Chapter Text
Baelor woke to the scent.
Both of them at once, hitting the air like a door being thrown open. Alpha and omega, sharp and sweet, flooding the corridor outside their chambers with a potency that dragged him from sleep before his mind had caught up with his body. Beside him Maekar was already sitting up, his hand on Baelor's arm, his eyes wide in the dark.
"The twins," Maekar said.
They were out of bed and down the corridor before either of them had thought to grab a robe. The scent was stronger here, thick enough to taste, two children presenting simultaneously and the pheromones tangling together in a way that was not two separate scents but one, already intertwined, already answering each other.
Baelor tried the handle, locked. He looked at Maekar, who looked back at him. The same thought arriving at the same time, the same dread.
"Daeron," Maekar called through the door. His voice barely controlled. "Open the door."
Nothing.
"Valarr." Baelor's voice. The crown prince voice, the one that commanded councils. "Open this door. Now."
A sound from inside, some movement followed by a long pause. Then the lock turning.
Valarr opened the door. He was standing in front of them, shirtless, his dark hair damp with sweat, his mismatched eyes wide and glassy with something that was not quite fear and not quite defiance. He smelled like alpha. Brand new, raw, the scent not yet settled into what it would become, still sharp and uncontrolled.
Behind him, on the bed, Daeron. Silver hair spread across the pillow, flushed, his violet eyes bright and wet, smelled strongly of omega. Sweet and warm and new, and underneath it the unmistakable scent of his brother, already layered into his skin.
And on their necks were bond bites, fresh enough it was still bleeding.
Maekar made a sound. Small, sharp, the intake of breath before the fury arrived. He pushed past Valarr into the room and went to Daeron, his hands on his son's face, tilting his neck to see the mark, and the sound he made when he saw it was not anger. It was grief.
"What have you done," Maekar said, to both of them.
Baelor stood in the doorway.
He had not moved, had not spoken since the door opened. He was looking at his sons, at the bond bites, at the way Valarr had positioned himself between the door and the bed, between the world and Daeron, the specific posture of an alpha who had claimed something and was prepared to defend it.
"Baelor," Maekar said, his voice shaking. "For fuck’s sake, say something."
Baelor looked at Valarr. At his own face on a boy of only ten and four, the dark curls and the mismatched eyes and the jaw set in the exact way Baelor's jaw set when he had made a decision and would not be moved from it. At the boy who had watched his father love his mother with a totality that left no room for anything else and had learned that this was what love looked like. All or nothing, consuming, permanent.
"Go to your room, Valarr," Baelor said.
"Kepa-"
"Now."
Valarr looked at Daeron, Daeron looked back. The glance that contained an entire conversation, the twin language, except now it carried something heavier, something that could not be unlocked.
"He stays with me," Valarr said.
"He stays here. You go to your room, we will speak in the morning."
"I am not leaving him."
"Valarr." Baelor's voice did not rise. It did not need to. "You have done something tonight that cannot be undone, you do not get to demand more!”
Valarr flinched at that, and Baelor calmed down a little. He knew the effects of a bond bite, let alone one that is so new. He would have clawed anyone that would have tried to separate him from Maekar when they mated.
“You will see your brother in the morning” He sighed. ”He is safe, your dame is with him. Go, Valarr."
Valarr went. He looked back three times in the length of the corridor and Baelor watched him look and saw himself, fifteen years ago, walking away from Maekar through a panel, looking back.
Maekar was on the bed with Daeron, holding him. Daeron was crying quietly, not from pain but from the overwhelm of it, the presenting and the bonding and the scent and the newness of all of it arriving at once. Maekar was murmuring to him, his hand in Daeron's silver hair, and Baelor stood in the doorway and watched them and could not go in.
Because the thing he was feeling was not anger and not grief, but recognition.
He had done this. He had shown them what love looked like, every day, for fourteen years. Had shown them that love was consuming, total, ungovernable. That love was two people who could not be in a room without the room rearranging itself around them. That love was choosing each other above everything else, above duty, above propriety, above the cost.
And his sons had learned the lesson perfectly.
He went to the solar, sat in the dark and contemplated how it had gotten this far.
They were ten and four, and bonded, and it could not be undone. The court would need to be told, the king would need to be managed. The implications for the succession would need to be addressed. All of this sat on the desk in front of him, the practical machinery of consequence, and Baelor could not touch any of it because underneath it was the thing he could not say to anyone, which was that his sons had become him.
Maekar found him before dawn. Stood in the doorway of the solar the way Baelor had stood in the doorway of Daeron's room, not quite able to enter.
"Daeron is sleeping," Maekar said. "Valarr is restless but he promised he would not visit Daeron, not without our approval."
Baelor nodded.
"We need to talk about what happens next."
"I know."
Maekar came into the room, sat beside him in the dark.
"This is not your fault," Maekar said.
Baelor said nothing.
"Baelor, look at me. This is not your fault."
"They are us, Maekar." His voice quiet, stripped. "They watched us and they became us. We showed them that kind of love, and they learned it and now they are too young and already bonded. And it is because of what we built."
"It is because they love each other."
"They are ten and four. They do not know what love is. They think they do because they have watched us and they have mistaken proximity for permanence. They have made a decision that cannot be undone based on something they observed, not something they understand."
The solar was quiet. Maekar's hand found Baelor's in the space between them and held it.
"We did not teach them wrong," Maekar said.
"We taught them to bond without thinking. To choose with their bodies before their minds had caught up. That is what they saw and that is what they did."
"That is not what they saw."
"It is exactly what they saw, Maekar. We are not measured, we are consuming and they learned that love looks like throwing yourself into something with your entirety and now they have thrown themselves and they are children-"
"They are not children." Maekar's voice sharpened. "And I will not sit here and listen to you suggest that what they feel is not real because they are young."
"I am not suggesting-"
"You are. You are saying they do not know what love is. You are saying they only think they know because of us, that they are simply mimicking something they do not understand." Maekar pulled his hand free. "I was younger than them when I knew. I was younger than them when I wanted you so badly I could not breathe for it. Are you going to tell me I did not know what I wanted either?"
Baelor was quiet.
"I knew," Maekar said. "I knew before I had words for it. And you knew too. Do not sit in this solar and tell me our sons are too young to know their own hearts when we were younger and knew ours."
"It is different."
"How."
"Because we-" Baelor stopped. Because the sentence did not have an ending that was not hypocrisy.
"Because we are us and they are children?" Maekar said. "They are our children, Baelor. They are not fools. Do not insult them by pretending they do not know what they feel because it frightens you that they feel it."
The dark pressed in around them. Baelor sat with the words and the weight of them and the specific discomfort of a man whose own argument had been dismantled by the person who knew him best.
"I am frightened," Baelor said. The admission costing him.
"I know." Maekar's hand found his again. "So am I. But being frightened does not mean they are wrong. It means we are parents."
Baelor looked at him. At the man he had loved since he was a child himself, sitting beside him in the dark, holding his hand, comforting him.
"What do we do," Baelor said.
"We do what our father did," Maekar said. "We hold the realm together with one hand and our family with the other and we do not let go of either."
"He had considerably less chaos to manage."
"He had us, and two broken betrothals. I think we qualify."
Baelor almost smiled, almost. The weight was still there, the recognition, the guilt. But Maekar's hand was in his and the morning was coming and their sons were alive and bonded and the world had not ended.
It had just rearranged itself, again.
Maekar noticed the pillow first.
It was not in Matarys's bed, it was not in the nursery or the solar or any of the places a pillow belonging to an eight year old might reasonably be found. It was in Rhaegel's chambers, on the chair by the window, the chair that had become Matarys's chair through the slow, quiet process of a child claiming territory without announcing it.
The books had migrated first. One at a time, carried under a small arm, deposited on Rhaegel's shelf beside Rhaegel's own collection. Then the wooden knight, the one Aerion claimed Aemon had stolen but which had in fact been relocated to Rhaegel's desk. Then the blanket, then the pillow.
Maekar stood in the doorway of Rhaegel's chambers and looked at the chair with the pillow and the blanket and the books and the wooden knight and understood that his son had been moving out of his life one object at a time and he had not noticed until the bed was half empty.
Matarys was there now, sitting in the chair with his feet tucked under him, reading something Rhaegel had given him, while Rhaegel sat at his desk writing correspondence with the easy silence of two people who did not require conversation to be comfortable. They looked like a painting. The quiet uncle and the quiet nephew, matched in temperament.
Matarys looked up when Maekar appeared. "Muña," he said. Warmly, not guiltily. The warmth of a child who loved his dame and was happy to see him and was also exactly where he wanted to be.
"Dinner is soon," Maekar said. "Wash your hands."
"Yes, muña."
Matarys unfolded himself from the chair and left, touching Rhaegel's arm as he passed..
Rhaegel looked up from his correspondence and looked at Maekar in the doorway, assessing his younger brother.
"He has been here all afternoon," Maekar said, not as a question.
"He is happy here," Rhaegel replied.
"I can see that."
Maekar did not leave the doorway immediately. He stood there looking at the chair with his son's things in it and felt something shift in his chest, not suddenly but with the slow grinding weight of a thing he had been refusing to look at.
He left, went to his own chambers and sat on the bed.
His son preferred Rhaegel's rooms to his own. His son carried his books and his pillow and his blanket to his uncle's chambers and sat there every afternoon and read in silence and was happy, was visibly, unmistakably happy, in a way that Maekar was not sure Matarys ever was elsewhere. And the reason was not complicated, the reason was simple and brutal and sat in Maekar's chest like a stone.
Rhaegel had space, space in his silence, space in his attention, space that Maekar did not have. Rhaegel was not married to a man managing a kingdom, nor was he busy between feeding a baby or mediating between seven other children. Rhaegel was simply there, fully, quietly, with enough space for a boy who needed space.
And Maekar was not.There had never been enough of him, he had suspected this, had felt it in the guilty arithmetic of bedtimes and braids and the specific way his attention swung to Baelor when Baelor entered a room, involuntary, like a compass finding north, and every time it swung, it swung away from someone.
Matarys had noticed. Matarys, who was too quiet and too observant and did not demand, had simply found the person who had room and gone there. Not in anger, not in protest. With the efficiency of a child solving a problem the adults had not acknowledged.
Maekar pressed his hands against his face, breathed out slowly in an attempt to not let the tears in his eyes fall.
He was a bad parent; the thought ugly and total and sitting in his chest. He had eight children and one of them had moved into his uncle's chambers because his dame did not have enough room for him and Maekar had not even noticed the pillow was gone.
Rhaegel found him, of course Rhaegel found him. The brother who appeared without announcement and sat without requiring anything. He sat beside Maekar on the bed, did not speak, just waited.
"He prefers you," Maekar said, his voice flat.
"He is comfortable with me."
"That is the same thing." Maekar snapped.
"It is not." Rhaegel looked at him, a small smile on his face. "He loves you, Maekar. He loves Baelor. He loves his brothers and his sisters. He is not replacing you, he has simply found someone who has room for the kind of quiet he needs, and that is not a failing of yours. It is something I can offer because my life is shaped differently than yours."
"I should be enough."
"You are enough, you are more than enough. But enough does not mean all, and Matarys needing something you cannot give him is not a measure of your failing. It is a measure of his knowing what he needs." Rhaegel paused. "No one can be perfect Maekar, not even you.”
Maekar sat with that. With the words and the weight of them and the specific, gentle precision of a brother who had always known exactly what to say and exactly when to say it.
"You are his favourite person," Maekar said.
"I am his uncle who has a comfortable chair and good books. That is a lower line to cross than you think."
"Rhaegel."
"He asked me yesterday what your favourite flower was," Rhaegel said. "Because he wants to pick some for you. He spent an hour discussing which ones you would like best. He is not leaving you, Maekar. He is simply sitting in my chair. Let him sit and keep his uncle company."
Maekar's eyes burned and the tears came, streaming freely down his cheeks before he could stop them. Rhaegel looked at him and laughed. Actually laughed, the quiet huff of a man who had just watched his brother spiral into existential crisis over a pillow.
"Do not laugh at me," Maekar said, wiping his face furiously, and Rhaegel laughed louder.
Maekar had fallen asleep in the nursery again.
Rhae was three months old and had the talent of falling asleep only when held, only when fed, and only when Maekar was too exhausted to move afterward. The chair in the nursery had become Maekar's second bed. His silver hair was loose, undone from the braid that Baelor had put in that morning, pooling over one shoulder and down the arm of the chair.
Aerion found him like that.
Eleven years old and quiet for once, standing in the doorway of the nursery watching his dame sleep with the baby on his chest. The keep was busy. It had been busy for weeks. The twins and their bonding were still the subject of every conversation, Matarys had all but moved into Rhaegel's rooms, Aemon was six and doing something with the maester that everyone agreed was very impressive, Aegon was four and required constant supervision. Daella was two and had learned to climb.
And Aerion was fine, Aerion was always fine. Aerion did not need anything.
He looked at his mother's hair. Long, silver, hanging over the arm of the chair. The hair his father braided every morning. The hair that was nothing like his own, which was kept short, cut close because Aerion's hair had a talent for collecting twigs and mud and whatever else his mischief dragged him through, and after the third time the maester had to cut a burr out of a matted knot, they had all agreed short was simpler.
He did not think about what he was doing. That was the truth of it, he did not plan it, did not calculate it, did not weigh the consequences. He crossed the room and gathered the silver hair in one hand and cut it with the blade he had stolen from Valarr.
The braid came away in his fist. Long and silver and heavy and Aerion stood there holding it and looked at what he had done and felt two things at once. The sharp, cold shock of it, the irreversibility. And something else underneath, quieter, that he would not have been able to name if asked.
His dame’s hair was long and silver and beautiful, the same silver as Aerion's own, but where Maekar's was long enough to be braided, Aerion's was not. Every morning his sire sat behind his dame and braided, and every morning his sire sat behind Daeron and braided, and Matarys, and Daella's wispy curls, and even Aegon who squirmed. Every morning Aerion watched his siblings receive the thing he could not, the quiet intimacy of their sire’s hands in their hair, the closeness of it, and went to breakfast with his short hair that no one needed to touch.
He wanted his dame to look like him, just once. To have the same short hair that did not need braiding, that did not get the morning ritual, that was just there, simple and unremarkable. And maybe, somewhere underneath, a part of him knew that cutting his dame’s hair while he slept was the kind of thing that would get him noticed. Really noticed, not just the passing glance between crises, not the automatic correction at the dinner table, but the full, undivided attention of a parent dealing with something only Aerion had done.
Even if that attention was fury. Fury was better than fine, anger meant someone was looking.
Maekar woke up, and something felt wrong. The movement of the hair, the absence of the weight, something. His eyes opened and he saw Aerion standing beside the chair with a blade in one hand and a silver braid in the other and for a long moment neither of them spoke.
"Aerion," Maekar said, voice very calm in the way that preceded storms.
"I wanted us to match," Aerion said. Holding up the braid, his voice smaller than he meant it to be.
Maekar's hand went to his head. Found the ragged edge where the braid had been. Felt the length of what was left, barely past his jaw, uneven and rough. His face went through several things at once. The anger arrived first, hot and immediate. Then the shock, then something else, looking at Aerion's face, at the scissors, at the braid held out like an offering.
"You wanted us to match," Maekar repeated.
"Your hair is always long and mine is short and I thought if yours was short too then we would-" He stopped, the sentence dying. Aerion realising, mid explanation, that the logic that had made sense in the doorway did not make sense out loud.
Rhae stirred on Maekar's chest. Maekar looked down at the baby, then up at Aerion, then at the braid in his hand.
"Give me the blade," Maekar said.
Aerion handed them over, with an expression of a boy bracing for the worst.
Maekar set the blade on the table beside the chair, and looked at Aerion. At the silver hair cut short. At the face that was, of all his children, the most like his own. The same sharp jaw, the same violet eyes, the same expression of stubbornness. Of all of them, Aerion was the one who already matched, and they both knew it. The hair had never been the problem.
"Come here," Maekar said.
Aerion came, slowly, still bracing for something. Maekar shifted Rhae to one arm and pulled Aerion up to his lap with the other, and Aerion fit because he was still small enough to fit, his build smaller than most his age.
"You could have asked me," Maekar said, into Aerion's hair.
"You would have said no."
"I would have said no," Maekar agreed. "And then you could have argued and I could have argued back and we could have had a proper fight about it instead of you ambushing me in my sleep with scissors."
"I am sorry, muña." Aerion mumbled into his chest, his arm circling Maekar’s neck.
"No you are not." Maekar scoffed. "You are sorry you got caught."
"That counts." Aerion replied, and Maekar huffed in amusement. The boy is going to be trouble, he thought to himself.
Maekar held him, the baby on one side, Aerion on the other, the cut braid on the floor. His hair was ruined, the braid Baelor put in every morning was gone. The length he had carried for years, the hair Baelor had forbidden him from cutting, was lying on the nursery floor because his child had wanted to match.
"We do match, you know," Maekar said, quietly. "Not the hair perhaps, but you have my stubbornness and my temper and my complete inability to do anything the easy way when the difficult way is available."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It is an observation, take it as you will."
Aerion pressed his face against Maekar's shoulder. The boy who was always fine, who never needed anything, who filled rooms with noise because noise was better than the silence of not being noticed, tucked against his mother's side in a nursery chair, and for once, being quiet.
Baelor found Maekar in their chambers that evening.
He was standing in front of the mirror, turning his head slowly, assessing. He had gone to get the jagged mess Aerion left behind evened out into something deliberate. The silver hair was short now, sitting just above his jaw, showing the line of his neck and the sharp angle of his cheekbones in a way the long hair had always softened. He looked different. Not worse, not better. Just different, and he was studying the difference the way he studied everything, critically, with no intention of being kind to himself about it.
"I heard," Baelor said, leaning in the doorway.
"The entire keep heard, Aerion is not subtle."
"Are you all right?"
"It is just hair," Maekar shrugged, not convincingly. “It will grow.”
Baelor crossed the room, and stood behind him. Their eyes meeting in the mirror, Maekar's violet and Baelor's mismatched, the two of them framed together the way they had been framed together for twenty years except something was different now and they were both looking at it.
"He wanted to match," Maekar said.
"I know. He told me, in considerable detail, with several dramatic pauses."
Maekar was quiet, Baelor's hands came up to his shoulders and settled there. The warm, steady weight of them.
"You like my hair long."
"I did, I do." Baelor's hands moved from his shoulders to his neck. His fingers brushing the short ends, the edges of it. Then lower, to the nape, to the bond bite, sitting there exposed and unhidden, the skin around it bare for the first time since the bite had been given.
His thumb traced the mark, slowly. The way he always traced it, except now there was no hair in the way, no silver curtain to push aside, just skin and the mark and his thumb and Maekar watched his face in the mirror and saw something shift.
"What," Maekar said.
"Nothing."
"Your scent is doing something." Maekar turned to face him, a brow raised. "You like it."
Baelor's hand was still on the nape. His thumb still on the bond bite, his eyes dark in a way that had nothing to do with the candlelight.
"I liked the long hair," Baelor said. "I liked braiding it, I liked the weight of it in my hands."
"But?"
"But this." His thumb pressed against the bite. "I can see it now, all of it. Without moving anything. And everyone will be able to see it. Mine."
"You are unbelievable." Maekar scoffed, turning back to look at the mirror. "Our son took a blade to my hair while I was sleeping and you are standing here getting aroused by the result."
"I am not aroused, I am appreciating."
"Your appreciation smells like bad intentions."
Baelor smiled. His hand still on the nape, still on the bite, and Maekar was looking at him in the mirror with the expression of a man who had had the longest day of his life and was now being told his husband found the aftermath attractive and could not decide whether to hit him or kiss him.
"Rich, coming from the person who bit my throat," Baelor replied, and chuckled when Maekar reacted the exact way he expected, which was to turn pink.
"Shut up."
Baelor leaned in. His mouth finding the bond bite the way it always found the bond bite, except there was no hair to push aside now, no curtain to navigate, just his lips on the mark, direct, unhesitant, and Maekar's eyes closed and his breath caught the way it always caught.
Maekar turned in his arms. Looked at him. At the man who had braided his hair for twenty years and was now looking at the absence of it with an expression that suggested the absence was not entirely unwelcome.
"You are impossible," Maekar said, shaking his head as he turned to walk away.
"And you are beautiful," Baelor said, catching his wrist and pulling him back, turning him until Maekar's back was against the dressing table and Baelor's arms were on either side of him, palms flat on the wood, pinning him there without touching him. "With the long hair and the short hair and no hair at all. You have always been beautiful and Aerion's blade do not change that."
Baelor's gentle smile remained, but his eyes held a darker promise. He kept his gaze locked on Maekar's as he slowly lowered himself to his knees on the floor before him.
"Baelor, what-" Maekar's words faltered as Baelor's hands moved to the laces of his braies, his intent unmistakable.
"Let me show you," Baelor whispered, his voice a low rumble. “How beautiful you are.” He finished with the laces, his gaze never leaving Maekar's face as he slowly peeled the garment down his hips. Maekar's cock, already hard, sprang free, jutting proudly from his body.
Baelor leaned in, not taking him into his mouth, but burying his face against the sensitive skin of Maekar's inner thigh. He inhaled deeply, a sound of pure contentment escaping him. He pressed a soft, open mouthed kiss to the skin there, then another, lower, his lips tracing a path of fire towards the source of his scent. He bypassed Maekar's straining cock, instead pressing his face against the slick, heated folds of his cunt.
Maekar cried out, his hands flying to Baelor's hair, his fingers digging into the brown curls. The feeling of Baelor's breath against him, so close yet not touching, was exquisite torture.
"Please," Maekar begged.
Baelor looked up at him, his dark eyes pools of adoration. "As you wish." He replied, as he grabbed Maekar’s left thigh and placed it over his shoulder, opening Maekar to him.
Then he leaned in and his tongue was on him. Baelor licked him with focus, tasting his slick, exploring his folds, before finally, delving inside. Maekar's head fell back, a loud moan tearing from his throat as Baelor began to fuck him with his tongue, a slow, deep, rhythmic thrust that left him trembling and weak.
He was so lost in the sensation that he didn't notice Baelor's hand moving until it wrapped around his cock, stroking him in time with the thrusts of his tongue. The stimulation was overwhelming, not knowing to push to the tight, wet heat of Baelor's mouth on his entrance, or to the firm, knowing grip on his cock. It was too much, and not nearly enough.
"Baelor, please," Maekar gasped, his hips rocking uncontrollably. "I need- I need you inside me."
Baelor pulled back, his lips glistening with Maekar's slick. He rose slowly, and captured Maekar's lips in a deep kiss, letting him taste himself on his tongue. He lifted him effortlessly, and Maekar wrapped his legs around Baelor's waist, his arms around his neck.
Baelor carried him to the bed, laying him down on the furs as if he were something precious. He stood over him for a moment, his eyes roaming over Maekar's body, from his shorn head to his flushed, weeping cock. Then he began to undress. His tunic, his breeches, each piece removed with a slow, deliberate grace that was more arousing than any hurried fumbling.
When he was finally naked, Maekar's breath caught. Baelor was all muscle and olive skin, still the same as it ever was, unlike his own that has gained softer curves from all the children. Baelor’s cock was heavy and thick, jutting out from a nest of dark curls, the head flushed a deep, angry red with arousal. Maekar felt another gush of slick escape him just from the sight of his husband.
Baelor knelt on the bed between Maekar's spread legs, not moving to enter him, but simply looking. He reached out, his hand tracing the line of Maekar's hip, his thumb stroking the soft skin there.
"Tell me what you want," Baelor said, his voice a low growl.
"You," Maekar breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "All of you."
Baelor leaned over him, bracing his weight on his forearms. He positioned himself at Maekar's entrance, the hot, blunt head of his cock pressing against his slick, swollen folds. He didn't push inside, just held himself there, letting Maekar feel his weight, his heat, his want.
"Look at me," Baelor commanded softly. "Eyes on me, Maekar."
Maekar forced his eyes open, meeting Baelor's intense gaze. He watched as Baelor slowly began to push inside. The stretch was exquisite, a slow, delicious burn that had him gasping. He watched Baelor's face, and saw nothing but raw, unguarded desire there.
Baelor sank into him inch by inch, until he was fully seated, his hips flush against Maekar's. He held himself there, letting Maekar adjust, letting them both savor the moment.
"You feel so good," Baelor groaned, his head dropping to Maekar's shoulder. "So perfect."
He began to move, his strokes slow and deep, a languid, possessive rhythm that hit that spot inside him with every thrust. Maekar wrapped his legs tighter around Baelor's waist, his hips rising to meet him, their bodies moving together perfectly.
The room was filled with the sounds of soft slap of skin on skin, their ragged breaths, their whispered words of praise and endearment. Baelor's hand moved between them, wrapping around Maekar's cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts.
The pressure built, a slow, sweet warmth that started in his core and spread through his entire body. He could feel Baelor's control beginning to fray, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic.
"Baelor," Maekar gasped, his nails digging into Baelor's back. "I'm- I'm close."
"Let go for me," Baelor growled, his teeth nipping at Maekar's earlobe. "My sweet Maekar."
The words, the feel of Baelor's cock pounding into him, the tight grip on his own, it was all too much. With a sharp cry, Maekar peaked, his release striping their stomachs, his body clenching around Baelor's cock in a series of powerful, rhythmic pulses.
Baelor followed him over the edge with a deep groan, his own release flooding Maekar's insides. He collapsed on top of him, his weight a welcome, grounding presence, his face buried in the crook of his neck, his knot locking them together.
For a long time, they just lay there, their bodies tangled together, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Baelor shifted, rolling them onto their sides. He simply held Maekar, his arms wrapped tightly around him, his lips pressing soft, lazy kisses to his shoulder and his neck.
Daeron was at his desk, reading correspondence, and he looked up when Baelor entered with the expression of a man who had been expecting this visit and had been mildly entertained by how long it had taken.
"The twins," Baelor said.
"Yes," Daeron said. "I heard."
"They are too young."
"You were younger, if I recall. Your brother even more so."
"We did not bond at ten and four."
"No. You waited for two betrothals then rode through a storm. I am not sure that was the improvement you think it was."
Baelor opened his mouth, and closed it.
Daeron set down his correspondence. Leaned back in his chair, and laughed, the full one, the one that shook his shoulders and crinkled his eyes and made him look ten years younger. The laugh of a father who had spent decades raising sons who were determined to give him grief and had finally, at long last, found it funny.
"It is not amusing," Baelor said.
"It is deeply amusing." Daeron wiped his eyes. "You came to my solar with the same face, the exact same face I probably had. I wish your mother could see it."
"Father-"
"You gave me grey hair, Baelor. You and your brother gave me grey hair and sleepless nights and a month where I had to hold the realm together while you rode south to be romantic. And now your sons have done the same to you and you are standing in my solar looking exactly the way I felt and I am sorry but I am going to enjoy this."
Baelor sat down, put his face in his hands.
"What do I do," he said.
Daeron looked at his eldest son, at the man who carried the crown and the kingdom and eight children, who was sitting in a chair asking his father for help the way he had not asked for in a long while.
"You do what I did," Daeron said, the laughter fading into something warmer. "You hold the realm close and your family closer."
He paused.
"And you accept that your children will make you old, that is the price and it is worth paying."
Baelor looked up. "Was it worth it? With us?"
Daeron looked at him for a long moment, at his son, who had given him more trouble than any king deserved and more joy than any father had a right to expect.
"Every grey hair," Daeron said. "Every single one."