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“What the hell have you done to your hair?”
That is the first thing Baelor hears when he steps into the castle. It was supposed to be a beautiful start to an even more beautiful summer evening, but his brother had opened his mouth, and let insults fall from it, before they even had time to hug or properly greet each other.
“I do not know what you are speaking of,” he responds, even though he knows perfectly well what he has done to his hair, but should playful denial be denied from him in a moment like this?
“You know damn well what I’m speaking of, don’t play stupid with me,” Maekar scoffs, his brother has the nerve to joke around after they have not seen each other for a little over a month.
And a little over a month it has indeed been. Perfectly planned by Baelor, so he could take the time to learn how to lighten his hair. At his age, silver strands have already been pushing through the dark strands, and so he had thought that it would be a fitting time to lighten it, at least to test how it would look, it’ll grow back dark anyway.
“It’s only a bit lightened, nothing worthy of causing a scene,” Baelor says calmly, still contrasting his brother despite them looking the same.
Maekar looks at him with wild eyes, like he had just been accused of not being capable of controlling his temper, and while that is right, Baelor had indeed hidden that meaning into his words, he had not said it in a forward manner, and so it would make Maekar look even more lost in his feelings if he responded with his usual attitude.
“Walk with me to my room?” Baelor asks, already having his heavy coat resting on his forearm, closely clutched to his chest.
“You don’t have to ask when you know there’s nothing meaningful to be done around here, so I’d rather just follow you.”
And with that they slowly walk through the candlelit halls, catching up on each other’s lives from the past month despite having sent multiple letters to each other. There’s a massive difference between talking through letters, unable to understand when the other had written something with a small laugh or smile or with sarcasm.
As they enter Baelor’s already lit and cleaned room, they sit down on his bed, Baelor having hung his coat on a rack somewhere in the corner.
“You stink like hell.” Maekar says, turning away in disgust, but Baelor knows to not take any offense from his brother’s words. After all, the Septon say we must love our brothers, so what are Maekar’s words at the end of the day if not full of love?
“Yes, well, riding a horse all night and day ought to make someone smell.”
They fall into awkward silence, not really knowing how to move on from that, as they are both well aware of Baelor’s sweaty smell, and his greasy, now light blond hair. But an idea comes into Baelor’s mind, and whether it is a good idea or not, is what he will leave into the hands of the seven above to decide.
“Would you wash my hair for me?”
Now Maekar looks at him with an odd look, changing disgust into something… well, something that decades of living together is not helping him figure out.
“Why would I?” Maekar questions, raising a brow to add emphasis, while also leaning closer to Baelor.
“Brothers take care of each other, don’t they? How many times have I had to wash your hair as children, because you couldn’t be bothered to do it?” Baelor counters, standing up and going over to the wooden tub in the room.
“That was different.”
“How so?”
Maekar doesn’t know how to respond. What difference does age make? They are brothers after all, and they’ve tended to each other multiple times after sparring sessions or actual battles. Is it really all that different to wash his older brother’s hair at their age?
“Fine, but you will not speak of this to anyone,” and with that Maekar yields from the silly argument, and walks over to where his brother is.
“The tub isn’t even filled, you idiot.”
“Yes, but it will be.”
Baelor tells his younger brother to stay in the room as he walks out, calling for a servant to fill the tub as he goes downstairs to fetch his bag with his new hair lightning concoction that a maester had made for his hair.
When he walks back to his room, he finds Maekar laying on his bed, upper half of his body propped up by his arms, his outer garments off, only in his pants and blouse with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“Finally you’re here,” Maekar lets out a sigh, turning to look at his brother who sets the bag on the bed and starts stripping down to his blouse. “You really know how to take your time while you waste mine.”
“Shush, brother, you know this is not the torture that you think it is,” Baelor hums, settling into the warm bath until the water sits right below his chin.
He looks at Maekar, raising a hand out of the water and beckoning him over.
“Bring the bottle from my bag, please,” he asks politely, like always.
Maekar takes out the dark bottle, turning it over in his hands, curiously watching as the thick liquid barely shows through the dark glass as he points it toward a lit candle.
“What is in this?” he questions, as he begrudgingly walks over to the tub and settles down behind Baelor.
“You don’t need to question it, it’s something that helps my hair stay a lighter color.”
“Yes, but I want to know if you’re asking me to handle poison or anything close to that.”
Baelor shakes his head, “I would never harm you.”
And with that Maekar sets the bottle down, not bothering to ask more questions. He’s allowed his life to sit in his older brother’s hands, so he has full trust in his words, no matter how vague or detailed they may be.
Maekar pulls out an old wooden cup and fills it with water before he pours it over Baelor’s hair. The water doesn’t penetrate into the strands at first, so he pours another cup of water on it, this time carding his rough hand through the hair. The water finally wets the strands, darkening them just slightly and making them glisten in the candlelight.
“Don’t use too much of the liquid, the maester said he can only make a bottle of it every month.” Baelor says, fully enjoying the care he’s being shown, and he relaxes more into the water, allowing his head to rest on the edge of the wooden tub.
“What kind of magic potion is this if the maesters themselves cannot make more of it?” Maekar laughs dryly, but still opens the bottle, and Seven above, does it reek. His nostrils almost stitch themselves close, and his eyes water.
“What in the actual fuck is in this?” he hisses, but still rubs the liquid in his hands until it foams, and then slowly starts carding it through Baelor’s white strands of hair.
“The maesters allowed me to read some books on hair lightening,” Baelor begins calmly, unfazed at the smell. He leans into the strong hands of his brother that carefully massage his scalp.
“And as I read, I came across wild methods, some involving dangerous poisons that would’ve made my scalp bubble and burn like a disease, and some being not so effective,” Baelor continues, “Though, it’s not like this method was the most effective at first, since it made my hair a dark copper shade before eventually making it white.”
Maekar listens to his brother with full attention, for once being genuinely curious of his brother’s rants about history and the past civilizations. He’d be damned if he walks out of this room without the knowledge of what is in his brother’s hair, and more importantly, his own hands.
“Anyway, when I finished the books, I told the maesters about the methods, and together we decided on a method that seems to have been the most safe. ”
“Would you please just get to the point?” if Maekar had been sitting on a chair, he would’ve been gripping onto it with anticipation, but alas his hands were in his brother’s hair, and he could never hurt his brother.
“The maesters made me a concoction of fermented urine, and ashes.”
Maekar’s hands stop moving. What words have just entered his ears? Perhaps his old age was starting to affect his hearing.
“What?”
“You heard me, brother,” Baelor was calm as the clouds after a storm.
Maekar steps back at the confirmation, the water and suds of the concoction dripping down to his elbows and sinking into his rolled up sleeves.
“What the fuck?!” Maekar couldn’t believe this. Not only had his brother been using urine and ash to wash his hair for who knows how long, but he had just used his own hands to rub a mix of urine and ash into his brother’s hair.
“So, you’re using fucking piss on your hair? And that same piss is what you’re making me touch? Unbelievable,” Maekar actually doesn’t know what to say beyond that. This situation was not something he could’ve ever seen even in his nightmares.
“Would you stop acting like that and come finish the job?”
The audacity of his brother. The absolute, ungodly, irredeemable, aggravating audacity of his brother to tell him to continue rubbing piss, and not just any piss, but specifically fermented piss on his hands. The old gods are surely laughing at him, and this is all just a jest.
“I cannot believe the gods would make me your brother,” Maekar has never felt this level of shock before, and he honestly doesn’t know whether to disown his own blood, or to relentlessly make fun of him, and tell everyone in the seven kingdoms of his brother’s haircare routine.
“Don’t say that,” Baelor frowns in the tub, looking over his shoulder to see Maekar just standing there, in the candlelight. “This is unbelievably immature of you.”
Maekar feels quite offended by that. Him? Immature? He’s not the one using piss in his hair for the sake of the gods!
“Come finish the job, my head is starting to feel itchy.”
Maekar, realising his brother isn’t giving in to his argument bait, oddly enough calms down, and slowly walks back behind the tub, kneeling down on the stone.
“I cannot believe you kept this from me.”
“I knew you would’ve said no.”
“Rightfully so, this reeks, and it is disgusting.”
“I promise this is only temporary,” Baelor sighs, closing his eyes, and allows Maekar to pull his head back so he can pour water over it. “I only wanted to look like you for a little bit.”
The last part is a whisper that Maekar barely hears, but he does, and his hands stop in place. Something weird worms its way into his chest. A feeling of being admired? Pride from being someone his brother deems worthy of mimicking?
“You must’ve lost your senses.” Maekar mumbles.
They don’t speak after that, but the air in the room changes, and so do Maekar’s movements. His hands are gentler, if only a bit, enough for his brother to feel the difference, but not enough to comment on it. He pours the water from a closer distance, no longer attempting to get some of it on Baelor’s face, and Baelor cherishes every moment of it.
Afterwards Maekar helps dry and brush Baelor's hair, having let go of the concoction of piss, because his brother had stopped giving any sort of reaction to his words.
“To be honest,” Maekar starts slowly, choosing his next words carefully while also concentrating on the brushing, and how Baelor’s hair almost shines gold in the candlelight. “I wouldn’t mind if you kept this color, or lack thereof, for a little longer.”
Baelor smiles at his younger brother’s words, feeling a bit more proud, and less embarrassed of the lengths he had to go to in order to get his hair this white.
For the next year or so, Baelor Targaryen would be spotted with white hair alongside his brother, and maybe if one looked close enough, they would see the usually moody Maekar Targaryen standing a bit taller and prouder.