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Maekar wanted to look like his brother.
He had admired Baelor since they were children, in every aspect, he truly saw his brother as someone deserving of being a king. He was skilled in battle, even sparring left them as equals, as they either couldn’t make the other yield, or they ended with equal amounts of wins and losses. Baelor was kind, trusting, and loyal. He followed his morals, values, and deep held opinions, only changing them when presented with situations he had not dealt with before, coming back from them with twice the wisdom, or when he learned new knowledge from books and people.
Everything about his brother left Maekar awestruck, though he'd never admit it out loud.
He glanced at Baelor as they rode in silence through a forest. His brother’s hair had grown more grey after the Trial of Seven, the light colour pushing through the darkness Maekar had grown up seeing like flowers in a bush. The spot where he had struck Baelor was more grey than any other area, and he had no idea why. It was like a symbolic wound, reminding Maekar of what he had done. Despite that, looking at his brother brought feelings of happiness, safety, and gratefulness more than guilt. Gentle rays of sunlight, filtered by branches and leaves, dappled Baelor’s face, highlighting his two-colored eyes. He looked older, yet wiser.
Yes, Maekar definitely wanted to look like the person he admired most.
“Where did you say you had learned about changing one's hair colour?” He asked his brother.
Baelor’s horse stopped, and in turn so did Maekar’s.
His brother looked deep in thought.
Maekar clutched his reins a bit tighter. It was likely that Baelor wouldn’t be able to remember something that had happened a few years ago. The thought of that bothered Maekar a little more than it probably bothered Baelor. He wished he could help his brother remember more. Gods does he wish he had been interested in those boring, thick history books his brother loved, so that maybe, just maybe he’d be able to answer his brother’s every question.
The sun shone into Maekar’s eyes.
“I believe it was a maester who lent me a few books.” Baelor said carefully, almost as carefully as one would taste wine to figure out how it had been made, whether it had been sitting on a dark shelf for years, if it was sweet or dry. “Why do you ask?”
Maekar took a while to answer, and in that time they had continued their ride.
He cleared his throat after a while, and saw Baelor glance at him from the corner of his eye. He kept his violet eyes on the path.
“Do you happen to remember if there exists a recipe for darkening one’s hair?”
Baelor let out a laugh. A genuine laugh that Maekar was, for once, sure belonged to his brother. It wasn’t one of those recently developed laughs that sounded forced, given to a court or a high-ranking person out of politeness, nor was it one born out of embarrassment of not remembering something. It was his brother’s laugh. The one he had heard multiple times in childhood when they had sparred, ran into a forest to catch frogs, or one of them had fallen over, only it was slightly deeper than it had been almost 20 years ago.
“Brother, if I was able to lighten my hair to a shade like yours, then I am certain of the opposite being possible.”
Maekar smiled, cheeks turning a dusty pink. The answer had been obvious.
For the next two days the brothers looked over books and scrolls, and when they had found the right information, this time something that would not involve urine, they went to the maester who had helped Baelor, and got the concoction that same day.
That night Maekar laid his head on Baelor’s lap, reading the instructions the maester had written as his brother brushed his hair.
“This is fucking stupid.” Maekar scoffed, throwing the scroll beside him.
His brother kept brushing his hair, unaffected by the sudden burst of frustration. He was patient, another trait that Maekar admired. Baelor had immense depths of patience that he poured into every aspect of his life: his children, nephews and nieces, politics, and most importantly, his younger brother. No matter what Maekar said or did, Baelor was patient and understanding, brushing off all manners of behaviour and every shade of insults the younger came up with.
“Be glad you do not have to use urine,” Baelor said, shuddering.
“This is still stupid.” Maekar did not back down, stubborn as ever.
Baelor sighed and stopped brushing the white, oily strands. As soon as his hands retreated, Maekar wished they had stayed.
“The water grows colder the longer you take to decide.”
Maekar glanced at the wooden tub, steam still rising, highlighted by candlelight. He had been laying in his blouse, while Baelor still kept his pants and almost identical blouse on, only the sleeves had been rolled up. Maekar had doubted his earlier decision ever since the servants brought hot water to the tub. It felt like it’d be oddly permanent, but at the same time, the longer he looked at Baelor, the more he wanted to just do it and get over the nervousness.
His brother moved from under him, standing by the bed, looking down at Maekar with an expectant smile.
“Fine.” Maekar sighed, grabbed the bottle, and headed to the wooden tub, followed by Baelor.
He sunk into the tub so deep that some of the water went down his nose, stinging. He snorted, eyes watering as Baelor’s laugh filled the room. His face went red with embarrassment, so he turned away, staring at the stone that surrounded the tub.
Baelor apologised as he knelt behind it. Maekar didn’t look at him, crossing his arms in the water which caused another laugh to bubble out of his brother. But soon enough, they calmed down, and focused on the task at hand.
Maekar busied himself with the bottle, taking a careful whiff of the liquid, almost like the scene from years ago would repeat and his nose would surely shrivel up. But the concoction smelled quite nice. There was a slight sharpness to it, but other than that the scent was like a rose bush.
“What does it smell like?” Baelor asked, leaning over Maekar’s shoulder when he held up the bottle.
“Quite pleasant.” Maekar admitted.
Baelor hummed in agreement, taking the bottle away and setting it down somewhere.
“It is made of rose water, and burned gall oak powder steeped in wine, it ought to smell nice.”
This time Maekar hummed, nodding his head.
He watched Baelor scoop up water into a wooden cup. He leaned back and closed his eyes, just as Baelor had told him to do. As the water washed over his hair, some of it ended up on his face. It felt nice.
He thought back to when they were younger as Baelor kept pouring the water into his hair, scrunching it up to help the water get absorbed. His brother used to wash him often when he was a toddler to allow their mother a break, and then, as they’d grown, it had developed into Baelor washing just his hair or vice versa. Maekar would be lying if he said that he didn’t miss the feeling of being cared for. He longed to be held, and have a moment of relaxation where his mind would quiet, and the tension would wash away, but ever since the Trial of Seven, he had forgotten all about that.
When Baelor was injured, in a state of deep sleep, Maekar had decided to take care of him. He slept in his room on an uncomfortable chair, in hopes that he would be the first person Baelor would see when he’d wake up, even though the maesters had told him they weren’t certain of that happening. Maekar had spent days gripping onto his elder brother’s hand. Even as the days had rolled into weeks, and the hands had turned so thin, too thin for a man like his brother, Maekar had refused to let go for fear of the man he felt so safe with withering away like a meadow in winter.
But now that Baelor was awake and well, Maekar dared to dream again. He dreamed of having patience like his brother, to be able to listen to his children bickering without feeling the need to raise his voice or slam his hands on the table. He wished to have his brother’s wisdom, to spend time worrying over cross-examining the information in books, and analysing treaties, instead of having to embarrass himself like a fool, like he had done when his idiotic son had asked for a Trial of Seven.
Maekar felt a deep longing to be in his brother’s arms like he had been as a child as Baelor read books to pass the time, or comforted him after nightmares.
“Maekar?”
His eyes stung, yet he turned to face Baelor.
Baelor’s two-colored eyes softened, but the rest of his face showed confusion. His hands were lifted, coated in a white foam which dripped down to his elbows.
“Does the liquid smell that good?” He joked, flashing a teasing smile, but it quickly left as Maekar did not laugh or even smirk.
Maekar’s chest ached deeply, and he was suddenly overcome with sensitivity. He turned around, sloshing the water over the edges of the tub, and his arms wrapped around his brother. Tears soaked into the dry blouse, while Baelor was frozen, deeply confused as to what had happened with his brother. Yet, he returned the hug, though a little awkwardly as he did not place his hands on Maekar in order to avoid the concoction from seeping into the wet blouse.
“Thank you.” Maekar whispered.
“For what?”
Maekar sighed. How could he begin to tell his brother what had overcome his senses, if the elder struggled to remember their usual hunting spot?
“If this is about my memory, then I promise I am trying my best.”
Maekar nodded in agreement with the second part. Baelor had indeed tried his hardest to keep the memories he had woken up with, and he even tried to remember the ones he had not woken up with. He had an entire notebook filled with the starts, middles or ends of scattered memories, some of which Maekar had no struggle recalling. Baelor did not get discouraged nor did he fall into despair when his nephews… Aerion… teased him about it. Baelor was strong, not only physically, but mentally, like Maekar has wished himself to be.
“I missed you.”
It was all Maekar could get out without the lump in his throat attempting to suffocate him.
“I missed you, too.” Baelor reassured.
They fell into silence after that. Maekar sat back in the tub, and Baelor started to lather the foam into the white strands. It was comforting for the both of them, although the stiffness of the fingers in his hair told Maekar that his brother was not quite as relaxed as he was. He did not bother Baelor with questions, instead he waited to see if the other would speak.
And he did.
“Do you have a favorite memory of us?”
It came out quietly, almost unsure. But unsure of what? Unsure of Maekar loving his brother enough to keep a favorite memory of them? Of them having even had good enough moments together?
“I do,” Maekar sighed as gentle fingers dug into his scalp, massaging it in slow circles.
He spent a while talking about their younger years, easily recalling one memory after the other. Sometimes Baelor would add a detail, like if the sun had been shining or not, or whether Maekar had actually fallen into a rose bush while running away from the elder, and yes, he indeed had… at least according to his brother.
The candleflames flickered, slowly swaying like stars in the sky when you’d stare at them for too long. Maekar felt tired.
“How does it look?” He asked, deeply fearing both failure and success of the process.
Baelor was quiet for a while, forcing the nervousness in Maekar to deepen and spread from his head to his whole body.
“Well, it is darker…”
“How dark?”
“Black.”
Maekar turned around, ready to curse at his brother who might as well have kept a blade to his throat in that moment, but the quick turn had swayed his hair, some of the foamy liquid falling into his eye, and within seconds he was cursing at the water instead of Baelor.
But Baelor only laughed, as if he had just told the funniest joke in the seven kingdoms, which deeply annoyed Maekar.
“Shut up,” He said, but it was without any genuine anger. His rapid blinking and tears eventually helped wash out the liquid, but his eye still stung.
They playfully argued for the rest of the time until they were back on the bed, in the same position the night had started in. Maekar held a mirror to his face, watching Baelor’s fingers play in his now black hair. He smiled, satisfied by how much he looked like Baelor, despite not having any grey hairs accompanying the vast darkness. He caught his brother’s wider smile in the mirror, and Maekar’s cheeks dusted with a pale pink shade almost immediately, like a child caught enjoying something they had denied for a long time.
“And your beard?”
“What about it?” Maekar glanced up.
“Are you not going to darken it as well?”
Maekar looked back into the mirror. The stark contrast of a white beard and moustache, and black hair was quite a sight.
“If I so choose, then it will have to wait.” Maekar yawned.
Baelor told him to sleep, saying he’d watch over him, sleep now, let me take care of you for a change. Maekar wished he could get rid of the pinkness in his cheeks, but the more he sunk into his brother’s hold, mind clouded by tiredness, the more the shade deepened. He felt safe, but odd. He was grown, yet he laid on his brother like a child, allowing his hair to be played with. Maekar changed focus from his cheeks to his brother’s hands.
Oh how he wishes they were still children.