Chapter Text
Minstrels sang songs of his brother’s strength and wisdom. They plied their trade in the taverns of King’s Landing, voices thin and reedy, background noise to brawls and whoring.
Before his marriage, before the birth of his two sons, he used to venture down into the city, a hood over his head to hide his white hair. He needn’t have bothered. He was the fourth son, the spare to the spare to the spare. He might as well have been a dog’s corpse on a street corner for all that no one paid attention to him. Something to deal with only when it rotted.
As Maekar beat a man to death with his bare fists, he considered it a blessing that no one sang songs about him.
“And why should they?” He muttered through clenched teeth, a tooth flying past his face into the darkness.
His fist was aching agony, but it was nothing compared to the mass of pulp and flesh in front of him. It was unclear if the assassin was already dead, but Maekar wanted to be damned sure he was.
The fucker had crept into his brother’s tent, a dagger on his belt and a vial of what Maekar assumed was poison. He hadn’t asked if it was poison, but given the context, it was safe to assume. Maekar had sat in the dark with no light to illuminate his presence, and the assassin only noticed him when he threw the first fist. There had never been a more shit assassin, and it spoke badly of the Blackfyres if that was all they could afford.
A headache had throbbed at his temples when he rose from his cot that morning and only grew worse as the day went on. While he wanted to speak with his brother, he had no desire to speak with the lords that licked his brother’s arse. His intention was to catch Baelor returning from the council meeting. He did not intend to catch an assassin prying open the cork to his brother’s wine cask. But he was glad he did.
“Who sent you?” He asked the corpse, and when it offered no reply, Maekar snarled and dumped the pile of flesh on the ground, spitting on it for good measure.
“Maekar.”
He froze and his clenched fist slowly unclenched.
Maekar looked up from the corpse to his brother. He stood in the entrance to the tent, flanked by two Kingsguard. Both dropped their hands to the grips of their swords at the sight of him.
Baelor frowned down at the corpse, his eyebrows pulled together. The frown slipped away as he looked up at Maekar. In the darkness in the tent, Maekar could not discern his brother’s expression, except that he did not seem shocked. Nothing Maekar did seemed to shock Baelor anymore.
“What happened?”
“Assassin,” Maekar growled.
“An assassin,” Baelor repeated. “And were you trying to interrogate him when I so rudely interrupted?”
Maekar flushed and turned away from his brother. Bending over, he grabbed the corked vial of poison where it laid on the ground, tossing it to his brother.
Baelor caught it. He held it up to the moonlight, the liquid inside was clear.
“How do you know it is poison?” Baelor asked.
Maekar squinted. “What the fuck else could it be? Why would some hooded fuck sneak his way into your tent with a vial unless he tried to poison you?”
Baelor conceded the point with a sigh. He tucked the vial away on his person and clasped his hands behind his back. “I thought you were in your tent, Brynden said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Well, if Brynden said,” Maekar said lowly.
“Maekar.”
“If the Bloodraven’s spies know all and see all, why did he not see the assassin sneaking into camp?”
“Maekar.”
“Don’t ‘Maekar’ me,” he bit out, “you are not our mother. If I had not been here you would have come back, had a cup of wine, then the Iron Throne would be short an heir.”
“Why were you here?” Baelor asked, stepping into the tent. He briefly turned to the Kingsguard and whispered something to one. He turned and left the tent while the other remained, eyeing him like he was a rabid dog. He felt like one and was sorely tempted to flash his teeth.
A few attendants pushed into the tent a moment after. The first one stopped in his tracks when he saw the corpse, and the other two ran into his back.
“Well?” Maekar barked at them, “my brother would bid you get rid of it. Fucking get a shovel if you need to but work fast.”
“Take your time,” Baelor said to them calmly, just to be contradictory. “But please light the lamps first.”
Once the lamp was lit, and the tent was bathed in orange, flickering flame, there was no escaping what he had done.
The corpse was a smear on the ground; there would be no getting the gore out until the next rain. It meant Baelor needed to move his tent. If he remained in camp, which looked less and less likely as the days passed and the Dornishmen did not arrive.
Maekar stood and watched the attendants shovel the corpse into a hand cart. He avoided looking at his brother, but his presence was all encompassing and impossible to ignore.
“You never answered my question,” Baelor pointed out.
Maekar fixed his gaze on the White Cloak who still had his hand on his sword, as if he hadn’t sworn an oath to Maekar too. As if Maekar could be a threat to his brother. He would sooner slit his own throat than raise a hand against Baelor.
Still, they lived in a time of family betraying family, and he preferred a cautious White Cloak to a negligent one.
“Leave us,” Baelor said. After a moment’s hesitation, the White Cloak nodded his head and left the tent. He did not go far, Maekar saw his shadow cast upon the tent, right outside the entrance. He was followed by the attendants and their cart. Blood dripped from the corner, where it was not jointed properly, leaving a bloody trail that was quickly absorbed into the thirsty earth. The pool of blood in the centre of the tent was not so easily absorbed. It sat above the earth like a red lake.
With everyone but them gone from the tent, Maekar ran out of things to look at that weren't his brother.
The creases at Baelor’s mouth seemed to deepen every time Maekar saw him. White hairs streaked through his black beard and hair. Maekar wondered if his head would turn completely white by the time he reached his fortieth year. The stress of the rebellion, and the stress of the traitorous great bastards ate away at Baelor more than anyone else.
His eyes, one Targaryen and one Martell, fixed on Maekar.
With his uninjured hand Maekar pushed his own shoulder length hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. Baelor’s gaze seemed to follow the movement. Maekar’s hand shook, and to hide it from his perceptive brother, he tucked it behind his back.
Baelor sat down on his cot, arms braced behind himself. A curious frown slid over his face. His long fingers dragged along the sheets, and he picked up something. Holding it up, he brought it into the light. A tooth.
“You know I appreciate your enthusiasm.” Baelor dropped the tooth to the ground. “But sometimes I wonder if you are a little too enthusiastic.”
Maekar grunted. He pursed his lips at the perfect picture of his brother, robes tidy, beard combed, leg crossed casually over his knee, and the contrast of the blood spatter at his feet, and the tooth lying on the ground.
“You could stand a little temperance, brother.”
Maekar said nothing, he just went over to the washbasin. Grabbing a nearby jug of water, he poured it in the basin and picked up his brother’s nail brush. Dripping his hand in the water, he got to scrubbing. The scent of oakmoss that lingered around his brother rose through the air. Even on the battlefield his perfect brother perfumed his washing water.
“Temperance,” he scoffed.
“Patience then?” Baelor tilted his head to the side as he watched Maekar clean himself.
“Are you leaving?” Maekar asked shortly, ignoring his brother’s teasing, “Have you decided?” He looked away from Baelor. Instead, he examined his nails in the lamplight, frowning as he scrubbed the brush over his hands. The blood washed away only to be replaced by irritated skin. Stubborn fucking gore.
“Yes.”
Maekar flared his nostrils and scrubbed harder. “We need you here.”
“We need more men,” Baelor said simply, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.
“Then write a raven and fucking send for them.” He threw down the brush. It bounced off the table and landed in the dirt. Yet another thing of his brother’s that he ruined. “You are a prince. You are not a messenger.”
“In certain cases, being a prince means being a messenger. If I want guarantees that our Dornish and Stormlander allies are coming, I must go myself.”
“You are our commander, and you are leaving us before battle.”
“Maekar,” he said in that disappointed way of his that once made him feel shame. Now it only made him feel like Baelor still saw him as a child, despite him being seven and twenty.
“Baelor,” he bit back in the exact same tone.
Baelor said nothing for a long moment, and Maekar thought that was that. Nothing more was forthcoming. He’d clean his hands and leave the tent smelling of his brother. Baelor would ride off to find men that would help them stop the Blackfyre approach, and he would return in time. He always did.
“I expect you to look after my son.”
Maekar spread out his hand over the bowl of red water, taking stock of the damage. Open wounds on his knuckles seeped blood, he closed his fist, squeezing it tight.
“You needn’t ask me that.” He cast his eyes to Baelor and made sure he understood. “I will always take care of my nephew.”
“I know you will.” Baelor smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I also expect you to take care of yourself.” He rose from the cot and went over to the washing station.
Baelor stood on the other side of the table and took Maeker’s injured hand, the tips of his long fingers turning around to hook against the tips of Maekar’s. He held his hand like Maekar was a lady he just asked to dance. His skin was hot like Dorne itself.
Maekar fixed his gaze on Baelor’s forehead and deliberately did not look down. He hoped Baelor could not sense how the blood rushed faster through Maekar’s veins at his touch.
“I fear these will scar, brother,” Baelor murmured.
After Baelor left, Maekar stood in the centre of the tent, hands clenched tight in fists at his side. He worked his jaw, teeth grinding. Decisively, he strode over to the cot and picked up that tooth. It had been pulled from the assassin’s jaw nearly whole, missing only one broken root.
Shoving aside the flap over the tent entrance, he stopped in his tracks. A little way down into camp, a group of men were gathered. Baelor was mounted on his horse among them.
The Bloodraven held onto Baelor’s bridle. His hair was a cascade of white that made Baelor look fully Dornish in comparison. The Bloodraven’s pale hand was raised, and moonlight glinted off glass as Baelor handed over the vial of poison.
Maekar’s jaw tightened.
Baelor cast one glance over his shoulder, then called out an order for the men to ride. They took off into the night, and Maekar stood silently, watching his brother disappear down a ridge.
When he no longer saw Baelor, his gaze fell upon his bastard uncle. The Bloodraven watched him with his eerie red eyes.
Flicking the tooth into the darkness, he stared down the Bloodraven in turn. Then he turned his back on him and strode off in the direction of his tent. As he did, he pressed the palm of his hand to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply the scent of his brother.