He’s still very small, but he already knows the importance of staying on one’s feet. And he already hates being treated like a little child. Especially by his eldest brother. 

Baelor laughs. 

“Of course not. You’re so much fun, don’t you know, Maekar? I love you.” 

And he kneels just as Maekar comes running into his arms, laughing. 

“I love you too!” 

“...What did you say, Maekar?” Baelor’s voice sounds deeper and stronger now, almost the voice of an adult. And there is a tiny hint of impatience there. Baelor stands, surrounded by the master-at-arms, an armorer, a squire, and several servants. He is fifteen years old, and he is putting on his armor — his first real suit of armor, pristine, polished, and beautiful. It looks especially beautiful on Baelor — so tall, so handsome, and already so grown up. 

Maekar is ten, and he’s sitting on a low stool, his cheek propped up with his hand, sulking and unhappy. He wanted so much to see Baelor put on the armor, insisted that they let him watch, but now he almost wishes he hadn’t. He’s growing angry with Baelor being so grown up and smug, angry at his own stupid wooden sword, which he had so foolishly brought, and now he is prodding his foot with it sullenly. Can this dumb thing even be compared to Baelor’s new sword — blunted, yes, but still almost real? 

“I said I thought it would be more interesting.” 

“True, donning your armor is no fun, my prince,” says Ser Quentyn Ball, the master-at-arms. “Especially for the first time.” 

“But it’s not really the first time,” says Baelor, with a slight smile touching the corners of his fine mouth. To Maekar, he looks unbelievably, unbearably smug, and Maekar can’t contain himself. 

“Yeah, all bow to Ser Shiny Baelor Targaryen. Can I use you as a mirror?” 

Baelor looks up, startled, caught in the middle of having a vambrace strapped on. He seems genuinely confused. 

“Maekar? What’s the matter?” 

“Can I?” Maekar repeats, standing up. “But actually, I don’t care.” He turns and makes for the door. 

“Maekar!” 

“My prince, if you would just wait —” 

He hears Baelor’s hurried footsteps behind him — deep down, he knew Baelor would go after him — but before he can turn, Baelor’s hand lands on his shoulder. Already a rather large, heavy, and strong hand. 

Baelor is standing before him, his armor not quite in place, his left greave still half-undone, though it doesn’t seem to bother Baelor. He’s frowning slightly, looking down into Maekar’s angry, obstinate face. 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

The simple question suddenly makes Maekar’s head reel. He doesn’t know what to say, because he wouldn’t know where to begin. He knew this was supposed to happen; he expected it to happen, even anticipated it no less than Baelor did. But now he feels overwhelmed with questions. Will they make you train even more now? How often will I see you? Will you still read to me in the evening? Will we play like we did before? What does this all mean? 

But most of all — and worst of all — he is bothered by the relentless and all-consuming feeling that they are taking Baelor away from him. This is it. It has finally happened. 

“I’m all right,” he says. 

“Well,” says Baelor, slightly raising an eyebrow, “then why don’t you go visit Rhaegel? He might be bored without you. I could join you afterwards.” 

“Rhaegel’s boring. And I know your afterwards means not today. You’re talking just like Father.” 

“Aerys, then? He could read to you.” 

“But you know he won’t. Aerys is boring and weird!” 

“Maekar, don’t be a fucking child.” 

Maekar’s eyes widen. Baelor has never talked to him like this, and he can see clearly that Baelor regrets it immediately. 

But still — obviously — he retaliates with all the venom he can muster. 

“Your greave is loose. You look so stupid!” 

Baelor heaves a deep, very grown-up sigh. 

“Maekar… please. I shouldn’t have said that. But you must behave yourself.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not Father! Fix this greave of yours and make sure it’s not upside down.” 

And he runs away, while Baelor is left standing there, suddenly looking strangely lost and lonely — the sight makes Maekar feel a boyish, foolish, cruel joy. 

He’s not his perfect elder brother, but one day he will be so much older, and stronger, and handsomer, and better. He can be better. He has to be better, Maekar thinks, running along an endless corridor of the Red Keep, wiping his tears with his sleeve. Or else he may begin to hate Baelor, and Baelor may begin to hate him… 

“...I love you too.” 

He mutters these words without meeting Baelor’s gaze, looking down. The courtyard has hardly changed, except now it’s autumn, and the sky is overcast; he is almost as tall as Baelor, and they are both wearing armor. They are considered men now. Or, at least, Baelor is. 

Neither Aerys nor Rhaegel has to compete with Baelor the way he does, and now he knows why. They won’t be raised as warriors because they are not strong enough. He, however, is already expected to be mature enough to be at least almost Baelor’s match. But right now this feels impossible. 

He feels slow, angular, and awkward; he knows he is slow, angular, and awkward. No longer a boy, but not quite a man yet; something in between, and rather plain. His overlong white-blond hair is getting into his face as he lowers his blunted sword and shield wearily. Baelor has just apologized for using a trick he hadn’t yet learned against him, hammering him into the ground, hard. He could have broken his neck, but Maekar doesn’t care. 

I will never be as good as him. 

Baelor is peering into his face shrewdly. 

“Life is long, you know. You will learn.” 

And he walks away, strikingly handsome with his shock of dark, wavy hair, confident and effortlessly charming, leaving Maekar to stare after him — his unreachable brother, Baelor Breakspear, so young and already so famous. His beloved but insufferable brother, whom no one ever tires of holding up as an example to him — though somehow, Baelor seems to be unaware of this. Is it genuine? Or is he a very good pretender? Maekar doesn’t know, but he is growing tired of being tugged in opposite directions by affection and rivalry. Yellow leaves are everywhere, and the air is getting chilly. He’s exhausted and bruised, and he yearns for warmth… 

“What, for the Seven’s sake, has come over you?” their father demands. 

He and Baelor are standing before King Daeron, named the Good, pointedly avoiding looking at each other. He is fifteen; Baelor has recently turned twenty; and they have just had the worst fight that has ever happened between them — worse than any fight of their childhood. 

“Maekar?” Daeron presses. “What’s happened? I’m not angry with either of you. I just want to understand. But you’ll have to explain it.” 

Maekar is looking down at his feet; his hands are bruised and bloody. Several steps away, Baelor is holding his head unnaturally high, and Maekar knows he is still trying to hide a very bad nosebleed, even though his face tells the whole story. 

But what can he tell their father? Something has been happening to him lately, and he cannot even quite name it. Everything seemed to be well between him and Baelor — so well — in fact, better than it had been in years. They used to quarrel almost every day; but now everyone agreed they had finally started to get along again. They had even become almost inseparable. They did everything together whenever they could — trained, studied, walked, rode, ate, sometimes even slept in the same bedchamber. 

Baelor had been so kind to him, so friendly, so warm. And he certainly had no idea what could possibly have happened when, this evening, quite suddenly, Maekar flung himself at him, violently and without warning — after Baelor had just made some slight, innocuous remark about Maekar’s ability to ride. 

He still has much to learn, that is true. But what he felt at that moment was a terrible mixture of bitterness, anger, frustration, exhaustion, and a desire to be heard and loved. He just wanted to be loved, even as he was still punching and kicking, while frightened servants were pulling them apart; and Baelor was looking astonished, while Maekar was screaming into the bloody, handsome face he both loved and hated: 

“I will never be enough, I will never be whole, I will never be happy, and it’s because of you, you, you!” 

“I think,” Baelor says, still avoiding looking at him, “that Maekar has been trying too hard.” 

“To do what?” 

Baelor shrugs. “To impress us.” 

And years later Maekar still remembers vividly how, hearing this, he promised himself to hate Baelor as long as he could, possibly forever… He didn’t know, of course, that forever lasts for about an hour when you are fifteen and inconsolable because of things you can feel but cannot yet understand; and your elder brother finally comes to embrace you, hold you, listen to you, and give you answers as best he can when you need them the most. 

That conversation resurfaces in his mind when they leave King’s Landing for Sunspear, the birthplace of their mother, Queen Myriah Martell. Maekar, who is now twenty, very quickly finds he does not care very much for this seat of their ancestors. Even Myriah’s image, which people still treat with reverence, cannot help him feel as though he belongs here. She died when he was barely two years old, and he has no memories of her. 

Baelor, however, seems to feel completely at home, looking more half-Dornish than ever — unlike Maekar, who has never been more aware of being a Targaryen. His fair skin turns heavily tanned in a matter of days, and the tan doesn’t suit him. He doesn’t like the scorching sun, but Baelor basks in it. And something new seeps into Baelor’s look, his conduct, and even the very movements of his tall, lithe figure. Something discreetly powerful, lazily dangerous, and — Maekar realizes suddenly — seductive. It is a strange thought. 

“Hiding from the sun?” Baelor asks softly, approaching him. 

The sun in the sky is rather low, hanging over the orange trees in a peach-colored haze. Maekar finds shelter, sitting on the ground near a fountain, in the shade of a portico — the heat has been exhausting him. He looks up — noting at once Baelor’s gleaming eyes, which look quite dark; the deep tan on his clean-shaven face, matching the curls of his black hair; and the slightly glistening, smooth, swarthy skin of his neck and chest. Lately, Baelor has taken to wearing clothes with an extremely low neckline. 

“Got tired of Ser Deziel?” Maekar inquires. 

Baelor smiles. “No, I haven’t. But it seems you have.” 

With these words, Baelor sinks onto the grass of a lush but sun-scorched lawn, sprawling next to Maekar. 

“He’s following you around like a complete fool.” 

“Well, he has his reasons.” 

“I’ve heard people say it looks as though he were your brother.” 

“How preposterous of them. Obviously, he cannot be my brother,” Baelor says lazily. “Brothers don’t fuck.” 

“I cannot believe Dornish laws prohibit this,” Maekar says, looking away. 

“In fact, they do. They state quite clearly you are allowed to fuck men, but not your brothers. I find it rather wise. Who knows what men like you and me would be getting up to if it were not for the laws? And the jealousy alone could be terrible.” 

“Stop it,” mutters Maekar. 

“Are you smiling? You are smiling!” 

“Because you are fucking ridiculous.” 

“Maybe, but I cannot bear seeing you sulking like this. I know it’s too stifling for you here. You belong in the north, brother; you carry a coolness with you. But we’ll be leaving quite soon, and for now... You must excuse me and Ser Deziel. I’m with him, but it won’t be for long, and we both know it. I like the way they live here, Maekar. It’s as though there were no tomorrow... Perhaps the dragons of our family made the Dornish like this some centuries ago, when our ancestors tried and failed to conquer them. And now here we are — half Martell, and half Targaryen...” 

“My Targaryen half wishes we were still at war with this place.” 

“Don’t you dare say such things in front of anyone but me. If anything, it is not worth it... Just a few short weeks, and we’ll be back in King’s Landing. And I’m afraid I will find the Red Keep simply appalling at first. But at least your skin will pale again, your northern spirit will calm down, and you won’t be glaring at me the way you’ve been doing lately. So there is a silver lining.” 

Baelor says it half-smiling, but his eyes, observing Maekar, are deep and sober. 

A lot of things at once flood Maekar’s mind. But he only says, “You’ve changed.” 

“No, I haven’t,” Baelor says very calmly. “I’ve always been exactly like this, and I believe I always will be. And this is why I will forget Ser Deziel, but I will always love you... For better or for worse.” 

Suddenly Maekar finds he cannot look Baelor in the eye and becomes fascinated by the fountain. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Baelor says. But he’s not looking at the fountain; he’s gazing at him. 

“I’m not like Ser Deziel,” Maekar says at last. 

“Of course you are not,” Baelor replies quietly. “You are a Targaryen and my brother...” 

My brother, my life, my joy. 

He is standing on a rocky shore, breathing in the fresh, moist air. The sea is quite far below, but it seems even here the faint salty sea spray stings his face. The wind is quite strong. Baelor is standing beside him, his long black cloak billowing. The rocks, the wind, and the salty water forever stand guard over Baelor’s home on Dragonstone. The tall and dark walls of the ancient castle loom over them. 

“Do you ever wonder what could have been?” Baelor asks. 

“What do you mean?” 

“What if our grandfather hadn’t been a man without honor? What if we didn’t have to fight our own kin to keep the Iron Throne?” 

“They’ll get what they deserve, kin or not.” 

Baelor glances at him and raises an eyebrow. 

“You seem ready for slaughter, brother.” 

“Somebody has to be.” 

Baelor considers him for a few moments, perhaps more intently than usual. Maekar is twenty-seven, and by now, his ancestors’ blood has fully manifested, giving him a cold and strange beauty. Something in his dark-blue eyes has changed forever. Maekar is no longer the lanky, long-haired youth he once was. The fierce but self-conscious lad whom Baelor had dragged along on his journey to Dorne is also long gone. 

He’s become tall — in fact, slightly taller than Baelor — lithe, and powerful; and he wears his armor like a second skin. He cuts his hair short, shaving the temples almost bare, and is always clean-shaven. A grave illness he survived in childhood has left its traces in faint scars across his cheeks, giving his face the appearance of being carved out of rough stone; his skin is so light it’s almost marble-white. There is a roughness to his manly features — just enough to make them sharp and distinct. He moves with a sure, predatory grace. 

He has now known the love of many women — and sometimes men. As for him, he has always loved most of all his family, strict order, and fighting — all the things that should come first for a prince and a warlord. But there is also a part of his soul where something much deeper, stranger, and perhaps darker lies. Yet he doesn’t believe this kind of love should shrink in the light of day. Neither, apparently, does Baelor — bringing Maekar a kind of joy that would be even more difficult for him to confess to anyone than their love itself. 

He is not like Baelor, who likes to play with words. “Oh, I love my brother,” Baelor will remark innocently every now and then, and hearing it, Maekar is reminded every time how far they have strayed from innocence. 

But even now that they are equals — as equal as they can possibly be — he still looks up at Baelor, as if it’s naturally ingrained in him. He is fated to be constantly reminded: he is last in line for the throne. He knows. He understands. He was born to serve the realm and to protect the heir to the Iron Throne. And he doesn’t mind being Baelor’s — body and soul. One day Baelor will be King, while his destiny is to be always near the throne, but never on it. But what does it matter, after all, when he has the heir? 

Baelor is just as sharp as he used to be, just as charming, and just as handsome and proud, but the levity in him has somewhat worn off. The dark waves of his hair that Maekar remembers so well are now long gone; and it’s almost strange how, since Baelor has adopted the habit of cutting it very short, his look borders on austerity. His hair is still completely black, just like his beard; but there are new creases in the corners of his lips and eyes, and shadows beneath them, which are visible despite his swarthy complexion and don’t go away. 

He, too, is more formidable than ever, and famous for his skills as a warrior. He earned his byname Breakspear at just seventeen, when he defeated Daemon Blackfyre, their young but fearsome bastard uncle, at a memorable tourney. Since then, Baelor has proved time and again he is worthy of being regarded as one of the finest knights of their generation. But lately, increasingly often, Maekar sees him brooding — a peace-loving man being forced to go against his nature. And this is what makes Baelor dangerously angry at times. Still, he keeps such a friendly appearance he seems almost serene, and smiles a lot, especially when they are alone. 

“Soon we’ll ride into battle... To glory, no doubt.” 

“Or death.” 

“Don’t be so grim.” 

“Grim? You know I couldn’t be happier.” 

“None of this should have happened,” mutters Baelor, his smile fading, his eyes wandering about the greenish waves. 

“It’s not our fault that our grandfather lived up to his byname. Or that our uncle took after him.” 

“Oh, I’m certain he feels quite worthy.” Baelor’s smile becomes wry. “We are the grandchildren of Aegon the Unworthy, after all. Some seem to believe this is a good enough reason for us to be overthrown and forgotten like a bad dream.” 

“So that they can have Aegon’s bastard as King instead.” 

“Our precious uncle has the look of the Targaryen Aegon always wanted to be, but never was. Whether or not he is such a man, however, is a different matter entirely.” 

Maekar smiles a little. He likes it when Baelor talks like this — lightly, smoothly. Baelor has a way with words he’s never had. The smile lingers in Baelor’s eyes, but there is also coolness there. It bodes Daemon Blackfyre no good, and Maekar likes this too. 

It doesn’t even matter very much right now that Baelor has a way of making him feel lightheaded. Or like a reckless boy. Or like he’s capable of slaying a thousand men. Is this what it feels like to be a true warrior? He prefers not to think too much of it. But he is, indeed, happy to be standing next to Baelor, planning the coming war. He is quite at peace with himself. He is in love. 

My brother, my love, my downfall. 

When they first kiss, they are two years younger. His hair still frames his face in soft waves — the last remnant of boyhood that he wears. And they are both wearing armor. Another day of yet another tourney has just come to an end; it’s almost dusk. They’ve won some jousts, and they’ve lost some. And still, it feels as though they are celebrating something as they walk, almost run, behind someone’s immense pavilion. A feast. A great victory. 

“You were incredible,” Baelor says. 

“Seven hells, yes. Especially when I was trying to save my life and not get trampled by Ser Willem’s mount.” 

“No, I mean it. It was a pleasure watching you. I’m… so proud,” Baelor says, and he sounds sorry he couldn’t think of an even better, more original praise. 

They embrace almost unconsciously — what can be more natural than to embrace your brother? Especially when both of you are jubilant for some reason, almost giddy with happiness. 

Baelor touches Maekar’s face; his hand lingers on the cheekbone. And this is when Maekar gives in; he cannot stand it any longer, and he leans in, and kisses his brother. Somehow, he’s not surprised at all when Baelor responds eagerly, pulling him even closer. And for a beautiful, glorious, blissful minute his only regret is that there’s not much he or Baelor can do or feel, because of the armor covering almost their entire bodies. 

Then Baelor places a hand on his chest — gently, but firmly — and he pulls away. For a moment, they peer into each other’s faces. The gods gave Baelor mismatched eyes: one is dark brown, the other is a light, piercing blue. The look in his eyes is something akin to mild curiosity, though Maekar is sure he has never before seen them shine like this. 

“What are you doing?” 

“And you?” He all but grins. Baelor, too, is smiling with the corners of his lips, but his merriment is suddenly gone. 

“We could be seen.” 

“To hell with them. We’re Targaryens... Our laws have always permitted love between relatives.” 

“But not between brothers.” 

“So what? Who can stop us?” 

“No one. But we must be careful, because we are not our ancestors. They ruled by fear. They had dragons... We don’t.” 

He doesn’t know what to say. What could he say? They used to be the House of the Dragon; they are the blood of the dragon. But now they are haunted by dragons. Perhaps they are still trying to be something no other mortals can be. Perhaps they are better at it than their rivals would be. But so what? Baelor is right, right as always; and he doesn’t like it. 

“It was only a damned kiss.” 

“Yes, but you’ve kissed the heir.” 

“He did not exactly mind,” Maekar purrs into his ear and brushes his neck with his lips. Immediately, Baelor’s hand is on his chest again, restraining him more firmly this time. 

“And any witless squire who stumbles upon us will know this is a crime deserving of severe punishment. It may destroy us both,” Baelor adds, as Maekar pulls away just enough to look into his eyes. 

He sees in them many things — some he had hoped to see, and some he would prefer to be oblivious to. Memories rush to his mind, tales he has read and heard — of the Wall in the North. Of the Night’s Watch, where the outcasts of the realm guard it against what is said to be some ancient, unnamed horrors — and vile barbarians who know no king. Could that be his fate, the one Baelor is hinting at? 

“Folly,” he mutters. 

“I’m not pushing you away,” Baelor says softly. 

“No. You’re just finding reasons why you should.” 

“Because I love you,” Baelor replies simply, and he feels powerless, leaning into Baelor’s embrace. He presses his brow to Baelor’s, closes his eyes, and murmurs wearily: 

“I’d die for you.” 

“That would be unwise.” It seems a hint of Baelor’s previous merriment has returned. But meeting Maekar’s gaze, he looks sober. The look in his eyes is hard to read. 

“I know what I should do,” Baelor says very quietly. “Stay with you. Be with you. As a brother must. Can love come between brothers? What do you think?” 

Maekar has no time to think of a reply, but apparently, Baelor doesn’t really want or expect one. He takes Maekar’s head in both hands, bringing it down a little, and kisses first his hair, then his forehead. Baelor’s lips are dry and almost feverishly hot. The kisses are long — too long, definitely much longer than a brother’s kiss should be. As though Baelor can’t let go of him. As though Baelor can’t get enough of him. 

When Baelor finally does let go, pretending to breathe normally seems too much of an effort for Maekar. And why should he try to deceive Baelor or even himself? 

Then Baelor speaks again, and there is a hint of a curious hoarseness to his voice, normally so mellow and measured.