Archive of Our Own

Eight-year-old Prince Maekar Targaryen, gripped his blunted wooden sword, his small knuckles white. Beneath a sheen of perspiration, his pale skin caught the harsh sunlight. A long mane of fine, silver hair clung to his neck, and his pale violet eyes were fixed with unblinking intensity on the boy circling him.

Across the yard, under the watchful, booming instruction of Ser Quentyn Ball, the master-at-arms, the three and ten year olds were sparring. Daemon moved with grace, his silver hair a blur, his deep violet eyes shining with the thrill of the fight. Meeting him blow for blow was Maekar’s eldest brother, Baelor.

Maekar idolized Baelor. His brother was a prince out of a song—flawless, noble, and strong. Yet, Baelor looked nothing like the kings of old. He had inherited the coloring of their mother, Princess Myriah Martell. Baelor’s skin was a warm, dark olive, his hair as black as a raven’s wing, and his eyes were a striking, mismatched testament to his twin bloodlines, one the deep brown of Dorne, the other the piercing violet of old Valyria. Together, Baelor and Daemon clashed, wood ringing against wood in a perfect rhythm.

Maekar’s own rhythm was much less graceful, for his opponent had no interest in an honorable spar.

"Keep your shield up, you little runt," sneered Aegor, bringing his wooden blade down in a vicious, chopping arc.

Maekar grunted, raising his shield just in time. The impact sent a painful shudder down his arm, but he planted his boots firmly in the dust, refusing to yield a single inch. Aegor was ten, bigger, heavier, and fueled by a perpetual fury. He shared the King’s blood, just as Daemon did, but Aegor’s mother was a Bracken. He had thick black hair that hung in sweaty strands over his forehead, and dark, venomous purple eyes that always seemed to look at Maekar and his trueborn brothers as if they were vermin.

"Too slow," Aegor taunted, pivoting and landing a bruising strike against Maekar’s thigh. "What's the matter, Maekar? Getting tired? Perhaps you should go inside and take a nap with the rest of the women."

Maekar swung his sword in a wide, defensive arc, forcing Aegor to step back. "Shut your mouth," Maekar growled, his high voice straining to sound as deep and commanding as Baelor’s.

"Or what?" Aegor laughed, a cruel, barking sound. He circled to Maekar’s left, batting his wooden sword against his own shield. "Where are the other two? Aerys and Rhaegel? Did the sun get too hot for their delicate skin?"

"Aerys is studying," Maekar snapped, his pale violet eyes narrowing. "He is smarter than you. He has the mind of a king."

"He has the mind of a maester," Aegor mocked, spitting into the dust. "Aerys thinks a dusty scroll will save him when a sword is at his throat. He’s a coward. And Rhaegel? That little half-wit is practically a girl. I saw him crying over a dead bird yesterday."

A hot, prickly sensation began to rise in Maekar’s chest. He loved his brothers with a fierce, all-consuming devotion. He was the youngest of the four, the one who looked the most traditionally Valyrian with his silver hair and pale features, but his heart belonged entirely to the siblings who did not.

His mind flashed to quiet afternoons in the library, sitting cross-legged on a carpet while Aerys—with his silver-blond hair and gentle brown eyes—read to him. Aerys possessed a magical voice, turning dry histories of the Age of Heroes into grand epics that made Maekar’s heart soar.

And Rhaegel... sweet, fragile Rhaegel. His brother had thick dark hair and large, soulful violet eyes. Rhaegel didn't like the loud noises of the yard or the smell of blood. Instead, he would sit in the Red Keep's gardens, weaving delicate flower crowns. Just yesterday, Rhaegel had gently placed a crown of roses into Maekar’s silver hair, smiling softly. Maekar had worn it proudly all afternoon, daring anyone to say a word. He was going to become the greatest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms solely to build a wall of steel around his gentle brothers.

"Rhaegel is kind," Maekar yelled, stepping forward to deliver a clumsy but forceful thrust. "Something a bastard wouldn't understand!"

Aegor easily deflected the blow and smashed the edge of his shield into Maekar’s chest, sending the younger prince stumbling backward. Maekar gasped for air, the wind knocked out of him.

"Kind?" Aegor sneered, his dark purple eyes flashing with pure malice. "He's pathetic. Father knows it, too. The King looks at your lot and feels nothing but shame. Daeron’s brood." Aegor gestured with his wooden sword toward the other side of the yard, where Baelor and Daemon were resting between bouts. "Look at him. He doesn't even look like a dragon. He looks like a Dornish dog. Just a filthy, mud-blooded mutt pretending to be a Targaryen."

The world seemed to stop spinning. The clatter of swords faded into a dull buzz in Maekar’s ears. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against his ribs.

A Dornish dog.

Maekar looked at Baelor, who was currently laughing at something Daemon had said, his dark face radiant. Baelor was perfect. He was everything a prince was supposed to be.

Something inside Maekar snapped. He dropped his wooden sword and shield into the dirt.

Aegor frowned, lowering his own blade slightly. "What, giving up already, you little—"

Aegor never finished the sentence. Maekar let out a feral, wordless scream and launched himself forward. He didn't punch, he tackled. He hit Aegor squarely in the midsection with the crown of his head, driving his small frame directly into the older boy’s stomach.

The air left Aegor in a loud whoosh, and the ten-year-old crashed backward onto the hard-packed earth, a cloud of dust exploding around them.

"Apologize!" Maekar shrieked, scrambling up Aegor’s chest and pinning his arms down with his knees.

Before Aegor could fully comprehend what was happening, Maekar brought a clenched, heavy fist down on his face. Crack. The blow landed squarely on Aegor’s nose, and blood immediately spurted across the pale dust.

"Get off me, you mad little bastard!" Aegor roared, bucking wildly. He managed to wrench one arm free and threw a wild, desperate punch that caught Maekar in the mouth.

Maekar felt his lip split. The warm, metallic taste of his own blood flooded his tongue, and a sharp pain flared as his nose began to bleed. But the pain only fueled his rage. He grabbed Aegor by the collar of his padded jerkin and slammed his head back into the dirt.

"Take it back!" Maekar roared, bringing his fist down again, this time burying it into Aegor's eye. The skin instantly began to swell and purple. "Take it back about Aerys! Take it back about Rhaegel! Take it back about Baelor!"

Aegor thrashed, spitting blood and dirt. "Get off me, you little freak!"

"I am half-Martell!" Maekar screamed, his violet eyes wild and blazing, silver hair clinging to his blood-spattered face. He brought his fist back for another strike. "Unbowed! Unbent! Unbroken! Apologize!"

"Maekar! Stop!"

A large pair of arms suddenly wrapped around Maekar’s chest, lifting him bodily into the air. Maekar kicked and thrashed, still trying to swing at Aegor, blinded by his protective fury.

"Easy, little brother, easy!" It was Baelor. His older brother’s voice was calm. Baelor held Maekar tightly against his chest, absorbing the younger boy’s struggling limbs without effort.

Daemon had rushed to Aegor’s side, pulling the other to his feet. Aegor looked a mess. His nose was clearly broken, bent and streaming crimson down his chin. His left eye was already swollen shut, ringed in angry, mottled black and purple. He swayed on his feet, glaring at Maekar with a hatred so pure it seemed to burn.

"Seven Hells, boy!" Ser Quentyn Ball marched over, his face flushed with anger as he looked between the two. "We were sparring with wood, not fighting to the death in the fighting pits!"

Maekar finally stopped thrashing in Baelor's grip, though he kept his bloody chin raised high. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing his own blood across his pale cheek. His chest heaved, his small lungs pulling in ragged breaths.

"He insulted our brothers," Maekar told Baelor, his voice trembling not with fear, but with the adrenaline of the fight. "He called you a dog. He called Rhaegel a girl. I made him swallow his teeth."

Baelor looked down at Maekar. The older prince’s eyes softened with a mixture of stern reprimand and deep affection. Baelor reached out, using his sleeve to gently dab at the blood flowing from Maekar’s nose and split lip.

"Words are wind, Maekar," Baelor said softly, though loud enough for Aegor and Daemon to hear. "A true dragon does not need to roar at every barking dog." He cast a cool glance toward Aegor, who flinched under the weight of the prince’s mismatched stare.

Daemon handed Aegor a rag, his own violet eyes assessing Maekar.

Maekar stood tall as Baelor set him back down on his feet. He hurt everywhere. His hand throbbed from the impact of Aegor’s face, his lip stung fiercely, and his nose was swelling. But as he looked at Aegor’s ruined face, Maekar felt no regret. He had the blood of Old Valyria and the desert heat of Dorne running through his veins, and he would break the face of anyone who dared speak against his brothers again.

Maekar kept his chin tilted up, though the motion made the dried blood around his nostrils crack and itch. His lower lip was swollen to twice its normal size, throbbing with a dull heat that matched the pounding in his knuckles.

To his right walked Baelor, his dark face an unreadable mask of stone, though his hand rested firmly on Maekar’s small shoulder. Ahead of them was their father, Prince Daeron. Looked at from behind, Daeron’s posture was stiff, his shoulders squared as if preparing to shield his sons from a coming storm.

On the other side of the column walked the bastards. Daemon marched quietly, but Aegor looked utterly wretched. The ten-year-old’s nose was a crooked, purple mess, leaking fresh crimson onto a rag he held to his face, and his left eye was so swollen it looked like a rotten plum embedded in his skull.

When the massive doors of the Throne Room opened, light streamed through the high, arched windows, and at the far end of the cavernous hall sat the Iron Throne.

Assembled at the base of the throne were lords, whispering courtiers, and the Kingsguard in gleaming white armor. But Maekar’s eyes were locked on the man perched upon the seat of kings: his grandfather, King Aegon.

The King did not look like a dragon. Aegon was fat, his once-grand frame buried beneath layers of soft, pale blubber that spilled over the edges of the iron seat. His face was red and greasy, his eyes half-hidden by bags of swollen flesh, and the heavy smell of sour wine and roasted meats seemed to drift from him across the entire room.

As the group halted at the base of the dais, the court fell into a suffocating silence. Prince Daeron stepped forward, bowing stiffly. "Your Grace. You summoned us."

Aegon didn't answer immediately. He reached into a golden bowl resting on the arm of the throne, pulled out a handful of greased capon, and stuffed it into his mouth. He chewed loudly, smacking his lips, his small, purple eyes rolling over the boys standing before him. Finally, his gaze settled on the bloody ruins of Aegor’s face.

"What in the name of the Fourteen Flames happened to you?" the King wheezed, his voice a wet, gravelly rumble that echoed off the stone walls.

Aegor dropped his blood-soaked rag. Seeing an opportunity, the ten-year-old stepped forward, his dark purple eye flashing with a mixture of spite and desperation. He believed  that the King favored his bastards over his trueborn son’s lineage.

"It was Maekar, father!" Aegor cried out, his voice nasal and wet through his broken nose. "We were in the yard, training. I was merely speaking with him when this... this savage attacked me! He threw away his sword like a common brawler, tackled me to the ground, and beat me! He broke my nose!"

Maekar felt his hands curl into fists again. The urge to spring forward and tear into Aegor a second time was a roaring fire in his chest. He lied, Maekar thought fiercely. He left out what he said about Baelor. He left out what he said about Aerys and Rhaegel. Maekar took a half-step forward, ready to shout the truth, but Baelor’s grip tightened on his shoulder, holding him fast.

The King stared down at Aegor for a long, agonizing moment. The silence stretched so thin that Maekar could hear the flickering of the torch torches along the walls.

Then, the King’s chest began to heave.

A strange, wet clicking sound came from Aegon’s throat, growing louder and louder until it erupted into a booming, breathless roar of laughter. The King shook, his massive belly rolling beneath his velvet doublet, his multiple chins quivering as he threw his head back and laughed at the ceiling.

The courtiers took this as their cue, and a ripple of nervous laughter spread through the hall like wildfire.

Aegor froze, his chest falling as his face drained of what little color it had left. He looked up at his father, utterly bewildered.

"You..." Aegon wheezed, wiping a tear of grease and sweat from his eye. "You absolute embarrassment! You are ten years old, Aegor! You stand there weeping because an eight-year-old boy put you in the dirt?"

"Your Grace, he—" Aegor stammered.

"Silence!" the King barked, his laughter vanishing in an instant, replaced by a cold, mocking sneer. "Look at you. A broken nose and a ruined eye, given to you by a boy whose head barely reaches your chest. Do you know why he bested you, boy? Do you want to know why you are bleeding on my floor?"

Aegon turned his heavy, bloodshot eyes away from his bastard and fixed them directly on Maekar. For the first time, Maekar felt the full weight of the King's attention, and it made his skin crawl.

"Look at him," Aegon commanded the court, pointing a grease-stained finger at Maekar. "Look at the boy’s hair. Silver as pure Valyrian. Look at those eyes. Pale violet, like the dragons of old. He has the pale skin of Aegon the Conqueror himself. Maekar looks more like a true Targaryen than anyone else in his miserable, watered-down line."

The King leaned forward, resting his massive elbows on his knees, staring intently at Maekar. "He beat you because he has the dragon in him, Aegor. Real dragon blood. You? You have too much dirty blood from your mother's side. You're soft."

Maekar stood perfectly still, but inside, a dark, sickening horror was blossoming. He looked up at his grandfather’s bloated face and felt a deep, profound revulsion.

"Come closer, boy," Aegon ordered Maekar, gesturing with a heavy hand.

Maekar looked at his father, Daeron’s jaw was clamped so tightly that the muscles in his cheek were twitching, but he gave a single nod. Maekar took three steps forward, stepping out from Baelor’s protective shadow, until he stood alone before the dais.

"I like what I see in you, Maekar," Aegon said, a greasy smile stretching across his face. "You have a mean streak. A cruel streak. That is what a real ruler needs. None of this peaceful nonsense. You took what you wanted with your fists. When a dog barks at you, you break its jaw. I want you to remember this feeling. The next time Aegor speaks out of turn, you put him in the dirt again. Knock out his teeth next time. Show them all what happens when they cross the true blood of the dragon."

The King laughed again, a low, wet chuckle, and then his eyes drifted lazily to Prince Daeron, and then to Baelor. The warmth left the King's face, replaced by open disgust.

"It is a miracle," Aegon sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "A absolute miracle that Daeron’s loins could produce something with actual steel in its bones. Look at the rest of them. Your brother Baelor..." Aegon spat onto the floor, the saliva landing dangerously close to Baelor’s boots. "A Dornish crow. Dark skin, black hair. A walking insult to the throne he wishes to inherit. And your mother, Myriah... a fragile little desert toad. I brought the Dornish into this court, and they have turned my family into a nest of scribes, poets, and weaklings. Your brothers Aerys and Rhaegel are useless. They are soft, spineless creatures who belong in a sept, not a castle."

Aegon turned back to Maekar, his smile returning like a mask of rot. "But you... you are different. You are the only one who looks like my grandson. You are a true dragon, Maekar. Remember that. You stand above the rest of your mud-blooded brothers."

The words echoed in the high rafters of the Great Hall, but to Maekar, they felt like physical blows.

He was being praised. He was being exalted by the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Every boy in the realm dreamed of such a moment. But to Maekar, the praise tasted like ash and bile.

His mind screamed in protest. I am not like you! he wanted to roar. I am nothing like you!

He hadn't fought Aegor because of some cruel, vicious desire to dominate. He hadn't fought him because he felt superior. He had fought because Aegor had insulted the people Maekar loved more than life itself. He had fought to protect Aerys, who held his hand when the thunderstorms shook the Red Keep. He had fought for Rhaegel, who smelled of sweet grass and jasmine and never had an unkind thought in his life. He had fought for Baelor, his hero, his shield, the greatest brother a boy could ask for.

And most of all, he had fought for his mother. The gentle woman who sang him Dornish lullabies in the quiet of the night, whose skin was warm like the sands of Sunspear, and who taught him that true strength lay in loyalty, not cruelty.

This disgusting, bloated man on the throne was trying to use Maekar’s own face—his silver hair, his pale eyes—as a weapon to tear his family apart. Aegon was trying to isolate him, to make him think he was better than the brothers who loved him.

Maekar didn't feel pride. He felt an intense, burning hatred for the man sitting on the Iron Throne.

He looked down at his own small, blood-stained fists. If looking like a "true dragon" meant being like Aegon—fat, cruel, faithless, and miserable—then Maekar wanted nothing to do with it. He would rather be a Dornish dog. He would rather be a fragile toad. He would rather be anything else, so long as he belonged to his mother and his brothers.

"You may go," Aegon waved a dismissive hand, already reaching back into his bowl of capon, his brief amusement concluded. "Take the bastard to the maester to get his face mended. And you, Maekar... keep your fists hard."

Maekar did not bow. He turned on his heel, his small boots clicking sharply against the stone floor. He walked past Aegor, who was glaring at him through his one good eye with a renewed, venomous hatred, and walked straight back to Baelor’s side.

Baelor didn't say a word, but as they walked out of the Throne Room, side by side, the older brother reached down and took Maekar’s hand. His dark, warm hand enveloped Maekar’s smaller, pale one, squeezing it tightly.

Maekar squeezed back with all the strength his eight-year-old body possessed. The King could say whatever he wanted. The court could whisper until their tongues rotted. Maekar knew who he was. He was a son of Daeron and Myriah. He was a brother to Baelor, Aerys, and Rhaegel. And he would spend the rest of his life using the strength the King praised to destroy everything the King stood for.

The heavy oak doors of the Throne Room closed with a resounding, echoing thud, sealing away the suffocating stench of roasted meats, sour wine, and the King’s poisonous laughter.

As soon as they were safely in the cavernous, quiet corridor of the Red Keep, Prince Daeron halted. The trueborn son of Aegon let out a long, shuddering breath, running a hand over his tired face. Daeron was a man of books and diplomacy, a prince who bore the immense weight of his father’s relentless scorn with quiet, stoic dignity. But as he turned to look down at his youngest son, his composed mask slipped, revealing only the love of a father.

Daeron knelt on the cold stone floor, he reached out, his hands trembling slightly, and gently gripped Maekar by the shoulders.

"My brave boy," Daeron murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He carefully brushed a lock of silver hair away from Maekar’s bruised forehead. "Are you badly hurt?"

"No, Father," Maekar whispered. His lower lip throbbed with every syllable, and the metallic tang of blood still lingered on his tongue, but he stood as straight as he could manage.

Daeron sighed, a sad, knowing sound. He pulled Maekar forward and kissed the crown of his head. "I love you, Maekar. More than words can say. And I... I am proud that you stood up for your mother, and for your brothers."

Maekar’s pale violet eyes widened slightly. He had expected a reprimand. "You aren't angry?"

"No, sweet boy. I am not angry," Daeron said softly, though a shadow crossed his eyes as he glanced back toward the Throne Room doors. "But we live in a nest of vipers, Maekar. Strength is a necessary armor, yes, but violence gives your enemies a weapon to use against you. Next time someone mocks our family... and there will be a next time... you must find a different way to fight them. A way that does not leave you bleeding on the floor for the King's amusement. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Father," Maekar nodded, though his small fists still felt tight and heavy.

Daeron offered a weary, gentle smile and squeezed Maekar’s shoulder before standing up. He looked to his eldest son. "Baelor. I must go to your mother before the whispers reach her and worry her. Take your brother to your chambers. Have a maester bring ice and a salve for that lip."

"I will, Father," Baelor promised, his eyes grave and steady.

The walk to Baelor’s chambers was a blur. The adrenaline that had sustained Maekar through the fight in the yard and the terror of the Throne Room was finally evaporating, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion. Every step felt heavier than the last. His small body ached, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the dark, twisting knot in his chest.

You are a true dragon, Maekar. You have a mean streak. A cruel streak.

The King's words echoed in his ears, a venomous chant that made his skin crawl.

Baelor pushed open the heavy wooden door to his personal quarters and guided Maekar inside. Unlike the cold, severe stone of the rest of the Red Keep, Baelor’s rooms were warm. Rich tapestries from Sunspear adorned the walls, depicting golden spears and red suns. The air smelled faintly of blood oranges and old parchment, a comforting blend of their mother’s homeland and the books Baelor studied so diligently.

Click.

Baelor slid the heavy iron bolt home, locking the door. The sound of the lock sliding into place was like the breaking of a dam.

They were alone. There were no courtiers to impress, no bastards to fight, and no monstrous king to perform for.

Maekar stood in the center of the carpet, staring down at his small hands. His knuckles were bruised purple and crusted with Aegor’s dried blood. He thought of the King’s greasy smile. He thought of how the King had spat on Baelor, calling him a Dornish crow, while praising Maekar for his silver hair and pale eyes.

A single, hot tear spilled over Maekar’s face, stinging the raw skin of his cheek. Then came another. And another.

Maekar squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight it, but the dam had burst completely. A ragged, wet sob tore its way out of his throat. His small shoulders began to shake violently, and suddenly the eight-year-old warrior who had broken an older boy's nose was gone, replaced by a terrified, exhausted child.

In a fraction of a second, Baelor crossed the room. The older prince dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms securely around Maekar and pulling him tightly against his chest.

Maekar buried his face into the fabric of Baelor’s tunic, weeping openly. He clutched fistfuls of Baelor’s shirt, anchoring himself to his older brother as if he were drowning in a storm.

"I'm sorry," Maekar sobbed, his voice muffled and broken. "I'm sorry, Baelor."

"Shhh, little brother. You have nothing to apologize for," Baelor murmured. His deep, steady voice vibrated through his chest, rumbling against Maekar’s ear. "You're safe here. I've got you."

"I don't want to be like him!" Maekar cried out, the desperation tearing at his throat. He pulled back just enough to look at his brother, his eyes swimming in tears, his chest heaving. "I don't! He said I was cruel. He said I was a real dragon, and he smiled at me, Baelor. It was horrible. I hate him! I hate grandfather!"

Baelor’s dark face softened into an expression of fierce love. He reached up with his thumbs, gently wiping the tears and smudged blood from Maekar’s pale cheeks.

"Listen to me, Maekar," Baelor said, his voice ringing with absolute, unshakable certainty. "You are nothing like Aegon. Nothing. Do you hear me?"

Maekar sniffled, his breath hitching. "But he said—"

"Aegon is a poison," Baelor interrupted smoothly, his eyes locking onto Maekar’s gaze. "He looks at the world and sees only cruelty and division. He praised you because he wants to mold you into his own image. But he cannot. Because I know your heart, little brother."

Baelor moved his hand from Maekar's cheek to rest it over the younger boy's racing heart.

"You didn't fight Aegor today out of cruelty," Baelor continued softly. "You fought him out of love. You fought to protect Aerys, and Rhaegel, and Mother, and me. That isn't the cruelty of a monster, Maekar. That is the fierce, beautiful strength of a true protector. I am so deeply proud of you. I am proud to have a brother who loves us so fiercely."

Maekar let out a shaky breath, the tight knot in his chest beginning to loosen just a fraction. He looked at Baelor—at his warm, dark olive skin, at his raven-black hair, Baelor looked like a hero from the Dornish sands, strong and unyielding.

"I wish I looked like you," Maekar whispered miserably, dropping his gaze back to the floor.

Baelor blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"I wish I had dark hair. I wish my skin was dark, like yours and Mother's," Maekar confessed, fresh tears welling up. He reached up and tugged angrily at a lock of his own fine, silver hair. "The King only likes me because I look like this. He hates your hair. He hates Aerys and Rhaegel. If I looked Dornish like you, he wouldn't have smiled at me. He wouldn't have tried to make me his."

A profound silence fell over the sunlit room.

Baelor’s expression shifted, a wave of profound sorrow and empathy washing over his sharp features. He gently reached up and caught Maekar’s hand, pulling it away from the silver hair the boy was trying to punish.

"Maekar, look at me," Baelor commanded softly.

Maekar hesitantly raised his head.

Baelor smiled, a warm, radiant expression that seemed to chase away the last of the cold shadows from the Throne Room. He brought his hands up and gently cupped Maekar’s face.

"I love your pale skin," Baelor said firmly. He brushed his fingers through the fine, silver strands resting on Maekar's shoulders. "And I love this silver hair. And I love your pale violet eyes. You are beautiful, Maekar. Exactly as you are."

"But the King—"

"The King does not own the blood of Valyria," Baelor said fiercely, leaning in closer. "Your face does not belong to him. It belongs to you. You are a son of Myriah Martell just as much as I am. The blood of the Rhoyne flows in your veins, no matter the color of your hair. You don't need to look like me to be my brother. You already are my brother. My strong, brave, perfect little brother."

Maekar threw his arms around Baelor’s neck again, burying his face into the crook of his older brother's shoulder. This time, he wasn't crying from terror or confusion, but from an overwhelming sense of relief.

Baelor wrapped his arms tightly around him, holding him with the unshakeable strength of a future king. They knelt there together on the sun-warmed carpet, surrounded by the silence of the room. Slowly, Baelor began to stroke the back of Maekar’s head, his fingers gently working through the tangles of the boy's silver hair.

"I love you, Maekar," Baelor whispered into the quiet room.

Maekar closed his pale violet eyes, letting the warmth of his brother's embrace wash over him, safe from the dragons and monsters outside the door.

"I love you too, Baelor," Maekar whispered back.

How dare that bloated monster put his hands on what is mine, Baelor thought, a dark, seething anger burning beneath his calm exterior. The same rage Maekar felt, but colder. Sharper. Baelor wished he could have been the one to break Aegor’s face in the yard. But he knew the truth, as the eldest, as the one expected to be perfect, he could not afford such open defiance. Not yet. So his precious little brother — his Maekar — had been forced to do it instead. The thought made something vicious twist in his chest.

“I love your hair, you know,” Baelor murmured, his voice low and fond as he threaded his fingers through the fine strands again and again. “It’s so soft. I’ve always loved it. And I love how long it’s getting. Did you know I learned to braid just for you?”

Maekar sniffled against his brother’s shoulder, but a small, shy smile tugged at his lips despite the tears. Praise from Baelor always felt like warm sunlight on his skin. He could feel his cheeks growing hot.

“Rhaegel loves putting flowers in it too,” Baelor continued softly, still petting his hair with slow, soothing strokes. “He says it makes you look so pretty, like one of the princes from Mother’s stories. And he’s right. You do look pretty with flowers in your silver hair. I like seeing it.”

Maekar’s face burned hotter. He burrowed deeper into Baelor’s tunic, embarrassed but secretly delighted by every word. His big brother’s praise made something tight and painful in his chest finally unclench.

While Maekar blushed and hid his face, Baelor’s jaw tightened. That disgusting king smiled at him. Praised him. Tried to claim him with those filthy words. The memory of Aegon’s greedy, amused gaze on Maekar made fresh fury coil in Baelor’s gut. Maekar was his. His to protect. His to praise. His to love. The only attention his little brother ever needed was his — not the poisoned scraps thrown by their grandfather.

Baelor chuckled quietly, the sound warm and rumbling. He pulled back just enough to cup Maekar’s flushed cheek with one large hand, his thumb brushing gently over the heated skin.

“And I love this pale skin of yours,” he said, smiling a gentle smile on his lips even as rage simmered behind his mismatched eyes. “Look at you—turning red like a tomato right now. Just like that.”

Maekar let out a watery giggle despite himself, the sound shaky but genuine. The comparison was so silly coming from his usually solemn older brother that it broke through the last of his misery. Baelor felt some of the tension in his own chest ease at the sound.

Baelor’s eyes crinkled with affection as he watched the blush deepen. “There it is again. My little tomato brother.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Maekar’s forehead, right above the bruise. “I love every part of you, Maekar. Exactly as you are. Never forget that.”

Inside, the dark vow settled deep in his bones: No one will take you from me. Not the King. Not anyone.

Maekar closed his pale violet eyes, leaning into the touch. The warmth of Baelor’s hand on his cheek, the gentle fingers still carding through his hair, and the steady praise wrapped around him like the softest blanket. For the first time since the fight, he felt truly safe.

“I love you, Baelor,” he whispered again, voice small but full of fierce devotion.

Later that night, long after the maester had come and gone—clucking disapprovingly over Maekar’s split lip and bruised knuckles—the two brothers lay together in Baelor’s wide bed. Maekar had refused to sleep alone, his small voice trembling as he asked to stay with his big brother. Baelor had agreed without hesitation. In truth, he wanted Maekar close just as badly.

The room was dark save for the faint silver moonlight spilling through the window. Maekar was curled against Baelor’s side, fast asleep, his breathing soft and even. His long silver hair spilled across the pillow like a river of pale silk, and the faint scent of the healing salve still clung to his skin.

Baelor lay on his back, one arm wrapped protectively around his little brother. His free hand moved slowly, gently petting Maekar’s hair in long, soothing strokes from crown to ends. The motion was almost meditative. Every time his fingers passed through the fine strands, something fierce and tender twisted in his chest.

My sweet boy, Baelor thought, eyes fixed on Maekar’s peaceful face in the moonlight. You should not have to be strong. Not like this.

A darker thought slithered in, cold and unrelenting. Everything would be better if the King were dead.

The words were treason. If spoken aloud they could cost him his head. Baelor did not care. He let the thought linger, turning it over in his mind like a blade. If that bloated, cruel monster on the Iron Throne were gone, Maekar would not need to clench his small fists and bleed for their family’s honor. He could simply be. He could run through the gardens with Rhaegel, laughing as flowers were tucked into his silver hair. He could stay soft and happy and safe—always close to Baelor, where he belonged.

No more forced smiles in the Throne Room. No more poisonous praise meant to divide them. No more fear that their grandfather might try to steal Maekar away with pretty words about ““true dragons.”

Baelor’s hand never stopped its gentle petting. He traced a thumb lightly over one of Maekar’s pale cheeks, careful not to wake him.

“I love you so much,” he whispered into the quiet darkness, voice barely audible. “More than anything in this world, little brother. You are mine, and I will keep you safe. Always.”

Maekar made a small, contented sound in his sleep and pressed closer, seeking warmth. Baelor tightened his arm around him and continued stroking his hair long into the night, the dark vow settling deeper into his heart.

To Baelor, the hallway outside the King’s private solar felt longer and colder than anywhere else in the Red Keep.

Baelor stood beside his father, standing outside these heavy doors, listening to the muffled, booming laughter echoing from within, he felt entirely powerless.

He hated it. He hated that his dark, raven-black hair and mismatched eyes made him an object of disgust to his grandfather. But he hated even more that his own "unworthy" appearance had made a target of his little brother.

Aegon had not forgotten the boy who had broken Aegor’s nose. Despite the silent prayers of Daeron and Myriah, the King’s dark fascination with Maekar had only grown. The summons had started arriving a fortnight ago. The King requests the presence of his grandson.

"He is doing this to punish me," Daeron murmured, his voice barely a whisper against the cold stone. Daeron stood rigid, his hands clasped behind his back, his knuckles white. He stared at the doors as if he could set them ablaze with his mind alone. "He knows I despise his court. He knows I shield the boys from his... excesses. So he takes the youngest. He takes the one who looks like him."

Baelor looked up at his father. Daeron’s pale face was drawn tight with exhaustion and suppressed rage. It had been a terrifying battle just days prior. The King had wanted Maekar present during one of his evening "revels," surrounded by his half-naked mistresses and followers. Daeron, who usually absorbed his father’s insults with stoic, diplomatic silence, had finally snapped.

“You may command my son’s presence as his King,” Daeron had roared in the middle of the throne room, his voice shaking the rafters, “but I will be damned to the Seven Hells before I allow an eight-year-old boy to sit on a cushion while your whores straddle your lords! If you force him into a brothel, Father, I will take my wife and my sons back to Sunspear, and you can explain to the realm why your heir has abandoned you!”

The threat of losing his Dornish hostages—and the political disaster it would cause—had forced Aegon to yield. The mistresses were banished from the solar when Maekar was summoned. But the King had compensated by filling the room with his worst sycophants, the cruel, greedy lords who drank his wine, laughed at his jests, and encouraged his madness.

"Maekar is strong, Father," Baelor said quietly, his voice a deep, steady anchor in the drafty hall. "He will not break."

"He shouldn't have to be strong," Daeron replied bitterly, his eyes bright with unshed, angry tears. "He is a child, Baelor. My child."

From inside the solar, a sudden roar of drunken laughter erupted, followed by a violent coughing fit that sounded entirely too small to belong to a grown man. Baelor’s stomach twisted into a violent knot. He took a half-step toward the doors, before Daeron’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, holding him in place.

They could only wait.

Inside the sweltering heat of the solar, the air was thick enough to choke on.

For little Maekar, the room was a nightmare painted in gold and crimson. The massive hearth roared with a fire that was entirely unnecessary for the warm evening, making the chamber feel like the inside of an oven. The air smelled of roasting meats, sweat, cheap perfume, and the overpowering, sweet stench of spilled wine.

Maekar sat rigidly on a velvet stool placed directly beside the King's massive armchair. He kept his spine perfectly straight, his small hands resting flat on his knees.

"Look at him, Bracken," King Aegon rumbled, leaning heavily over the armrest of his chair. The King’s breath washed over Maekar, carrying the sickening odor of sour wine and rotting teeth. "Look at the posture. Like a little soldier. Not a drop of Dornish mud in him, is there? No, the seed is strong. The dragon blood runs pure in this one."

Lord Bracken, a cruel-faced man with a heavy beard, let out a booming laugh, raising his golden goblet. "Aye, Your Grace! The boy has the look of the Conqueror! A pity the eldest Prince looks like he was born on a camel."

The assembled lords— others Maekar didn't care to know—erupted into laughter.

Maekar did not blink. He stared straight ahead at the tapestries on the far wall, focusing on a loose red thread near the hem. 

"He has the spirit for it, too," Aegon boasted, his heavy, jewel-ringed hand descending upon Maekar.

Maekar’s stomach heaved with revulsion as the King’s massive, sweaty palm rested on his head. Aegon began to pet him, his thick fingers running through Maekar’s fine, silver hair. The touch made Maekar’s skin crawl with a thousand invisible spiders, but he forced himself not to flinch. If he flinched, the King would mock him. If he fought back, the King would punish his father.

"Soft as silk, but a heart like iron," Aegon sneered affectionately, his fingers trailing down to pinch Maekar’s pale cheek. "He broke my bastard's nose, did you know that, Lothston? Put the older boy right in the dirt. Because he understands that power is taken, not asked for. Isn't that right, Maekar? We take what is ours. We crush those who speak against us."

Maekar swallowed the bile rising in his throat. "Yes, Your Grace," he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

"Good boy," Aegon laughed. He reached for his massive golden flagon and poured a generous measure of dark, heavy red into a jewel-encrusted goblet. He shoved it toward Maekar’s face. "Drink with your King, boy. A true ruler must learn to hold his wine. Your father drinks water like a peasant."

Maekar looked at the goblet. The wine looked like blood in the dim, fiery light. He hated the taste. It burned his throat and made his head spin dizzily. But the King’s dark, swollen eyes were fixed on him, filled with a cruel, expectant glee.

Maekar took the goblet with both hands. He didn't sip; he took a large gulp, trying to get it over with as quickly as possible.

The heavy wine hit the back of his throat like liquid fire. Maekar gagged, his small body violently rejecting the alcohol. He coughed, a harsh, hacking sound, spilling a few drops of red down his chin and onto his pristine tunic. His pale violet eyes watered profusely, stinging with the fumes.

The room erupted. The King threw his head back, his massive belly shaking with breathless, wheezing laughter. The lords joined in, slapping their knees and pointing at the choking eight-year-old prince.

"Look at him!" Aegon gasped, wiping a tear from his greasy cheek. "Fire in the belly! It burns, doesn't it, boy? Good! Pain makes a man. Pain makes a dragon! Learn to swallow the fire, Maekar, and you will breathe it on your enemies!"

Maekar wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand. His throat felt raw, and his chest ached from coughing, but he forced his breathing to slow. He stared back at the loose red thread on the tapestry.

I am doing this for them, he thought, gripping the velvet edges of his stool so hard his knuckles ached. If he is looking at me, he is not looking at Baelor. If he is laughing at me, he is not insulting Mother. I will take his wine. I will take his hands on my hair. 

For two agonizing hours, Maekar sat in the suffocating heat, enduring the petting, the cruel jests, and the forced sips of wine. He retreated deep inside his own mind, finding a quiet, cool place where Aerys was reading a story, Rhaegel was weaving a crown of flowers, and Baelor was smiling at him.

Finally, the King grew tired. He waved a dismissive, heavy hand. "Take the boy away. His silence bores me now. Send for the women."

The heavy oak doors groaned open, and Maekar stepped out into the cool, dim corridor.

The moment the doors clicked shut behind him, the invisible strings holding his spine perfectly straight seemed to snap. The eight-year-old swayed slightly, the heavy wine buzzing unpleasantly in his small head.

Before he could take another step, two strong hands caught him.

"I've got you," Baelor’s voice washed over him, deep, warm, and infinitely safe.

Maekar looked up into his older brother’s mismatched eyes, and the fortress he had built inside his mind instantly crumbled. His stoic mask shattered, his lower lip trembling as the exhaustion and disgust washed over him in a tidal wave.

Baelor didn't hesitate. He dropped to his knees right there on the cold stone floor and pulled Maekar into a fierce, crushing embrace. Maekar buried his face into the crook of Baelor’s neck, breathing in the scent of his brother, so vastly different from the sweat and sour wine of the King's solar.

"He made me drink it," Maekar whispered shakily, his small hands clutching the back of Baelor’s doublet. "He made me drink the wine, and they laughed. And he wouldn't stop touching my hair."

Baelor closed his eyes, his jaw locking so tightly it looked as though it might shatter. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the side of Maekar’s head. "I know, little brother. I know. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry."

Prince Daeron knelt beside them. He reached out, gently cupping Maekar’s chin and turning the boy's face toward him. Daeron’s eyes swept over the red wine stains on his son’s tunic, and the flushed, feverish look on Maekar’s pale cheeks. Daeron’s thumb brushed away a lingering drop of wine from Maekar's chin.

When Daeron spoke, his voice was terrifyingly calm, completely devoid of its usual softness. It was the voice of a dragon finally waking up.

"He wants to make you a monster, my sweet boy," Daeron said softly, looking deeply into Maekar’s pale violet eyes. "He wants to twist your bravery into cruelty. But he cannot. Do you know why?"

Maekar sniffled, shaking his head slightly against Baelor’s chest.

"Because you are surrounded by love," Daeron said, wrapping his arms around both of his sons, pulling them into a tight, united circle in the middle of the hallway. "And love is a magic that men like my father will never, ever understand."

Daeron pressed his forehead against Maekar's, his breath warm and steady.

"Listen to me, Maekar," Daeron vowed, his voice a vow of iron. "You have been so brave. You have shielded your brothers, and you have honored your mother. But I am your father, and it is my duty to shield you. I will not let this continue. I will find a way to make him stop. I will find a way to make him leave you alone. I swear it to you by the Old Gods and the New."

Baelor tightened his grip, his dark face resolute. "We are with you, Maekar. Always."

Maekar closed his eyes, the dizziness fading as the warmth of his father and his brother seeped into his bones. The King could have his gold, his throne, and his sycophants. Maekar didn't care. As long as the doors were closed, and he was back in the arms of his family, the King could never truly touch him.

The summons from the King became a twisted routine. Twice a week, the heavy doors of the royal solar would swallow eight-year-old Maekar, and twice a week, Baelor would stand vigil in the dim corridor outside. He was never alone. Sometimes their father paced the stones with a face carved from ice. Other times, it was their mother, Myriah, who sat on a wooden bench, her dark Dornish eyes closed in silent prayer while her hands worked a string of sun-shaped prayer beads. Even Aerys and Rhaegel would come, standing quietly beside Baelor. Aerys would hold a book he wasn't reading, and sweet Rhaegel would clutch a crushed rose in his small hands, waiting to give it to his brave younger brother.

When Maekar finally emerged from those doors, he always looked a little smaller, a little paler, and deeply, deeply unwell.

The wine was destroying him. Aegon found endless amusement in forcing the heavy red down the child’s throat, laughing until he wheezed when Maekar coughed and gagged. By the time Maekar was released, his pale violet eyes were glazed, his steps unsteady, and his stomach churning.

Worse were the nights.

Baelor would awaken in his sunlit chambers to the sound of a soft, frantic knocking at his door, followed by a quiet, hiccuping sob. Baelor would throw off his furs, unbolt the door, and find Maekar standing in the cold hallway, trembling like a leaf in the wind. The younger prince would be bathed in a cold sweat, his silver hair plastered to his forehead, fleeing the terrors of his own mind.

"I can't get it off," Maekar would weep, rubbing frantically at his own arms and face as Baelor pulled him into the room. "Baelor, I can't get it off, it's sticky, he's sticky..."

Baelor would draw a basin of warm water and gently wash Maekar’s face and hands, washing away the phantom touch of the King. Then, he would pull Maekar into his own large bed, wrapping his arms securely around the shivering boy. Maekar would bury his face against Baelor’s chest, hiding from the world, and eventually fall into a restless, twitching sleep. Baelor would stay awake for hours, staring at the canopy, listening to his brother's ragged breathing, and dreaming of the day he would be old enough to burn the King's sycophants to ash.

For Maekar, the solar had become a chamber of horrors.

He sat on his velvet stool, his back ramrod straight, staring fixedly at the familiar red thread on the tapestry. 

King Aegon had broken his promise to Prince Daeron.

There, perched upon the arm of the King's massive chair, was a woman. She wore almost nothing, her skin slick with sweat, laughing a high, grating laugh as  a lord made a crude jest.

Maekar’s chest tightened in sheer panic. His father had threatened to leave for Sunspear if the King brought his whores around Maekar. If Daeron found out, it would mean a war in the family. It would mean his mother would be in danger.

"Look at the boy," the King’s wet, gravelly voice rumbled.

A heavy, jeweled hand descended upon Maekar’s head. Maekar squeezed his eyes shut. He hated it. He hated it with a violent, consuming passion. The King's skin felt like a layer of grease—a slimy, suffocating film that seemed to seep through Maekar’s silver hair and burrow directly into his skull. The King stroked his hair, his fingers lingering on the back of Maekar's neck. It made Maekar feel physically ill, a deep, writhing revulsion that settled in his bones.

"He's shy today," the King sneered, taking another gulp of wine. "Open your eyes, boy. A dragon does not hide from the pleasures of the world."

"Let him be, Your Grace," the woman giggled, her voice thick and wet. She leaned closer, and Maekar could hear the rustle of her minimal silk clothing. She coughed and the putrid smell of sickness washed over Maekar’s face, mingling with the cheap perfume. "The little dragon is just a baby."

"He's more of a man than his father," Aegon mocked, his slimy hand trailing down to pet Maekar's cheek. "Aren't you, Maekar? Drink. "

A goblet was shoved against Maekar’s lips. With his eyes squeezed tightly shut, surrounded by the horrifying sounds of wet laughter, sloshing wine, and the rattling, sickly coughs of the woman, Maekar forced himself to swallow the burning liquid.

He felt the grease of the King's fingers on his skin. He felt the heat of the sick woman's breath on his face. He sat there in the dark of his own closed eyes, praying to the Seven that it would end soon.

Three days later, the fortress Maekar had built inside his mind finally gave way to the frailty of his eight-year-old body.

Baelor was the one who found him. He had walked into Maekar’s chambers to bring him to the yard, only to find his little brother crumpled on the floor beside his bed. Maekar’s skin was mottled shade of grey and red.

"Maekar!" Baelor had shouted, dropping his wooden practice sword and sliding to his knees. When he touched Maekar’s forehead, it was like touching the side of a boiling kettle.

Within the hour, the room was swarming with maesters. The Grand Maester ordered everyone out, his face grave and lined with fear. Baelor fought them. He fought two fully grown knights who had to drag the prince out of the room by his arms.

"Let me go!" Baelor roared, his mismatched eyes wild with terror as they pulled him over the threshold. "He needs me! He's scared of the dark! Let me go to him!"

"He has the pox, my Prince," the Grand Maester said grimly, tying a linen cloth over his own mouth and nose. "It is highly contagious, and deadly to children. He must be isolated immediately. No one enters."

The heavy wooden door slammed shut, and Baelor heard the sickening scrape of the iron bolt locking from the inside.

Baelor collapsed against the door, pressing his palms flat against the wood. Through the thick oak, he could hear Maekar weakly calling out in his delirium.

"I'm here, Maekar," Baelor choked out, tears streaming down his face. He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, pressing his ear to the crack. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving."

Prince Daeron did not go to Maekar’s door. When he heard the Grand Maester’s diagnosis, and learned that the illness had recently swept through the Street of Silk—specifically among the King's favorite brothels—something inside the gentle, scholarly Prince of Dragonstone irrevocably snapped.

Daeron did not request an audience. He did not wait for the Kingsguard to announce him.

He marched through the corridors of the Red Keep like a storm sweeping off the Narrow Sea. Knights stepped aside, terrified by the murder radiating from the usually mild-mannered prince. Daeron kicked the heavy doors of the King's solar open with such force that the wood splintered around the hinges.

Aegon was lounging in his massive chair, picking meat from his teeth, surrounded by his sycophants.

"Out," Daeron commanded. His voice wasn't a roar; it was a deadly, vibrating whisper that chilled the blood of every man in the room.

The others took one look at Daeron's face and practically trampled each other to flee the room, leaving the Prince alone with the King.

"Have you forgotten how to knock, Daeron?" Aegon wheezed, looking mildly annoyed. "Your manners are slipping."

Daeron crossed the room in three long strides, slammed both hands down on the arms of the King's chair, and leaned in so close their noses almost touched.

"My son is dying," Daeron hissed, his voice trembling with a rage so profound it seemed to shake the very stones of the keep. "He is covered in sores, burning alive with a whore's pox that you brought into this castle. You brought your filth near an eight-year-old boy, after I warned you."

Aegon blinked, his small eyes assessing his son. For a fleeting second, a glimmer of genuine surprise—and perhaps a twisted sort of respect—flashed in the King's bloated face. He had never seen Daeron look like a true Targaryen before. But the respect was quickly swallowed by Aegon's inherent, monstrous apathy.

"The pox?" Aegon chuckled, a wet, rattling sound, completely unfazed by the threat in his son's eyes. "Well, that is a shame. He had a strong right hook, that one. Looked like a proper Valyrian, too." The King shrugged his massive shoulders, reaching for his wine. "But, truth be told, the boy was starting to bore me. Just sits there with his eyes closed like a frightened little rabbit. Not much fun in that. I hope he doesn't die, but if he does... well, you and your Dornish toad can always breed another."

Daeron’s hands flexed. For one terrifying, silent heartbeat, he visualized wrapping his fingers around his father’s thick, greasy throat and squeezing the life from him.

Instead, Daeron pushed himself back, standing tall and utterly absolute.

"We are leaving," Daeron declared. His voice was no longer that of a son speaking to a father, but a Prince pronouncing a sentence. "The moment the maesters say Maekar is strong enough to be moved, I am taking my wife and my sons, and we are sailing for Dragonstone. We will not return to King's Landing while you draw breath. You can sit in your filth and rot, but you will never touch my family again."

Daeron turned his back on the King and walked toward the ruined doors.

"Go then!" Aegon shouted after him, throwing his goblet. It shattered against the stone, splashing red wine across the floor. "Run back to your rock, you spineless coward! The realm belongs to me!"

Daeron didn't even turn his head. He walked out, leaving the King alone with his spilled wine and his rotting court.

For fourteen agonizing days and nights, Maekar burned. His skin was covered in weeping sores, and his lungs felt tight and heavy. He tossed and turned in the sweat-soaked sheets, trapped in endless nightmares where sticky, heavy hands held him down, and sick, laughing faces pressed close to his own.

But through the darkness, anchoring him to the world of the living, was a voice.

Baelor refused to leave the corridor. Myriah brought him food, which he barely touched. Aerys brought his books, reading histories aloud so that his voice would carry under the gap in the door. Rhaegel sat silently, at the threshold every morning.

But Baelor was the constant.

"I'm here, Maekar," Baelor’s soothing voice would murmur through the heavy door whenever Maekar began to cry out in his delirium. "Fight it, little brother. You have to fight it. You're strong. You put Aegor in the dirt, remember? You can beat this."

Maekar would turn his head toward the door, his pale violet eyes hazy, drawing strength from his brother's voice.

"Father says we are leaving," Baelor whispered one night, his voice thick with emotion. "We're going to Dragonstone, Maekar. All of us. You, me, Aerys, Rhaegel, Mother, and Father. The air is clean there. It smells like salt and the sea. The King can never come there. He can never touch you again. You just have to wake up. Please, Maekar. Wake up so I can take you to the sea."

Inside the stifling, medicinal-smelling room, Maekar weakly curled his small, blistered fingers into the sheets.

Maekar forced his eyes open, fighting through the burning exhaustion. He couldn't die. He wouldn't give the King the satisfaction. He had to protect his brothers. He had to go to the sea with Baelor.

To Baelor, the wooden grain of the heavy door had become the entire world. He knew every knot, every scratch, every iron stud that held the formidable barrier together. For fourteen days, he had sat on the cold stone floor, his back pressed against it, listening to the agonizing sounds of his little brother fighting for his life.

The sound of the heavy iron bolt sliding backward sounded as loud as a thunderclap in the quiet corridor.

Baelor scrambled to his feet. The heavy door groaned inward, and the Grand Maester stepped out. The old man looked drained, his heavy chain of office clinking softly against his robes. He pulled the linen mask down from his face, letting out a long, ragged sigh.

"Grand Maester," Baelor rasped, his voice cracked and raw from disuse. He grabbed the old man by the sleeve, his grip desperate. "My brother. Tell me."

Munkun offered a weary, gentle nod. "The fever has broken, my Prince. The weeping has stopped, and the sores are beginning to scab over. It is a miracle of the Seven, but the worst has passed. He is weak, terribly weak, but... he is no longer highly contagious." The Maester held up a cautionary finger. "Though I would still recommend caution. His immune humors are frail, and we must not—"

Baelor didn't hear the rest of the sentence.

He shoved past the Grand Maester, uncaring of his royal dignity or the old man's warnings. 

No one, Baelor vowed fiercely in his mind, his heart hammering against his ribs, no one is ever going to separate us again. He is mine.

The air inside the chamber was stifling. It was thick with the sharp, bitter scent of medicinal herbs. The heavy curtains were drawn tight, casting the room in a gloomy light.

Baelor’s eyes immediately locked onto the massive four-poster bed in the center of the room.

Maekar looked so small. The eight-year-old was swallowed by the mountainous piles of white linens and furs. His normally pale skin was chalky and almost translucent, save for the angry, red, healing sores that dotted his face, neck, and arms. His silver hair, usually so fine and bright, was dull and plastered to his forehead with dried sweat.

But as Baelor crossed the room in hurried, frantic strides, Maekar’s eyelids fluttered. Slowly, the younger boy opened his eyes. They were sunken, ringed with deep, purple shadows of exhaustion, but that pale, vivid violet still shone through the darkness.

Maekar’s dry, cracked lips parted, and a tiny, fragile spark of pure joy illuminated his exhausted face.

"Baelor," Maekar breathed, his voice barely a rasping whisper.

Baelor fell to his knees beside the bed. A choked, ragged sob tore its way out of the older prince's throat. The iron-clad composure he had maintained for fourteen days finally shattered completely. He reached out with trembling hands to gather his brother into his arms.

"Don't!" Maekar croaked, suddenly shrinking back into the pillows, his small hands coming up to weakly push Baelor away. Fear widened the boy's violet eyes. "Baelor, no! You'll get sick. The pox... the Maester said—"

"I don't care," Baelor said fiercely, tears finally spilling over his dark lashes.

He ignored Maekar’s weak resistance, pushing the boy's small hands gently aside, and leaned directly over the mattress. Baelor placed his warm, dark hands gently but firmly on either side of Maekar’s face.

"I don't care," Baelor repeated, his voice vibrating with absolute, unyielding devotion. "If you had the Doom of Valyria in your blood, Maekar, I would still sit on this bed with you. I would never have left you. I tried to come in. The guards... Father's men... they barred the door. I fought them, Maekar, I fought them, but I couldn't break through."

"I know," Maekar whispered, tears welling up in his own eyes, tracing tracks down his fever-ravaged cheeks. "I heard you through the door. You stayed."

"Always," Baelor promised.

Baelor leaned down and pressed a long kiss to Maekar’s forehead, uncaring of the fever-sweat or the healing sores. When he pulled back, he didn't move his hands away. Instead, he began to gently caress Maekar’s face.

His thumbs swept over the hollows of Maekar’s cheeks, mapping the terrain of his brother's suffering. The pox had left its mark. Where Maekar’s skin had once been as smooth as polished marble, there were now dozens of small, indented red marks. The Maesters had warned that they would scar—permanent, pitted reminders of the disease that had nearly taken his life.

"Baelor, don't touch them," Maekar mumbled, trying to turn his face away in shame. "They're ugly. You shouldn't touch me. You'll get sick."

"Hush," Baelor murmured, his tone leaving no room for argument. He shifted closer, sitting on the very edge of the mattress so he could properly lean over his brother.

To prove his point, Baelor deliberately, tenderly ran his fingertips over the angry red marks on Maekar’s left cheek. He petted Maekar's silver hair, smoothing the tangled strands away from his face, his touch light, warm, and endlessly comforting. He wanted to overwrite the memory of the King's slimy, greasy hands with his own. He wanted Maekar to know that touch could be a sanctuary, not a cage.

"You are not ugly," Baelor said softly, leaning down to press a kiss to one of the healing marks on Maekar's cheek, and then another to his jaw. "You are the bravest person I know. These are the scars of a battle you won. You beat it, Maekar."

Maekar let out a shaky breath, finally relaxing into the pillows and leaning into Baelor’s warm hands. He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of his older brother's fingers stroking his hair. It didn't feel slimy.

"At least..." Maekar's voice was quiet, raspy, and laced with a dark bitterness. "At least the King won't want to look at me anymore. He only liked my pale face. He won't want a scarred dragon."

Baelor’s hands paused for a fraction of a second in Maekar's hair.

A surge of white-hot, murderous rage spiked through Baelor’s chest at the mention of their grandfather. The image of Aegon lounging in his solar, forcing wine and the presence of diseased whores upon an eight-year-old child, made Baelor want to draw his sword and march straight to the Throne Room.

But looking down at Maekar’s fragile, scarred face, Baelor forced the rage down, softening his expression and resuming his gentle petting of Maekar’s silver hair.

"He is never going to look at you again, Maekar," Baelor declared, his voice a steady, comforting rumble. "Scars or no scars. You will never set foot in that solar again."

Maekar opened his eyes, a flicker of doubt crossing his pale features. "He is the King. Father can't tell him no forever."

"Father already did," Baelor smiled, a fierce, proud smile that crinkled the corners of his mismatched eyes.

Baelor shifted, pulling the heavy furs down just enough to gather Maekar gently into his arms. He lifted his little brother's upper body, propping him up against his own broad chest, cradling Maekar securely. He kept one hand firmly wrapped around Maekar’s back, while his other hand continued to softly stroke the boy's scarred cheek and silver hair.

"While you were sleeping," Baelor told him, his voice filled with awe. "Father marched right into the King's solar. He didn't care who was there. He yelled at the King, Maekar. He screamed at him so loudly the Kingsguard outside the doors were trembling."

Maekar’s mouth parted in shock. "Father... yelled at the King?"

"He threatened him," Baelor confirmed, his chest swelling with pride. "He told grandfather that he was a poison. And he told him that the moment you were strong enough to leave this bed, we are leaving the Red Keep."

Maekar’s small hands grabbed the front of Baelor’s doublet, his knuckles turning white. "Leaving? To where?"

"Dragonstone," Baelor said, resting his chin gently on the top of Maekar's head. "All of us. Father, Mother, Aerys, Rhaegel, you, and me. We are going to pack our things, board a ship, and sail away from this rotting castle. Father told the King that he will never be allowed to touch you or any of our family ever again. We are going to the sea, little brother. Where the air is clean, and the King's men cannot reach us."

For a long moment, the only sound in the dim sickroom was the crackle of the hearth and Maekar’s ragged breathing.

Maekar buried his face into the fabric of Baelor’s doublet and began to weep. 

"I hate him," Maekar sobbed, his small, frail body shaking against Baelor's chest. "Baelor, I hate him so much. I hate grandfather."

"I know," Baelor whispered fiercely, his own tears falling freely into Maekar’s silver hair. He tightened his arms around his brother. "I hate him too, Maekar. I hate him for what he did to you. I hate him for making you suffer. But he has lost."

Baelor rocked Maekar slowly back and forth, entirely ignoring the stale smell of the sickroom and the warnings of the Maesters. He didn't care about the pox. He only cared about the boy in his arms.

"You just have to get strong now," Baelor murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of Maekar’s jaw, mapping the new scars that he would spend the rest of his life making sure Maekar never felt ashamed of. "Rest, Maekar. I'm going to sit right here. And when you wake up, I'm going to carry you to the ships myself."

Maekar was sitting up against a mountain of pillows, still terrifyingly frail. But the smell of sickness had been banished. The heavy curtains were finally thrown open, allowing the bright, golden morning sun to pour into the chamber.

At his side, where he had been for the last twenty-four hours, was Baelor. The prince had flatly refused to leave the bed, even to wash or change his own clothes. Baelor sat with his long legs stretched out over the blankets, his left arm wrapped securely around Maekar’s small shoulders, anchoring the younger boy against his side.

When the door swung open, the entire family poured in.

"My beautiful, brave boy," Myriah sobbed, her voice breaking the heavy silence.

Maekar’s mother rushed across the room, a vision of silks in vibrant oranges and reds. She threw herself onto the edge of the mattress. Myriah didn't hesitate, didn't flinch, and didn't stare at the angry red pockmarks that now dotted her youngest son's pale face. She buried her face in Maekar’s neck, her tears hot against his skin, smelling fiercely of sweet jasmine, sand, and oranges.

"Mother," Maekar croaked, his own eyes immediately welling with tears. He wrapped his thin, trembling arms around her neck, breathing in her scent, burying the last lingering nightmares of the King's sickly whores beneath the safety of her perfume.

Myriah kissed his forehead, his cheeks, and straight over the healing scars on his jaw. "You are safe. You are safe, my little dragon."

Because Baelor refused to let go, Myriah simply wrapped her arms around Baelor as well, pulling both of her sons into a desperate, crushing embrace.

Behind her stood Daeron. The prince looked as though he had aged ten years in the span of a fortnight. The deep lines of worry etched into his pale face softened instantly at the sight of Maekar sitting up. Daeron approached the bed, placing a warm, heavy hand on top of Maekar's silver head, his thumb gently brushing against Baelor's black hair at the same time.

"You fought a hard battle, Maekar," Daeron said, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I have never been prouder of you."

From behind Daeron's legs peeked Aerys and Rhaegel.

Aerys stepped forward and placed a heavy, leather-bound tome at the foot of the bed. "I saved the best chapters for you, Maekar," he promised quietly. "The voyages of the Sea Snake. I won't read a single word until you are strong enough to hear them."

Sweet, gentle Rhaegel came next. He held a crown of woven grass and roses. For a brief, terrifying second, Maekar tensed, worried that Rhaegel would look at his scarred face and pull away. But Rhaegel just smiled—a soft, luminous smile that reached his large violet eyes. He carefully reached out and set the flower crown atop Maekar's silver hair.

"For our champion," Rhaegel whispered.

Maekar’s bottom lip trembled. He looked around the room, from his mother's tear-stained olive face to his father's proud eyes, to his gentle brothers, and finally up to Baelor. He wasn't the scarred, ugly, broken thing the King had wanted to make him. He was Maekar Targaryen, and he was loved beyond measure.

Before the pox, Baelor had been a protective older brother. Now agony of listening to Maekar suffer behind a locked door, entirely unable to help him, had left a deep, indelible mark on Baelor’s soul.

He had made a silent vow to the Old Gods, the New Gods, and the Fourteen Flames of Valyria: No one will ever isolate him again. No one will ever touch him without my permission.

As the family rejoiced and the maesters finally began bringing proper, nourishing broths, Baelor became Maekar's shadow. He refused to let Maekar out of his grasp.

When Maekar was tired and needed to lie down, Baelor lay next to him, pulling the eight-year-old tightly against his chest, tucking Maekar’s silver head beneath his chin. When Maekar ate, Baelor sat propped against the headboard, his right hand gently petting the crown of Maekar’s hair, smoothing the silver strands with infinite devotion.

Maekar didn't fight it. In fact, he seemed to crave it.

Every time Baelor’s hand left his shoulder, Maekar would instinctively lean sideways, seeking the physical contact. The King had taught Maekar that touch was a slimy, disgusting tool of control and humiliation. Baelor was determined to overwrite that poison with unadulterated affection.

"Are you warm enough?" Baelor murmured, his eyes entirely focused on Maekar as he adjusted the heavy fur blanket over his brother's lap. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to Maekar’s scarred temple.

"I'm warm, Baelor," Maekar replied softly, leaning his head against Baelor's shoulder.

Aerys sat in a chair near the window, reading aloud, while Myriah directed servants who were suddenly bustling in and out of the room, carrying massive wooden trunks.

"Baelor, you should eat," Daeron said gently from the doorway, holding a plate of sliced apples and hard cheese. "You haven't left his side. You can step into the hall to breathe for a moment."

"I am breathing just fine here, Father," Baelor replied instantly, his tone polite but with steel. His hand tightened instinctively on Maekar’s arm, his thumb drawing slow, soothing circles on the younger boy's sleeve. "I am not leaving him."

Daeron offered a small, knowing smile, recognizing the fierce, protective dragon that had awakened in his eldest son. "Very well. But you will eat."

Maekar looked up at Baelor, his pale violet eyes shining with quiet gratitude. He reached out his small, thin hand and intertwined his fingers with Baelor’s larger, darker ones.

"Don't leave," Maekar whispered, squeezing his brother's hand.

Baelor brought Maekar’s hand up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the knuckles. "I'm right here, little brother. I'm not going anywhere."

For Maekar, the sounds of the room being packed were the sweetest music he had ever heard.

Every time a trunk snapped shut, it felt as though a heavy iron chain was being struck from his chest. The servants were working with a frantic, joyful energy, stripping the tapestries from the walls and packing the boys' clothing, books, and wooden training swords.

"The ships are provisioned, my Prince," a captain of the household guard reported to Daeron, standing at attention near the doorway. "The winds are blowing. We can sail on the evening tide."

"Excellent," Daeron nodded, a fierce energy radiating from him. He turned to his wife. "Myriah, are the boys' things secured?"

"Everything is ready, Daeron," she answered, her dark eyes flashing with a defiant spark. "Let King's Landing rot without us."

Maekar felt his heart leap into his throat. They were truly leaving. He would not have to walk past the King's solar again. He would not have to smell the sour wine or feel the greasy, suffocating hands on his skin. 

"Are you ready to fly, little dragon?" Baelor asked, leaning down so his dark hair brushed against Maekar’s cheek. He pressed a soft kiss behind Maekar’s ear, his arm still wrapped firmly around the boy's waist.

"I'm ready," Maekar breathed, his pale eyes burning with a sudden, fierce vitality. "I want to go right now."

When the time came to leave, Maekar insisted on walking.

His legs were weak, trembling like newborn foal's the moment his boots hit the stone floor. But he set his jaw, a stubborn, unyielding fire burning in his eyes. 

Baelor, of course, made it possible. He did not hover anxiously; he simply became Maekar's crutch. Baelor wrapped his strong right arm securely around Maekar’s waist, taking almost all of the younger boy's weight, while his left hand tightly held Maekar’s own. They walked perfectly in sync, side-by-side, the dark, Dornish-looking prince physically holding up the pale, Valyrian-looking one.

Prince Daeron led the way, his head held high, looking every inch a King in waiting. Princess Myriah walked beside him, holding Aerys and Rhaegel by the hand. And bringing up the rear, guarded by their own loyal sworn shields, were Baelor and Maekar.

As they walked through the great halls, courtiers stopped and stared. They whispered behind their hands, taking in the sight of the Crown Prince's family abandoning the capital. Some looked with pity at Maekar's scarred face; others looked with apprehension at the murderous, protective glare Baelor aimed at anyone who dared step too close.

"Don't look at them," Baelor murmured into Maekar’s hair, his lips brushing the silver strands as they moved down the grand staircase. 

When they finally stepped out of the heavy iron gates of the Red Keep and into the open courtyard, the late afternoon sun hit Maekar's face.

They climbed into the waiting wheelhouse, Baelor gently lifting Maekar up the steps so the younger boy wouldn't strain himself. Once inside the plush, swaying carriage, Maekar slumped against the cushioned seat, entirely spent.

Immediately, Baelor slid in beside him. He pulled Maekar sideways, arranging the boy so that Maekar’s head rested in his lap. Baelor wrapped his velvet cloak over Maekar to ward off the evening chill, and then, as naturally as breathing, his hand went to Maekar’s hair.

As the carriage lurched forward, beginning the descent toward the docks and the waiting ships, Baelor’s fingers began their slow petting. He traced the shell of Maekar's ear, smoothed the silver hair away from his forehead, and rested his palm warmly against the scarred cheek.

Maekar closed his eyes, lulled by the sway of the carriage and the perfect safety of his brother's touch.