maekar."
"No."
"Must I make it a royal decree?" Baelor teased.
Maekar’s eyes fluttered open, glaring fiercely through his wet lashes. He expected to see pity or, worse, a triumphant smirk.
But he only found Baelor looking at him with soft affection.
Baelor raised the damp linen. He pressed it gently to Maekar’s flushed cheek, wiping away the tears and the lingering mess of his own seed.
"I look pathetic," Maekar spat, though he leaned into the touch instinctively, entirely starved for comfort.
"You look utterly ravished," Baelor corrected, turning the cloth to clean the corner of Maekar’s bruised mouth. "There is a vast distinction. A pathetic man breaks. You simply yielded to your king. There is no shame in giving me exactly what I desire."
"I have no pride left," Maekar argued, his voice dropping to a miserable whisper. "I groveled like a stray hound."
"Pride is a heavy, useless armor," Baelor murmured. He tossed the linen aside and cupped Maekar’s jaw with both hands. The silver ring pressed coolly against Maekar’s cheek. "You wear it poorly anyway, brother. It makes you scowl and ruins your posture."
Before Maekar could formulate an insulted retort, Baelor stood up, bringing Maekar with him.
But Maekar’s legs instantly gave out. He pitched forward, a startled gasp escaping his lips.
Baelor caught him seamlessly. Strong, muscular arms wrapped around Maekar’s waist, hauling him up against his chest. Baelor carried him the short distance across the solar and deposited him gently onto the plush velvet settee.
Maekar sank into the cushions, completely mortified as Baelor knelt between his parted thighs.
"Unhand me," Maekar hissed, attempting to push Baelor's shoulders as those fingers moved to the laces of his ruined breeches. "I can tend to myself."
"Stop squirming like a caught trout," Baelor chastised gently, easily swatting Maekar’s hands away. "I have seen your cock before. Though admittedly, rarely in such a state of spectacular distress."
Maekar flushed a brilliant scarlet. He covered his face with both hands, letting out a frustrated groan. "You are impossible. You strip me of my dignity and then you mock me."
"I am tending to you," Baelor corrected. He worked the laces free and gently pulled the soiled wool down Maekar’s legs, tossing the ruined garment onto the floor.
The cool air of the solar hit Maekar’s flushed, sensitive skin. He shivered violently, feeling entirely exposed, entirely vulnerable.
Baelor retrieved the damp linen once more. His touch was painstakingly gentle now, a stark contrast to the brutal rhythm he had employed earlier. He cleaned the sticky remnants of Maekar’s seed from his thighs and his cock, his callouses brushing softly against the quivering muscles.
The intimacy of it was overwhelming. It was far more devastating than the act itself. Having the Crown Prince—the untouchable, perfect Baelor—kneeling on the floor, cleaning the mess of his younger brother's ruin, shattered the last of Maekar's defenses.
"How can you look at me?" Maekar whispered into his hands, his voice cracking. "I am just the spare. The angry, useless spare who cannot even control his own desires. And now I am just your…"
"My what?" Baelor challenged softly.
He dropped the cloth. His large hands moved up to grip Maekar’s wrists, pulling them firmly away from his face. He didn't let Maekar look away.
"Say it, Maekar. Say what you think you are to me. My servant? My whore?"
Maekar swallowed the hard lump in his throat. "Yes."
"If you were my whore, brother, I would have tossed a coin at your chest and returned to my ledgers," Baelor said quietly. "Do you see me returning to my ledgers?"
Maekar’s breath hitched. "No."
"I am kneeling on the floorstones to wash you," Baelor pointed out, his tone a perfect mixture of sharp wit and pure sincerity. He resumed his gentle cleaning. "I cannot imagine a single whore in King's Landing who could command the heir to the throne to do such a thing."
"I did not command you," Maekar muttered defensively.
"No," Baelor agreed, a small, knowing smile curving his lips. "But I answered anyway. You think this degrades you? You think your desire makes you weak?"
Baelor leaned in, invading Maekar’s space until their noses brushed. The musky scent of their combined heat lingered heavily in the air between them.
"You may be a needy fool, but you are no whore," Baelor stated fiercely. "You are my brother. You are the blood of the dragon. And you are mine."
Baelor dropped the cloth and moved his hands up, his thumbs sweeping across Maekar’s cheekbones.
"Yielding to me does not make you weak," Baelor continued. "It takes a great amount of strength to surrender as beautifully as you just did. To bare your throat to the blade and trust that I will not cut it. Do you honestly believe I would let anyone else touch me like this? Do you think I would accept such absolute devotion from anyone but an equal?"
"I am no match for you," Maekar argued weakly, though the fight had completely drained out of him.
"You are the only one who can match my fire," Baelor countered, an affectionate smile breaking across his handsome face.
He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Maekar’s bruised, swollen lips. It was sweet, devoid of the teeth and the demands from earlier.
"You spent years starving yourself out of some misplaced sense of pride," Baelor murmured. "There is no weakness in taking what you want. And there is certainly no shame in being mine to ruin. If you are depraved, little brother, then so am I, for I enjoyed every second of watching you swallow your pride. And my seed.”
Baelor pulled back just an inch, his breath fanning across Maekar’s mouth.
"You were perfect today," Baelor whispered, his hands stroking Maekar’s hair. "Absolutely perfect. And tomorrow, when we are in the yard, you will swing your sword with that same furious pride, and no one will ever know that the fierce Prince Maekar belongs entirely to me."
The remnants of Maekar’s shame finally dissolved, burning away under the steady warmth of Baelor’s gaze. He let out a long, shaky breath, the tension leaving his shoulders as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against Baelor’s shoulder.
"Arrogant bastard," Maekar mumbled into Baelor's tunic.
Baelor chuckled, a rich, dark sound that vibrated into Maekar’s chest. He wrapped his arms around Maekar’s waist, holding him close in the fading light of the solar.
"That is treasonous, little brother," he murmured into Maekar’s hair. "Perhaps your future king should punish you."
He pulled back, just enough to lock his eyes onto Maekar’s.
“Though I suppose I’d find no complaints from you on that matter,” Baelor said with a sly smirk.
Maekar could only whimper in response.