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“The Septons did say that we should wear another man’s helm to see through his eyes, but I did not think you would have taken that lesson to heart, brother.”
It’s warm and sunny. A light breeze lifts the warmth off Maekar’s face, leaving the faint scent of salt in its wake.
That’s odd. The last memories Maekar has are of war, of the summer sun beating hot upon his helm with no reprise. Starpike is not close enough to the water for a sea breeze, nor is it the time of year for this soft spring weather upon his face.
He cannot deny, though, that this is... pleasant. There are no advisors in his ear babbling of this tragedy or the next, no stink of shit and blood wafting from a war camp nearby. Whatever the outcome of the battle, it seems to have been won or lost without him, and left him a moment of succor.
If he just keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend that the specter of Baelor’s voice comes from his living body. That Baelor is King, and Maekar is naught but a prince, and whatever orders may come need not issue from his own mouth.
“Come now, Maekar. It has been so long since we last spoke - might I not see your eyes upon mine?”
Maekar grunts. “Can’t an old man rest his eyes for a bit?”
Baelor’s soft chuckle floats in the wind. “I would hardly call you old.”
“What would you call me then? Only ugly?” It’s a delightful change, this banter between them. Maekar’s dreams of late have been twisted and dark, and his dreams of his brother have been much the same. If he opens his eyes, he knows what he will see: Baelor’s eyes, open wide in shock, and his head upon the ground leaking around the shattered shards of his skull. And then he will awake, and rub the afterimage from his vision, and be required to place the weight of the crown upon his head once more.
No. For as long as his mind will allow, he will rest in this sweet dream.
A warm hand touches his brow, settling like a mother upon her babe’s, and moves up to brush strands of hair back from where they have fallen upon his face. He has not worn his hair this short in years. Tens of years.
He did not realize he had forgotten how his brother’s touch had felt, gentle as his voice, until this dream conjured it again. Strange, how memory shifts in one’s sleep.
“You cannot laze about forever. Mother will be cross.”
“Mother was always cross with me, for one reason or another,” Maekar snorts.
“You cannot pretend you did not oft give her reason to be wroth.” Baelor’s hand continues stroking his hair. He had stopped doing this... how long ago? When they were children, surely. Before Baelor became Breakspear, jousting against that Blackfyre bastard. Before Summerhall and Dragonstone, before Redgrass.
They had been so young, then.
Maekar can hear cloth shifting as Baelor settles himself against... It must be a chair that he is sitting in. The movement brings with it a wave of scent - stranger still, that he had forgotten to miss how Baelor smelled. Like parchment and ink, often undercut faintly with riding leathers and horse. They must have had the day to themselves, in this dream, because he also smells of the Dornish spices he favored, but would not sup on in the great hall, lest they remind lesser lords too strongly of his Dornish blood. Only alone, in his solar, prodding Maekar to try small bites that would turn his countenance red with heat and sweat, his tongue burning.
“What reason could I possibly have given her of late?” Maekar grumbles. He is as dutiful a king as he can bear, though the weight of the crown often leads him to contemplate falling on his sword. But if he does, then Aegon will have to shoulder the burden, and he is not so poor a father as to hand off that weight simply because he is tired. So he rises daily, and sits on the throne, and keeps his vigil.
“Only that you tarry here, with me. I do not mind, truly, but I am surely not the only one who would speak with you.”
Baelor’s hand has come to rest upon his shoulder. Maekar cannot help but to lean into it, just a bit. It is so nice, to be able to rest upon his brother’s strength again.
Weariness, and Baelor’s presence, make his tongue loose. “I cannot think of a single person I would rather be speaking with, at this moment.”
Baelor huffs, amused. “We have tarried long enough, brother. Come, open your eyes.” The grip upon Makear’s shoulder tightens, bidding him rise.
Maekar had never been able to refuse him. As a child he had often cried and screamed, and later cursed and raged, but he would no more be able to refuse his brother than to pluck his hand from his wrist, his heart from his chest.
He stands. He opens his eyes.
They are in Baelor’s solar. It has not been Baelor’s solar for four-and-twenty years, but it is unmistakably so - copies of his favorite books strewn about, his favorite chair behind Maekar, the windows open to let in the sea air, as they always were when the weather was fair.
Baelor is there, standing in front of him. Whole and well. Maekar does not dream of Baelor whole and well, only shattered by his hand.
“What the fuck?” Maekar cannot find more words, his brow furrowing.
Baelor’s expression is gentle and coaxing. It is the expression he always held when Maekar resisted, whether it was an apology, a lesson, an obligation. “Come,” he repeats, hand still firm and warm upon Maekar’s shoulder. “Remember.”
Maekar had been at the Dornish Marches. House Peake had once again kindled the embers of the Blackfyre rebellion. They were storming Starpike. He had looked up, to the castle walls and the parapets within, and seen-
“I was crushed by a rock?” Maekar spits, incredulously. Of all ends, what an ignoble, unceremonious one. A rock.
“It should not amuse me,” Baelor’s eyes twinkle with mirth. “Oft you castigated yourself for your hand upon your mace, and your mace upon my helm. But even after that blow, when I yet lived for a moment longer, I never held blame or anger in my heart, only joy in your strength. And so to see us having ended in such similar, unceremonious ways...” He shakes his head lightly, a breath of laughter escaping him. “You have always followed in my footsteps, little brother.”
To his horror, Maekar can feel tears rising in his eyes, burning in his throat. “Baelor, I-”
Before he can formulate another word, Baelor draws him in a fierce hug. “No. I would not have you punish yourself for that which we cannot change.”
Like a child, Maekor cannot help the sob that falls from his throat, nor the movement of his head to burrow into his brother’s shoulder, seeking comfort like he is once again two-and-ten.
“You should be furious,” Maekar says, the sound muffled by Baelor’s tunic. “You should hate me.”
“And yet I am not, and I do not.” Baelor’s arms tighten, and Maekar can feel himself crumbling under the pressure of it. His hands fist in his brother’s tunic, and like a child, he weeps, and he weeps, and he weeps.
Baelor does not let him go. He holds firm, and murmurs comforting nothings, and lets Maekar grieve.
After some time, time enough that the cloth beneath his eyes is sodden through, Maekar forces his creaking hands to release their grip, forces himself to step back. Baelor lets him, and kindly does not mention the mess Maekar must look, or fuss at the stain he has left behind.
“What now?” Maekar croaks. For all that his throat is sore and his voice heavy, his heart is lighter than it has been in four-and-twenty years.
“Now you are dead,” Baelor says, and Maekar’s hand comes up to shove at his shoulder, unbidden, at his terrible attempt at levity.
Baelor uses the force to turn, gesturing at the door behind him. “Beyond lies our family, and time enough for all that entails.”
He holds out a hand, stained only by ink and wine. “Shall we?”
Maekar takes it.
There is nowhere he will not follow, so long as Baelor leads.