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    Summary

    "You are a terrible liar, Maekar."

    "And you are an arrogant nuisance."

    "Then why," Baelor murmured, his eyes entirely devoid of their usual brotherly warmth, replaced by a sharp, probing intensity, "are you staring at my hand as if it is a banquet and you are starving to death?"

    Maekar jerked back, his chair scraping against the floor. "I am not staring at your miserable hand."

    "You were." Baelor finally withdrew his arm, resting his chin thoughtfully on his knuckles. The gold light caught the fresh pink scar running across his palm. "You've been staring for years. It used to be amusing. Now it's just… fascinating."


    In which Maekar has always been fixated on Baelor’s hands. Baelor catches on, and offers him a feast.

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