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Summer found them in the godswood, sprawled across each other like cats in the sun. In a rare show of affection, Maekar had thrown his legs over Baelor’s waist. He could feel the muscles of his brother’s thighs tense and twitch as he scowled up at the canopy.
The topic of betrothals always made Maekar ornery as an old mule, but the king’s small council would not be gainsaid. “Father means to send me away,” Maekar spat, arms crossed over his chest. “Off to some lord’s castle, to darn his socks and bear his babes. As if I were a maiden daughter and not a son.”
The notion caught in Baelor’s mind like a bug in a spider’s web, squirming. Maekar, too, was restless in his arms, frowning and fussing. He squeezed his brother tighter and mused, “No lord would have you.”
Maekar’s glare could have soured a well, but to him, all of his brother’s looks were sweet. Brother mine, Baelor thought, hopelessly fond, as if I’d ever let any of them steal you away. But Maekar hated when he said things like that, so he kept his silence. Let his brother’s thin, chapped mouth work around what he meant to say next.
“Do you ever wish…?” But Maekar’s jaw snatched shut like a hunting trap, strangling whatever meant to come after. He got that way sometimes, desperate to share yet furious with himself for wanting. Baelor waited, as he always did.
“Do you ever wish,” Maekar started again, only to grunt and struggle to his feet. It took some kicking to unbraid their legs. “Bugger this. Forget I said anything.”
“You haven’t said anything yet,” Baelor pointed out, still lounging languidly on his back.
“Bugger you too,” Maekar spat. With that, he marched off, practically trembling with fury. Baelor watched him go. Watched for a little while longer, as Maekar stopped at the edge of the treeline, fought with himself for a moment, and marched back. His glower was a marvel to behold. “If I were born a girl,” Maekar ground out, clearly begrudging every word, “would you have married me?”
Baelor hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose that depends.”
“On?” Maekar’s shoulders had risen to his ears, his eyes bright in a way that meant a vicious blow was forthcoming, or, worse, tears. Sometimes both.
Baelor grinned, drunk on sunlight and affection. “If you were pretty.”
Maekar’s lips curled back in a snarl, and he lunged. His brother fought like a wild thing, always had, even grown from a kitten to an alley cat. He clawed and bit, fists lashing out with more anger than sense. Baelor wrapped himself around him, pinned him flat, and held him.
For a long moment, they lay together, panting. Maekar was fierce in his arms, hard against his hip. Baelor took him in hand, and whenever he tried to struggle free, gave him a gentle squeeze. It always made Maekar go curiously silent. Not limp, but an expectant stillness, like a well-trained hound before it was loosed on a hunt. Baelor stroked him idly and asked, “Do you think you’d be a comely maiden?”
Maekar turned just enough to glare at him. There was a charming streak of mud across his cheek. “Not bloody likely.”
“I have some idea already, from the games you and Mother used to play.” When Maekar was small, Queen Myriah used to dress him in her own gowns, let him swan about in her silken slippers. At four, Maekar had not yet known shame. There was only joy and color and fine fabrics. Baelor missed it sometimes. At four-and-ten, Maekar seemed to regard the very act of living as a humiliation.
“Do not speak of that,” Maekar snapped. His ears were pink as a rose, every petal.
“Why not?” Baelor nosed at his brother’s hair. It was still clean and silky from the bath, silvery-pale and smelling of mint. “You always looked quite lovely.”
Maekar bared his teeth. “I looked ridiculous. I doubt I would look any better in a gown if I had teats.”
Reluctantly, Baelor had to agree. It was impossible to imagine Maekar pretty or slender or womanly, really. Even as a girl, his brother would be a strip of hard salt beef. The same callused hands and broad shoulders and scowling mouth. Ugly, mayhaps, but that suited Baelor fine. There would be fewer leering eyes on her, fewer men he would be called upon to share her with.
In his imaginings, Maekar would be forever a maid, keeping to her childhood bedchamber not five paces down the hall from his. She would scowl and scoff and roll her eyes at him till they were both old and grey. She would still be his, as Maekar was, and always would be.
“Why the inquiry?” Baelor ran his fingers up the crease of his brother’s hip, stroking idly at the flat belly that held no womb. “Have you met a woods witch who can replace cock with cunt?”
“No. It is only—” Maekar blew a hard breath out of his nose. “Four sons is such an absurd sum. One is fine, two is plenty, and three beggars sense. What is the point of four?”
“Mayhaps I like that there’s four of us,” he countered. “Four princes. Four legs on a table, or a dog, or most any creature. It is the perfect amount.”
“A dog can live with only three legs,” Maekar pointed out bullishly.
“Good that I am not a dog, and neither are you.”
“A fool is what you are.” Maekar attempted to stand, but Baelor yanked him back down by his swordbelt. Maekar answered that with a fist in the gut, hard enough to wind him. The gasping pain was sweet, in a way. He held his brother tight and fought for breath, heaving in moss and greenery and mint.
“You’re asking the wrong question,” Baelor managed, when at last he could make words. Maekar had a hand spread across his stomach, where the bruise was sure to bloom. For once, he did not dig his fingers in.
“What’s the right question, then?” his brother muttered. “Since you know everything.”
Baelor put a hand over his, lacing their fingers together. “Would you marry me?”
Maekar snorted, but did not draw away. “Of course not. You’re unbearable, for one.”
“And hideous.”
“And hideous,” Maekar agreed. “Wretched to look upon. And those stupid legs of yours, like you could cross the yard in a single stride.”
“Don’t forget my face,” Baelor added with a smile.
“That old boot? How could I forget.” Despite himself, the corner of Maekar’s mouth had ticked up. “That great gaping mouth and those big beseeching eyes. I beg of you to put those awful things away.”
Dutifully, Baelor shut his eyes and hummed, head tipped back to soak in the sun.
“Your smile makes me ill sometimes,” Maekar went on, pinching Baelor’s lips shut between forefinger and thumb. His voice had gotten quieter, strangely taut. Maekar could always be more honest with no one looking. “Why must you always smile like that?”
Baelor slipped out a tongue to touch Maekar’s fingertip. His brother jerked back with a hiss, batting him across the face. For Maekar, it was near gentle. “That’s foul. You’re disgusting.”
In reply, Baelor grabbed his hand and licked a long, wet stripe up his palm. Maekar howled in dismay. They tussled again, and Baelor wondered if it would feel different, if Maekar were a sister. Writhing under him, hair a puddle of quicksilver, violet eyes blazing. The same broad hips, but a neater waist, with breasts in place of a boy’s narrow chest. Would they be small and shy, he wondered, or large and coarse? He groped at their absence in contemplation.
In reply, Maekar brought his skull down on his chin so hard Baelor saw stars. He came to himself on his back, with his brother above him. For a moment, Baelor watched the clouds spin, the sun streaking across the sky. With his face all in shadow, Maekar could almost be a woman.
“Thought I’d killed you,” his brother said, with so little gloating that Baelor knew he had truly been worried.
It made him smile, heart bursting with affection. “Try again. Harder, next time.”
Maekar had never once in his life apologized, but Baelor knew it in the way he flopped down beside him, sealing them together from shoulder to ankle. Maekar’s head knocked against his temple, just shy of bruising. “I would.” His brother sounded suddenly small, quiet and forlorn in a way that did not become him. “I would marry you.”
“Are you still the woman, or am I?” Baelor mused. “I think I’d make a beautiful bride.”
“Would not.” Maeker’s face had gone red, delicate lashes fanned across his scarred cheeks. Mayhaps he would make a pretty woman, if only when he blushed.
“It would be better with you as the woman, though,” Baelor could admit. “I know you would never give me horns. You love me too well. And these broad hips, all the better for whelping children.” He gave them a squeeze.
“Cunt,” Maekar gaped, jolting out of his grip. “Fuck you. Fuck yourself. Unhand me.”
“Why must you fight me, my little wife?” Baelor gave him his most lecherous grin. “Afraid I mean to steal your maidenhead?”
Maekar’s mouth made such a shape of fury and astonishment that for a moment, Baelor thought his brother might kill him for true. Then Maekar was laughing, bright and wild and heedless in delight. He was lovely like that, laughing.
“You’re mad,” Maekar pronounced, when at last the laughter had died away. He laid his head on Baelor’s chest, curled up against his side like a proper wife ought. He could feel his brother’s breath across his collarbone, coming in hot little puffs. A hand was fisted in his doublet, calluses catching on the fine silk. “You’re mad,” Maekar said again, in a quiet sigh.
“Mad for you,” Baelor replied. The ground was soft beneath him, a pillow of summer clover cradling his head. He could feel Maekar untense, inch by inch. His shoulders loosened, his fingers unclenched. Then, with a final gusting breath, he fell asleep. All at once, the way children did.
Baelor watched the leaves dance in the breeze for a little while longer. The season was almost over. The chill of autumn approached, but for the moment, all was warm.
A fine marriage bed indeed. He kissed his brother’s temple. And a fine bride to share it with.