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The herbal scent of the poultices mingled with the oils mixed with the water, rising like a pungent vapor that nearly irritated the prince's nose. The maester of Ashford proudly wore the silver link he had undoubtedly earned through years of studying medicine and healing practices in Westeros, yet the man hadn't stopped sweating for a moment while tending to Prince Maekar.
After the trial, everything descended into an incomprehensible maelstrom of events; a jumble of shouts, orders, and despair that the prince struggled to unravel. His muscles, still aching from the strain, seemed unaware that it was all over. Aerion withdrew his accusation, and Maester Yormwood was surely tending to him while Maekar soaked like a lobster in boiling water.
The thought was funny enough to raise the corner of his lips slightly, though the expression quickly turned into one of pain from the exertion.
His throat was raw from shouting, and his eyes still burned from dust and tears. He vaguely remembered striking Baelor with the mace, and no one could keep him still until Maester Yormwood told him the prince was alright. “Only disoriented and with a migraine,” he assured him, and only with an oath that he was telling the truth did Maekar allow them to remove his armor and chainmail, remaining motionless as they began tending to his wounds.
Purple bruises had already appeared on his skin, along with scratches and steel cuts. His right wrist throbbed painfully with each blow of the mace, and he had to open and close his fingers a couple of times underwater to try and soothe the discomfort.
The whole experience left a bittersweet taste in his mouth. It brought back memories of the battle, though he was definitely no longer the same stubborn, energetic young man who had fought against the rebels.
There were two soft knocks on the door, and Maekar recognized Baelor even before he saw him. The scent of black pepper, patchouli, vanilla, and wood managed to seep through the herbs and ointments as if they were nothing, evading the thick wall of scent without any difficulty until it reached the omega's nose. He immediately sat up straight in the bronze tub just in time to see his husband and brother in the doorway.
Baelor's head was bandaged, and he had a bruise on his forehead, the background of a slight cut, surely made by the visor of his helmet. The alpha smiled as if he weren't defying the maester's orders, smiling despite Maekar's angry expression. He smiled, as always, in that sincere and calm way that was so irritating.
"You shouldn't be here," Maekar murmured. The severity of his tone also contained notes of concern and tenderness that only Baelor could discern.
“No,” the alpha agreed as he entered the room and closed the door behind him. Lord Ashford had been kind enough to offer them both his main chambers, where everything bore some kind of emblem, embroidered or burnished in the shape of a radiant sun. Maekar had relentlessly mocked his hosts’ poor taste. “But I am. Who’s going to throw me out?” he asked, slowly removing his robes. “You?”
Maekar watched him undress, unable to tear his gaze away, not out of desire as was normal, but as if mesmerized by the tally of the damage after the trial: bruises, wounds covered by still-bloody bandages… He immediately recognized the chainmail pattern etched onto Baelor’s torso; spanning from his ribs to his chest, hundreds of tiny violet rings covered his brown skin.
"If you expect me to forgive you—" he began, finally looking away. Baelor approached the tub, and the omega made room for him. They would be too cramped. The water overflowed as soon as Baelor stepped in, and he let out a long sigh at the temperature.
"I don't expect anything," he said, leaning back against the edge of the tub. He stretched out an arm to encircle Maekar's shoulders, pulling him closer so his pale back pressed against his brown chest. The touch was so light he didn't even have to exert himself.
"Aerion will be alright," Maekar said softly. He felt Baelor's lips press a kiss to his temple and closed his eyes. A lump formed in his throat, and tears threatened to spill again, treacherous and abundant. Her lower lip trembled. "Nyke istan sīr zūgagon (I was so afraid.)" he whispered, using the language in which they could both openly communicate their feelings. Perhaps it no longer served its former purpose, but even among dragons, they needed to express their emotions. "Nyke ziry istan naejot morghūljagon. Nyke istan naejot ojughagon īlva tresy…(I thought I was going to die. I thought I had lost our child.)" he shook his head and finally turned to look at Baelor with his eyes glistening with tears "How could you…?"
"I had a duty to fulfill," the elder admitted. "I had faith that the gods would make the right decision, and they did."
"Would it have been right if Aerion had died?" Maekar frowned. "Tell me, brother, if your gods had chosen that our son, that my son…"
"You know as well as I do that what Aerion did was his own responsibility," Baelor spoke calmly, holding Maekar's gaze, never letting go, never separating. "He has made his own choices, and it's always difficult for you… And my position demands that I always stand on the side of truth and justice."
"You can't hide behind that all the time," Maekar turned his back on him once more.
"I wish it were a shield so I could leave it in the armory when I no longer need it," Baelor sighed. With his thumb, he gently stroked the omega's skin, tracing the bruise that stained the alabaster color. "But it's a part of me now. I'm not two different people, as you so often suggest, Maekar, but both at once. Prince and husband. Hand and father. Heir and brother. A chimera that forces me to make decisions for a thousand people at once…" he brought his caresses to his husband's cheek, gently seeking his violet gaze. "Aerion ultimately made the right decision. May the gods grant that he learned his lesson. Lives were lost because of his irreverent actions, but the score has been settled."
Maekar resisted vehemently for a few seconds but finally yielded to Baelor's two-toned gaze, who smiled as soon as their eyes met. The omega noticed that the bandage had loosened around his husband's head.
"It was all so…" he murmured. "I don't even remember how… I just heard Aerion scream and I…" he swallowed and his eyebrows curved. He took a hand out of the water to gently touch Baelor's temple. "I don't remember. I don't remember hitting you."
"I do. You hit like a devil..."
"I could have killed you," he whispered. Maekar was about to say something else, but a kiss silenced him, making tears well up again. "Lo nyke ōdrikagon ao nyke morghūltan (If I had hurt you, I would have died instantly)."
"But you didn't," Baelor replied in the same voice, gently pulling Maekar into a tight embrace. "You didn't. I'm here, with you, feeling you..."
Maekar nodded but sobbed again. He cried and kissed Baelor as much as he could, not caring much about the pain in his body. The fragile barriers that always surrounded him like armor crumbled whenever he was in his brother's arms. The pain he felt at the mere thought of having unwittingly hurt him was enough to take his breath away, and as he began to hiccup, Baelor embraced him, enveloping him in his scent, masking the oils and herbs, leaving them alone together, as if nothing had happened.
They both remained silent, allowing the silence to linger as long as possible, gradually extending the relief that settled in as the bathwater cooled. It was gradual, as were the caresses Baelor bestowed upon the map of bruises and scratches on Maekar's skin.
He was always gentle and careful in his touch. He reserved strength and roughness for moments when desire overwhelmed him… He would usually choose to be the one to offer Maekar that tenderness. It pleased him to be the first, to be the only one…
“The maester used up all his ointments on you,” he whispered to the omega, stroking the damp surface of one of the many poultices covering Maekar’s bruises. They were all a brownish color that made them look like fat leeches clinging to his husband’s body.
“He wouldn’t give me anything but diluted poppy milk,” the younger man replied, frowning. “I might as well have taken nothing at all.”
“I wonder how the good Maester Yormwood managed to refuse your sweet requests,” Baelor smiled, placing a kiss on his brother’s temple. He expected a sarcastic reply or some rude remark typical of Maekar, but instead, there was only silence. He saw the omega’s ears gradually redden amidst his damp, silver hair. “Maekar?”
“Hm,” the man wrinkled his nose and decided to feign ignorance as he gathered the still-life petals floating on the water’s surface. Baelor waited patiently, trying to decipher what Maekar’s silence was concealing. “It’s been very annoying. The maester wouldn’t stop sweating. Have you ever seen anyone sweat so much? I never have. It was as if we were in the hottest days of Dorne instead of here… And with the rains, it’s cooled down, you saw it yourself. I can still feel the cold mud on my body. You know what I think of sweat and cold…”
“Both disgust you,” Baelor agreed, listening intently. He only watched Maekar’s profile, who refused to turn around. It was like stretching a rope to see how far it could go. Only a truly patient man would've had taken the time to keep pulling and pulling at the skein.
Maekar complained not only about the maester but also about the bed, the poultices, the teas, and even the pain in his mace hand. He complained about his horse, the squires, and the weather. The skein slowly unraveled as Baelor held him in his arms and listened to his ranting.
"When I asked him for something stronger for the pain, he had the nerve to refuse," he finally blurted out. "He told me that the milk of the poppy isn't good when you're in the sweet expecting. He said it in those exact words!" he exclaimed. "Pregnancy, which is neither sweet nor expectant, I can tell you that much. But the maester insisted because he felt my abdomen, thinking I must have a ruptured organ... He asked me about intimate things, and I was about to cut out his tongue."And he refused and refused…"
Baelor’s hands had suddenly stopped on Maekar’s belly. He groped until he felt that familiar, hardened bump he could now recognize perfectly after the seven times he had touched it. Of course. If his calculations were correct, then it made perfect sense…
“Did you participate in the trial while pregnant?” The question stifled the complaints. There was no anger in the words, not even annoyance. A slight reproach, nothing more.
“I wasn’t sure,” Maekar admitted after an embarrassing pause. “And even if I had known, my duty is to our child.”
“Your duty is to all our children,” Baelor retorted. “Even the new ones.” He placed a single hand over Maekar’s belly in a protective gesture. It took him a few moments to find the right words. This was no time for recriminations. It was impossible to try and change the omega's character, whose daring exploits were nothing new to him, though he couldn't help but worry. He sighed resignedly. "How are you feeling?"
Maekar let out a snort.
"Honestly? Impressed," he replied. "You've managed to outdo yourself once again. I thought we were done with Aemon, but you had a complicated Council meeting, and then it was Daella. Then Aegon… and Rhae. Just when I decide that's it, you show up with wine, a book, those hands full of rings, doing things that charm me…"
Baelor laughed. His cheeks grew slightly warm. The truth was, they had both agreed to end things once Rhae came into the world. Eight years had passed without incident… Although it was true that Maekar made sure to drink moon tea the next morning after they were together. And the last time… Neither of them remembered the last time.
"Well," the alpha gently rested his chin on the omega's shoulder. "I have no choice but to take responsibility."
"Is this the last option?" Maekar raised an eyebrow at him. "Maybe I did hurt your head."
"Perhaps. At least now I know I can give you more children… Gods be willing."