Work Text:
The wildfire had clung to Aerion.
Even in death, it clung.
The smell of it—sharp, metallic, sickly sweet—had soaked into the stones of Red Keep and into Maekar’s lungs alike. Three years had passed since the Trial of Seven at Ashford Meadow. Three years since he had swung a mace in righteous fury and struck down his brother by cruel mischance. Three years since fate had carved its first wound into his chest.
And now there were more.
Daeron, his firstborn, his proud alpha son—dead in a pool of his own vomit and wine. 22 years old. Too young. Too bright. Maekar could still hear the laughter, slurred and reckless, could still see the golden cup tipping in careless fingers.
Aerion—his beautiful, volatile boy—had died screaming that he was a dragon.
Wildfire had turned his flesh to blackened ruin.
Maekar had been there. Had smelled it. Had watched the green flames swallow the son he had carried beneath his heart for nine moons. The son who had clung to his skirts as a child and called him muña in a whisper so soft it broke him.
Wildfire did not leave bones.
Only ash.
Now the halls of the Red Keep were quiet. Too quiet. Rhae and Daella moved like ghosts. Aegon’s laughter had grown cautious. Aemon wrote stiff, careful letters from the Citadel that tried too hard not to mention grief.
Maekar had not wept in front of them.
He had wept alone.
Alone in his chambers.
Alone with the weight of every mistake.
He had failed them.
Failed Daeron, who drank to drown shadows Maekar never saw.
Failed Aerion, whose madness had grown like rot while Maekar was too busy being a prince, a warrior, a father of many, never simply a muña.
He had failed Baelor most of all.
Baelor Breakspear. His noble brother. The man he had killed with one swing of iron.
Maekar sat before the hearth in the darkness, wrists resting on his knees. The dagger lay on the table beside him. A simple thing. Steel. Clean.
There was no wildfire for him.
No wine.
No battlefield.
Just a blade and a choice.
His body had given life six times. It had endured heat and ache and the tearing burn of childbirth. It had survived grief, humiliation, war. But it could not survive this.
He pressed the blade to his left wrist first.
It hurt less than he expected.
A sharp pull, then warmth. Blood welled, dark and steady.
He did the other.
The red spread across his palms, slipping down his fingers.
It felt… quiet.
He leaned back against the chair, eyes drifting shut. His pulse thudded slower, softer. He thought of Aerion as a babe, pale lashes against flushed cheeks. He thought of Daeron’s laugh. Of Aemon’s solemn eyes. Of Rhae and Daella plaiting each other’s hair. Of little Aegon climbing into his lap and pressing a sticky kiss to his cheek.
He thought of Baelor.
“I am coming,” he whispered.
Darkness swallowed him.
—
He woke choking on air.
Not the stale smoke of the Red Keep. Not the faint lingering tang of wildfire. The air was cooler. Fresher. Night air drifting through an open window.
Maekar’s eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above him was not the carved stone of King’s Landing. It was wooden beams.
His chambers.
But not his chambers.
He knew this bed.
He knew this window.
Ashford.
The tourney.
The night before the Trial of Seven.
His heart began to pound, wild and wrong.
“No,” he rasped.
He bolted upright too quickly. The room spun violently. His vision blurred.
Something cold and slick slid against his fingers.
He looked down.
The dagger was still in his hand.
His wrists—gods—
Blood soaked the sheets. Not dry. Not old.
Fresh.
It crept sluggishly from the twin cuts he had made in the future—no, the present—no—
His mind fractured.
“I’m dead,” he whispered hoarsely. “I died.”
The wounds burned. His pulse stuttered. Blood dripped from his fingertips onto the wooden floorboards.
He staggered to his feet, breath coming fast and ragged. He needed to see. Needed proof.
He stumbled to the door and wrenched it open.
The corridor beyond was dimly lit by torches. Stone walls. Tapestries bearing the sigil of House Targaryen. The scent of oil and smoke.
A figure turned sharply at the noise.
White cloak.
Polished helm tucked beneath his arm.
Ser Willem Wylde.
Dead these past two years. Cut down during a border skirmish.
He stared at Maekar in shock. “My prince—?”
Maekar’s vision tunneled.
“You’re dead,” he croaked.
The Kingsguard blinked. “My prince?”
The blood was dripping faster now, pattering onto stone.
Maekar stumbled into the corridor, bare feet slipping. The dagger hung loose in his hand. His whole body shook violently.
This was wrong.
Wrong.
The gods were cruel. Cruel and mocking.
They had dragged him back.
Back to the moment before he killed Baelor.
Back to the night before he destroyed everything.
A door creaked open down the hall.
Another white-and-red figure stepped into the torchlight.
Tall. Broad. Dark hair falling over strong shoulders.
Baelor.
Baelor Breakspear, firstborn son of King Daeron II. Alpha. Warrior. The realm’s hope.
Alive.
“What in seven hells is happening?” Baelor demanded, voice thick with sleep.
Maekar turned.
Time slowed.
Baelor’s face,unlined by death. Whole. Warm with life.
Maekar’s breath hitched painfully.
He had not seen him alive in three years.
He took one step forward.
Then another.
His body felt brittle. Fragile. The blood from his wrists ran freely now, streaking down his forearms, dripping from his elbows.
Baelor’s confusion shifted to alarm. “Maekar?”
Maekar’s lips trembled.
“Why?” he whispered. “Why would you do this to me?”
Baelor stared. “Do what?”
Maekar reached him.
Up close, Baelor smelled the same, steel and leather and faint spice. Solid. Real.
Maekar’s entire frame began to shake uncontrollably. His breath came in sharp, broken gasps. His omega instincts screamed alpha, safety, pack. But this alpha was meant to die by his hand tomorrow.
“I don’t want to do it again,” Maekar choked. “I can’t—I can’t—”
Baelor’s gaze dropped to the blood.
His expression went white.
“Gods, Maekar!”
The dagger slipped from Maekar’s grasp, clattering to the floor.
His hands, slick and red, fisted into Baelor’s tunic. He pressed forward blindly, collapsing against his brother’s chest.
A sound tore from him raw and animal.
A sob so violent it seemed to rip through bone.
Baelor staggered back under the sudden weight, catching him instinctively. “Easy brother, easy”
Maekar clung desperately. His breath spiraled into hysteria. His heart raced too fast. His vision flickered with spots of black.
“They burned him,” he sobbed. “They burned my boy. Aerion, he thought he was a dragon, he drank it—he burned—”
Baelor froze.
“What are you saying?”
“And Daeron, my Daeron, he drank himself to death, my sons are dead, my sons are dead”
Servants were peering from doorways now. The Kingsguard swore and rushed forward, but Baelor barked, “Stand back!”
Maekar’s fingers dug harder into his brother’s tunic, leaving crimson smears.
“I killed you,” he whispered, voice breaking completely. “I killed you and everything rotted after that. They’re all gone. I don’t want to live it again. Why couldn’t they let me die?”
Baelor felt the blood soaking through his clothes now.
Felt how much.
His stomach turned.
“Maekar,” he said urgently, gripping his shoulders. “Look at me.”
But Maekar could not focus. The corridor tilted violently. His ears rang. His breath hitched into shallow, useless gasps.
His body was going cold.
Baelor’s hand slid down and came away slick.
Too much blood.
“Get a maester!” Baelor roared.
Footsteps pounded away.
Maekar’s knees buckled.
Baelor caught him before he hit the stone, lowering him to the floor. Blood pooled beneath them.
“You fool,” Baelor whispered in horror, seeing the clean, deliberate slashes across both wrists. “What have you done?”
Maekar’s lashes fluttered weakly.
“Let me go,” he murmured faintly. “Please.”
Baelor pressed his hands hard over the wounds, trying to stanch the flow. “No. Absolutely not.”
Maekar’s head lolled back against his arm. His skin was pale, way too pale. His lips tinged blue.
“You’re alive,” Maekar breathed, almost wonderingly. “I forgot how warm you are.”
Baelor swallowed hard.
“I am very much alive,” he said fiercely. “And so are you. Stay with me.”
Maekar’s fingers twitched weakly at Baelor’s sleeve.
“I don’t want to watch them die again,” he whispered.
Then his eyes rolled back.
His body went limp.
“Maekar!” Baelor shook him gently, panic rising sharp and choking in his throat. “Maekar!”
The maester arrived in a flurry of robes and horror.
“What in the?”
“He’s cut his wrists,” Baelor snapped. “Stop the bleeding!”
The maester dropped to his knees, hands already moving. Bandages. Pressure. Barked orders.
Baelor did not move from his brother’s side.
Did not loosen his grip.
He stared at the dagger lying on the stones.
At the twin, purposeful cuts.
This had not been an accident.
This had been intent.
Maekar had meant to die.
And Baelor had no idea why.
—
The bleeding slowed, eventually. Stitched. Bound tight.
Maekar lay pale and still upon his bed in Ashford castle, breaths shallow but steady.
Baelor sat beside him, hands clasped so tight his knuckles ached.
The maester had asked questions.
Baelor had no answers.
Aerion burned. Daeron dead of drink. Words spoken in terror and delirium.
Nonsense.
Had to be nonsense.
And yet…
Maekar had looked at him as though seeing a ghost.
As though he had risen from the grave.
Baelor reached forward hesitantly and brushed damp hair from Maekar’s brow.
His little brother had always been proud. Fierce. Angry at the world and too stubborn to bend.
He had never seen him break.
Tonight he had shattered.
Baelor exhaled slowly.
Whatever madness had seized Maekar, whatever despair had driven him to that blade—
He would not let him face it alone.
Outside, the torches guttered in the night wind.
And in the quiet chamber at Ashford, on the eve of a trial that would once have ended in tragedy, Baelor kept vigil beside the brother who had tried to die in his arms.
Unaware that fate itself had just shifted.
Unaware that tomorrow, everything could change.
Dawn crept into the chamber in thin, grey ribbons.
The torches had burned low. The air smelled faintly of tallow and dried blood.
Maekar woke to warmth.
Not the hard edge of his own bed at the Red Keep. Not the lonely cold that had followed him for three hollow years.
Warmth.
He lay on something softer. Broader. A mattress that dipped differently beneath his weight. His cheek rested against linen that did not carry his scent.
He inhaled.
Spice. Leather. Steel oil.
Baelor.
His lashes fluttered open.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar for half a heartbeat, carved beams, not stone,then memory crashed back in with brutal force.
Ashford.
The night before the Trial of Seven.
His wrists throbbed.
He shifted slightly, and pain flared up both arms, sharp, stitched tight. He hissed under his breath.
A broken sound answered him.
Maekar’s gaze dragged sideways.
Baelor sat beside the bed.
Not armored now. Not the confident, steady prince the realm adored.
He looked wrecked.
His dark hair hung loose and tangled around his shoulders. His eyes were swollen and red, rimmed with exhaustion. His hands were clenched in the sheets near Maekar’s hip like he feared if he let go, Maekar would vanish.
And he was crying.
Not silent tears.
Not dignified grief.
Baelor was sobbing.
The sound was raw, dragged straight from the gut. His broad shoulders shook with it. He bent forward, pressing his forehead to the mattress beside Maekar’s waist like a man begging the gods.
“Please,” Baelor choked. “Please wake up.”
Maekar stared at him, stunned.
He had never seen Baelor cry like this. Not when their grandfather died. Not when Daeron’s court whispered against him. Not even in the chaos of battle.
But now—
Baelor lifted his head when he felt movement.
Their eyes met.
Relief struck Baelor’s face so violently it looked almost like pain.
“Maekar.”
His voice broke on the name.
He surged forward, one large hand cupping the side of Maekar’s face with desperate gentleness, as if afraid he might crumble to ash.
“You’re awake. Gods be good, you’re awake.”
Maekar swallowed. His throat felt scraped raw.
“Baelor…”
The sound of his name coming from Maekar’s lips shattered what little composure Baelor had regained.
“Why?” Baelor burst out.
It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t accusing.
It was devastated.
“Why would you do that to yourself?” His hand tightened, trembling against Maekar’s cheek. “Why would you try to die?”
Maekar’s breath hitched.
He could not look at him.
Baelor’s gaze dropped, and he carefully lifted one of Maekar’s bandaged arms, as if handling something precious and fragile.
The linen was already spotted faintly pink where blood had seeped through.
But it was not just the fresh wounds.
When the maester had cleaned him, the truth had been laid bare.
Scars.
Thin white lines crisscrossing both forearms. Some faint and old. Some newer. Some angry and jagged. Layered over one another in quiet, damning testimony.
Baelor’s jaw trembled.
“These…” he whispered hoarsely. “These are not from tonight.”
Maekar closed his eyes.
Silence answered.
Baelor’s breath shuddered violently.
“How long?” he demanded softly. “How long have you been doing this to yourself?”
Maekar did not respond.
Because what could he say?
Three years.
Three years of grief that hollowed him out. Of sons buried. Of guilt that gnawed and gnawed until sometimes the only thing that cut through the noise was the sharp bite of steel against skin.
It had started small.
A single cut after Daeron died.
Another after Aerion’s first wildfire tantrum.
More after every letter from Aemon that sounded too solemn for a boy of fifteen.
Each line a punishment.
Each line a reminder.
You failed them.
You killed your brother.
You do not deserve peace.
Baelor’s thumb brushed lightly over one faded scar, as though he could smooth it away.
“You’re my little brother,” Baelor said brokenly. “You’re strong. You’re stubborn. You’ve carried children into this world. You’ve endured heats that would bring lesser omegas to their knees. You have never once bowed your head to pain.”
His voice cracked again.
“So why are you hurting yourself like this?”
Maekar’s chest tightened so painfully he thought the stitches might split again.
Because I watched my son burn alive.
Because I held Daeron’s cold body.
Because I killed you.
Because the realm rotted after you died and it was my fault.
But he could not say any of it.
He could not unravel time itself at Baelor’s feet.
He forced his eyes open.
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
The lie tasted like ash.
Baelor recoiled slightly, not in disgust—but in hurt.
“You don’t know?” he repeated, disbelief lacing the words.
Maekar’s fingers twitched weakly against the sheets. He felt so small in this bed. So fragile.
“I wake up,” he murmured faintly. “And it feels like everything is already lost.”
Baelor stilled.
Lost.
The word hung heavy between them.
“You have not lost anything,” Baelor said fiercely. “You have your children. Aemon is thriving at the Citadel. Rhae and Daella adore you. Aerion worships the ground you walk on. Daeron would gut any man who so much as looked at you wrong.”
Maekar’s throat closed.
Not yet, Baelor.
Not yet.
Baelor leaned closer, desperation sharpening his features.
“Did someone threaten you?” he demanded. “Has someone hurt you? Tell me and I will tear them apart.”
Maekar almost laughed.
It would be easier if it were that simple.
“No one,” he said weakly.
Baelor searched his face.
“You ran into the corridor like a man fleeing ghosts,” he whispered. “You looked at me like I was already dead.”
Maekar’s heart stuttered violently.
He could not answer that.
Baelor’s hands slid carefully to cradle both of Maekar’s bandaged wrists, lifting them slightly between them.
“These were not accidents,” he said quietly. “You meant to do it.”
Maekar’s breath grew shallow again. The room felt too small.
“I was tired,” he whispered.
Baelor’s expression crumpled completely.
“Tired?” he repeated.
Maekar nodded faintly.
“So tired.”
Of grief.
Of guilt.
Of surviving.
Baelor bent forward suddenly and pressed his forehead to Maekar’s abdomen, right over the soft curve where he had once carried life.
The contact was instinctive. Alpha to omega. Pack to pack.
His shoulders shook again.
“You are not allowed to leave me,” Baelor said into the fabric of the nightshirt. “Do you hear me? You are not allowed.”
Maekar’s hands hovered uncertainly in the air before settling, trembling, into Baelor’s hair.
He had forgotten what it felt like.
To have his brother here.
Alive.
Warm.
He threaded his fingers weakly through the dark strands.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmured.
Baelor made a broken, almost angry sound.
“Scare me?” he choked. “I thought you were dying in my arms.”
Maekar flinched.
He had died in Baelor’s arms.
Just not in the way Baelor understood.
Baelor lifted his head, eyes blazing with grief.
“If you ever feel that darkness again,” he said fiercely, “you come to me. I do not care if it is the middle of the night. I do not care if the realm itself is burning. You come to me.”
Maekar swallowed.
“I don’t want to be weak,” he whispered.
Baelor’s hands tightened around his carefully.
“Clinging to pain in silence is not strength,” Baelor said, voice rough but steadying. “It is loneliness. And you do not have to be alone.”
Maekar’s composure cracked.
A tear slid sideways into his hair.
He had been alone for so long.
Even surrounded by children. By court. By duty.
He had been alone with the knowledge of what he had done.
What he would do tomorrow.
Baelor squeezed his hands gently.
“I don’t understand what drove you to this,” he admitted hoarsely. “But I swear to you, whatever it is, we face it together.”
Together.
The word was a knife and a balm all at once.
Because tomorrow—
Tomorrow Baelor would ride into the Trial of Seven.
Tomorrow Maekar would swing his mace.
Tomorrow history would shatter.
Unless
Maekar’s breath caught sharply.
Unless he changed it.
Baelor saw the flicker of panic and moved closer immediately.
“Easy,” he murmured, brushing damp hair from Maekar’s brow. “You’ve lost blood. The maester said you must rest.”
Maekar stared up at him.
He had been given a second chance.
Cruel or merciful, he did not yet know.
But Baelor was here.
Alive.
And sobbing because he thought his little brother had tried to leave him.
Maekar tightened his fingers weakly in Baelor’s tunic.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly.
Not this time.
Baelor leaned down and pressed his forehead to Maekar’s once more, breathing him in like he needed proof of life.
“Good,” he whispered fiercely.
Outside, the first light of dawn spread across Ashford’s towers.
The day before the Trial of Seven had begun.
And this time, Maekar was awake.
Morning did not bring strength.
It brought trembling.
Maekar woke again hours later to the dull hum of voices somewhere beyond the chamber doors and the distant clang of practice steel in the yard below. The tourney had begun its restless stir. Knights sharpening blades. Squires running messages. The realm gathering to watch men bleed for honor.
His body felt hollow.
Every movement sent a wave of weakness through him. His head swam if he tried to sit up too quickly. The bandages at his wrists pulled tight and hot, the skin beneath throbbing in protest.
He turned his head.
Baelor was still there.
He had not changed clothes. Had not slept. He sat in a chair drawn close to the bedside, forearms braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. His eyes were rimmed red, shadows carved deep beneath them.
He looked up immediately when Maekar stirred.
“How do you feel?” Baelor asked quietly.
Maekar tried to push himself upright.
The room tilted.
Baelor was at his side in an instant, large hands steadying him before he could fall back against the pillows.
“You are not getting up,” Baelor said firmly.
“I have to,” Maekar rasped.
Baelor’s jaw tightened.
“The Trial is today.”
“I am aware.”
Maekar forced himself upright despite the dizziness. His body felt fragile, blood drained, limbs unsteady. He hated it. Hated the weakness. Hated that his hands shook when he tried to flex his fingers.
“I fight,” he said stubbornly. “I always fight.”
Baelor’s expression flickered—pain, fear, something raw and unguarded.
“No,” he said.
Maekar stared at him.
“No?” he repeated sharply.
Baelor did not raise his voice. That almost made it worse.
“No.”
“I will not hide in a bed while my sons stand in that field,” Maekar snapped, though even speaking that loudly left him breathless. “Daeron is counting on me. Aerion”
“Aerion,” Baelor cut in, and something in his voice cracked.
Maekar froze.
Baelor took a slow, shaking breath.
“You nearly died in my arms last night,” he said quietly. “You bled out on the stones like a slaughtered lamb.”
Maekar flinched.
“You are weak from blood loss. You cannot stand without swaying. And” Baelor’s voice faltered for half a second before he forced it steady again. “And I do not trust you.”
The words landed like a blow.
Maekar’s eyes flashed.
“You think I would shame myself?” he demanded hoarsely.
Baelor surged to his feet, anguish written plainly across his face.
“I think,” he said, voice breaking, “that you tried to kill yourself. How am I too know you will not try again”
Silence.
The weight of it pressed down on them both.
Baelor dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back to him.
“I do not know what darkness has wrapped itself around your mind,” he said, “but I will not hand you a mace and send you into a ring of violence while you are this fragile.”
“I am not fragile,” Maekar hissed.
His hands trembled visibly in his lap.
Baelor’s gaze dropped to them.
“Look at yourself.”
Maekar hated the pity in his brother’s eyes.
“I am a prince of House Targaryen,” Maekar said, voice low and stubborn. “I do not cower.”
“And I am your brother,” Baelor shot back. “And I am telling you that you will not fight today.”
The firmness in his tone left no room for argument.
Maekar tried to rise again in defiance.
His vision went black at the edges.
Baelor caught him before he collapsed forward, arms wrapping around him instinctively.
For a heartbeat, they simply stood there—Maekar sagging against Baelor’s broad chest, breath shallow and uneven.
“You can barely stand,” Baelor whispered.
Maekar’s fists clenched weakly in his tunic.
“I have to be there.”
Baelor’s arms tightened.
“You will be there,” he said gently. “But not with a weapon in your hand.”
Maekar shook his head weakly.
“You don’t understand—”
“No,” Baelor said sharply, emotion spiking through his voice. “I do not understand why my brother’s arms are covered in scars like he has been waging war against his own flesh for years.”
Maekar went still.
Baelor swallowed hard.
“You are not stepping into that field today.”
He eased Maekar back into the bed, arranging the pillows with surprising care for such a broad, battle-hardened alpha.
Maekar’s body felt traitorous, too weak to fight back properly.
“You cannot forbid me,” he muttered faintly.
“I can,” Baelor said softly. “And I will.”
Maekar’s eyes fluttered, exhaustion dragging at him.
Baelor leaned down, pressing his forehead briefly to Maekar’s.
“I would rather bear the shame of withdrawing you,” he whispered, “than bury you.”
The words struck deeper than any blade.
Maekar’s resistance faltered.
The blood loss, the emotional whiplash, the weight of seeing Baelor alive—it all dragged him under like undertow.
His eyes closed before he could stop them.
Baelor watched him slip back into sleep, chest rising and falling in shallow rhythm.
Only when he was certain Maekar was fully unconscious did Baelor straighten.
The Trial would begin within the hour.
And Maekar would not be on that field.
Which meant
Aerion.
Baelor’s jaw clenched.
He left the chamber quietly, giving firm orders to the Kingsguard outside to admit no one without his permission.
The tourney yard was already alive when he descended.
Knights adjusting armor. Squires running with shields. The murmur of gathered nobles swelling like a storm waiting to break.
And there—
Aerion.
Sixteen years old. Pale silver hair catching the morning sun. Violet eyes sharp and restless. He stood near the lists in light training armor, fingers tapping impatiently against the pommel of his sword.
He looked so young.
So alive.
Baelor felt something twist violently in his chest.
“Aerion,” he called.
The boy turned, surprise flickering across his features.
“Uncle,” Aerion greeted, brows lifting. “Where is muña? He should be here.”
Baelor stopped a few feet from him.
“He will not be fighting.”
Aerion blinked.
“What?”
“He is confined to his bed.”
A flash of irritation crossed Aerion’s face. “Confined? By who? The maester? He can barely stand half the time and still fights better than most”
“By me,” Baelor cut in.
Aerion’s mouth snapped shut.
“He tried to kill himself last night.”
The words dropped like a stone.
Aerion stared.
Baelor stepped closer, anger rising sharp and uncontrolled now that he faced one of the sons who, in Maekar’s delirium, had burned.
“It is your fault,” Baelor snapped.
Aerion recoiled slightly.
“What are you talking about?”
Baelor’s composure shattered.
“You reckless, cruel boy!” he roared, voice carrying across the yard and drawing startled glances. “Do you have any idea what your muña is suffering?”
Aerion’s face went pale.
“I—”
“He ran into the corridor covered in blood,” Baelor said, fury and grief tangling together. “He had cut both his wrists open. Meant to bleed out like a butchered animal!”
Aerion’s breath left him in a thin gasp.
“No.”
Baelor grabbed him roughly by the back of his tunic, scruffing him as he might have when Aerion was a small pup causing trouble in the nursery.
“Yes.”
Aerion’s eyes were wide now. Shock stripping away arrogance.
“He is lying in my bed because he does not trust himself to be alone,” Baelor said hoarsely. “And you think he can ride into a Trial?”
Aerion shook his head numbly.
“I didn’t— I didn’t know—”
“Of course you didn’t!” Baelor snapped. “You are too busy chasing fire and glory to see the cracks in your own mother!”
Aerion flinched at the word.
Baelor did not release him.
Instead, he turned sharply and dragged the stunned boy back toward the keep.
Aerion did not resist.
They moved quickly through the corridors. Aerion’s earlier bravado was gone entirely now, replaced by something small and frightened.
Baelor shoved open the chamber door.
Maekar lay asleep still, pale against the pillows. His breathing was shallow but steady. One bandaged arm lay outside the covers, linen stark white against bruised skin.
Baelor hauled Aerion forward.
“Look,” he said harshly.
Aerion stumbled to the bedside.
For a moment, he simply stared at his father’s sleeping face.
Then his gaze dropped.
To the bandages.
To the faint pink seeping through.
Baelor carefully lifted Maekar’s arm, exposing more of the forearm where older scars curved pale against the skin.
Aerion’s breath hitched violently.
“What…” he whispered.
“These are not from last night alone,” Baelor said, voice breaking again despite himself. “He has been carving himself open for some time.”
Aerion staggered back as though struck.
“No,” he breathed.
His knees buckled.
He fell to the floor beside the bed.
“Muña…” he whispered, voice cracking in a way Baelor had never heard from him before.
The arrogance. The sharp temper. The volatile pride.
Gone.
He crawled forward, pressing his forehead carefully to the mattress near Maekar’s hip, as if afraid to touch him and cause further harm.
“I didn’t see,” Aerion choked. “I didn’t see.”
Baelor’s anger drained, leaving only weary grief.
“He carries more than you know,” Baelor said quietly.
Aerion’s shoulders began to shake.
“I thought he was just strict,” the boy sobbed. “I thought he was disappointed in me.”
Baelor’s throat tightened.
Maekar shifted faintly in his sleep but did not wake.
Aerion reached trembling fingers toward the bandaged wrist, hovering just above it.
“I would never hurt you,” he whispered brokenly. “I would never—”
Tears fell freely now, darkening the sheets.
Baelor placed a steadying hand on Aerion’s shoulder.
“Then start seeing him,” he said softly.
Aerion bowed over the bed, sobbing like a child again.
And Baelor stood watch over them both, heart heavy and fiercely protective, unaware that the greatest tragedy of this day—the one that had once shattered the realm—was quietly unraveling before it could ever take shape.
Maekar drifted in and out of a shallow, feverish half-sleep.
The world felt distant. Sounds came muffled, like they traveled through water before reaching him. His body was heavy, weak from blood loss, limbs slow to answer his thoughts.
But there was a sound that cut through everything.
Crying.
Not the broken, adult grief Baelor had poured out beside him through the night.
This was younger.
Raw.
“Muña,” someone choked.
Maekar’s lashes fluttered.
Aerion.
The word anchored him.
He forced his eyes open a fraction. The light in the chamber had shifted—brighter now, late morning pressing through the windows. His head throbbed faintly.
Aerion was on his knees beside the bed, silver hair falling forward as he bowed low, shoulders shaking violently.
Baelor stood just behind him, one broad hand resting steady at the back of the boy’s neck—not restraining, just grounding.
“Muña,” Aerion sobbed again, voice cracking in a way that dragged at something ancient and protective inside Maekar’s chest. “Please wake up. Please.”
Maekar tried to speak.
It came out as a dry rasp.
“Aerion…”
Both of them snapped forward instantly.
Aerion surged closer, eyes wide and wet. “Muña?”
Maekar blinked slowly, vision struggling to focus.
His instincts flared hard and fast at the sight of his pup in distress.
Aerion was sixteen—volatile, proud, sharp-tongued and sharp-tempered—but in that moment he looked five again. Small. Frightened.
Maekar swallowed painfully.
“The Trial,” he murmured faintly. “You must yield.”
Aerion’s face crumpled.
“What?”
“Redraw your accusation,” Maekar breathed, struggling for clarity. “Do not stand in that ring. Do not… do not fight this.”
Baelor went very still behind him.
Aerion shook his head immediately, frantic.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Yes, muña. I will. I swear it. I don’t care about it. I don’t care about any of it.”
Maekar’s brow furrowed weakly.
“You must not,” he whispered. “No Trial. No blood. Please.”
Aerion nodded violently, tears spilling down his face.
“I withdraw it,” he said at once. “I will tell them. I will stand in the yard and say it before everyone. I don’t care if they call me coward. I don’t care.”
Baelor’s breath left him slowly.
Maekar’s hand twitched, reaching instinctively.
Aerion grabbed it carefully, cradling the bandaged wrist between his palms as though it were glass.
“I’m here,” Aerion whispered. “I’m not leaving you.”
Maekar’s eyelids grew heavy again, relief washing faintly through his fragile mind.
“No fighting,” he murmured one last time.
“No fighting,” Aerion promised fiercely.
Maekar slipped back under.
Baelor watched him for several long seconds to ensure he was truly asleep again.
Then he looked down at Aerion.
“You will stand by that?” Baelor asked quietly.
Aerion wiped his face roughly with his sleeve, jaw tightening with sudden determination.
“Yes.”
There was no arrogance now. No flare of temper.
Only fear.
Baelor nodded once.
“Good.”
He squeezed the boy’s shoulder.
“Stay here with him.”
Aerion did not hesitate. He shifted carefully closer to the bed, lowering himself to sit on the floor beside it like a guard dog at his muña’s side.
Baelor turned and left the chamber.
The Trial could not simply vanish without explanation. Not with the realm gathered outside.
If Aerion withdrew, the cause of the Trial dissolved.
But there were other sons to manage.
Daeron.
Aegon.
Baelor descended the steps two at a time.
He found Daeron first.
Nineteen years old. Broad-shouldered already. Alpha blood strong and hot in him. Maekar’s firstborn.
He was leaning against a stone pillar near the outer yard.
With a wineskin.
At midmorning.
Baelor’s jaw tightened.
Daeron’s cheeks were flushed, eyes slightly unfocused. He grinned lazily when he saw Baelor approaching.
“Uncle,” he greeted, voice thick. “Where’s mother? He’ll miss the fun.”
Baelor stopped in front of him.
“There will be no Trial.”
Daeron blinked slowly.
“Why?”
“Aerion is withdrawing his accusation.”
Daeron frowned.
“That’s not like him.”
“No,” Baelor agreed. “It is not.”
Daeron took another swig.
“And mother?”
“He is in my chambers.”
Daeron straightened slightly, irritation flickering.
“Why?”
Baelor’s restraint snapped thin.
“Because he tried to kill himself last night.”
The wineskin slipped from Daeron’s fingers and hit the ground.
The lazy haze vanished from his face instantly.
“What?”
Baelor stepped forward, gripping Daeron’s collar hard enough to jolt him fully sober.
“He cut both his wrists open,” Baelor said harshly. “Bled across the corridor stones. I held him while the maester stitched him closed.”
Daeron’s face drained of all color.
“No.”
Baelor shoved him lightly back against the pillar.
“Put the wine down,” he snapped. “If you show your face in that chamber smelling like a tavern, I will personally throw you into the river.”
Daeron’s throat bobbed.
“I— I didn’t know.”
“None of you did,” Baelor said bitterly.
Daeron shoved a hand through his hair, breathing uneven.
“Is he-?”
“He is alive,” Baelor cut in. “And weak. And he needs his sons to behave like pack, not like fools chasing glory.”
Daeron nodded once, sharply.
“Yes, Uncle.”
Baelor released him.
“Find Aegon.”
They found him near the stables.
Nine years old, stubborn as stone, silver hair tied back messily. He stood arguing heatedly with a much larger man beside him.
A hedge knight.
Tall. Broad. Earnest face.
Ser Duncan the Tall.
The boy’s small hands were planted firmly on his hips.
“I can be your squire,” Aegon insisted. “I don’t care what anyone says.”
Dunk looked mortified. “I am but a hedge knight Egg, you know the prince would never agree —”
“Muña would never disagree with anything i wanted,” Aegon shot back stubbornly. “You’re better than half the knights here!”
Baelor cleared his throat.
Aegon spun around.
“Uncle! Tell him Muña wouldn’t mind.”
“There will be no Trial,” Baelor said calmly, completely changing the topic of conversation. .
Aegon frowned.
“What?”
“Aerion has withdrawn his accusation.”
The boy blinked rapidly.
“But muña—”
“Is unwell.”
Aegon’s small frame went rigid.
“What do you mean?”
Baelor crouched slightly to meet his eyes.
“He is resting. And he needs you.”
That was all it took.
Aegon dropped the argument instantly.
“Take me to him,” he demanded.
Baelor rose.
“You may come,” he told Dunk shortly. “But quietly.”
Dunk bowed awkwardly.
They moved quickly back toward the chamber.
Inside, Aerion was still kneeling beside the bed, head resting near Maekar’s hip, fingers loosely curled in the blankets.
Maekar lay pale and still.
Daeron entered first, stopping dead at the sight.
Aegon slipped past Baelor immediately and scrambled to the bedside.
“Muña?” he whispered.
Maekar stirred faintly at the sound.
Too many scents.
Too much emotion.
His instincts snapped awake hard.
He jerked upright suddenly.
Pain lanced through both wrists.
His vision swam.
But all he saw.
All he registered.
Were his pups.
Crying.
All three of them.
Daeron pale and shaken. Aerion red-eyed and trembling. Aegon’s small face tight with fear. Panic detonated in his chest.
“No—” he gasped.
He lunged forward instinctively, arms outstretched.
“Aerion, Daeron, Aegon”
He grabbed for them blindly, pulling the closest bodies against him. The movement was too violent. The stitches tore. Both wrists split open at once. A hot rush of blood soaked instantly through the bandages. Baelor saw it first.
“Maekar!”
But Maekar didn’t register the pain. He was clutching his sons tightly, dragging Aegon half onto the bed, pulling Aerion close by the shoulder, his other hand gripping Daeron’s tunic desperately.
“I won’t let you burn,” he choked. “I won’t let you drink yourself into the grave. I won’t—”
Blood dripped freely down his forearms.
Aegon’s eyes widened in horror.
“Muña, you’re bleeding!”
Aerion looked down and let out a broken sound. Daeron froze, staring at the spreading red. Baelor surged forward, trying to pry Maekar’s hands free gently.
“Let go,” he urged urgently. “You’re hurting yourself.”
“No!” Maekar cried, tightening his grip with surprising strength for someone so weakened. “You’re here. You're all here”
Blood soaked the sheets again. Aerion scrambled up onto the bed fully now, wrapping both arms around Maekar’s shoulders carefully, as if trying to anchor him.
“I’m here!” Aerion sobbed. “I’m not going anywhere!”
Daeron dropped to his knees on the other side of the bed, grabbing Maekar’s waist.
“We’re here, muña,” he said hoarsely. “We’re here.”
Aegon clung to Maekar’s side, small fingers fisting into his nightshirt. Baelor pressed firm cloth against Maekar’s wrists, trying to stanch the reopened wounds while maneuvering around the tangle of sons.
“Easy,” he murmured desperately. “Easy, you’re safe.”
Maekar’s breathing came fast and uneven, hysteria threading through it.
“You’re alive,” he kept whispering. “You’re alive.”
Baelor caught his gaze over Aerion’s shoulder.
Something about the way Maekar said it made Baelor’s chest tighten painfully.
Alive.
As if that had once not been true.
“Maekar,” Baelor said firmly. “Look at me.”
Slowly, shakily, Maekar did.
His violet eyes were wide, unsteady, brimming with tears.
“They’re here,” Baelor said softly but with authority. “All of them. Safe.”
Maekar’s grip loosened at last.
The adrenaline ebbed.
The blood loss caught up again swiftly.
His head lolled slightly.
Baelor tightened the makeshift pressure on his wrists and shouted for the maester once more. The chamber dissolved into frantic movement again: cloth, bandages, voices overlapping. Through it all, Maekar clung weakly to his sons, refusing to let them be pulled far.
The third time Maekar woke, it was to warmth.
Not the frantic heat of panic.
Not the fevered haze of blood loss.
This warmth was steady. Solid. Surrounded.
He breathed in slowly.
Leather. Steel. Faint spice.
Baelor.
And beneath that—
His pups.
Three distinct scents tangled around him. Young alpha strength edged with wine and guilt. Volatile omega smoke and sparks. Soft, not-yet-present sweetness threaded with stubborn resolve.
Maekar did not open his eyes immediately.
He simply felt.
A weight across his side. Small arms wrapped tightly around his ribs.
Another body pressed along his opposite flank.
And—
He realized with slow, dawning awareness—
He was not in a bed alone.
He was half-upright, half-reclined.
Propped.
Supported.
His cheek rested against a broad, warm chest. Strong arms curved protectively around his back and shoulders. Long legs spread beneath him, and he lay cradled between them as though he were something precious being guarded from the world.
Baelor.
His elder brother’s heartbeat thudded steady beneath his ear.
Baelor must have moved him at some point, refused to leave him unattended.
Maekar swallowed.
He opened his eyes.
Sunlight streamed faintly through the windows now—late afternoon, perhaps.
Daeron lay sprawled half across the foot of the bed, one large arm thrown protectively over Maekar’s thigh. His face was pressed into the blankets, lashes still damp.
Aerion lay along Maekar’s other side, cheek resting lightly against his ribs, one hand splayed over his abdomen as if counting breaths.
Aegon was curled tight against Maekar’s hip, fingers twisted firmly into his nightshirt, even in sleep.
For a moment, Maekar could not breathe.
They were here.
All three.
Alive.
Alive.
His chest tightened so violently it almost hurt.
The smallest shift of his body sent a ripple through them.
Aegon stirred first.
The boy’s eyes snapped open instantly.
He did not blink sleepily.
He did not stretch.
He locked onto Maekar’s face like a hunting hawk spotting prey.
“Muña?” he whispered.
Aerion jerked awake just as fast, violet eyes wide and frantic. Daeron’s head lifted a heartbeat later, confusion melting into sharp, panicked awareness. Baelor’s arms tightened reflexively around Maekar as he felt the movement, and he lowered his chin slightly.
“He’s awake,” Baelor murmured softly, voice rough with exhaustion.
That was all it took.
Aegon scrambled upward immediately, nearly climbing into Maekar’s lap. Aerion surged closer from the other side. Daeron sat upright fully now.
And then—
They broke.
Not politely.
Not quietly.
They sobbed.
“Muña,” Aegon cried, burying his face into Maekar’s chest.
Aerion’s hands gripped at his sides, shaking. “Don’t do that again. Don’t you ever—”
Daeron—
Daeron absolutely shattered.
The nineteen-year-old alpha folded in on himself like something had snapped in his spine. He slid forward on his knees and pressed his forehead against Maekar’s thigh.
“I’m sorry,” he choked.
The words tore out of him, raw and filthy and desperate.
“I’m so fucking sorry, muña.”
Baelor stiffened faintly at the language, but said nothing.
Daeron’s shoulders shook violently.
“I didn’t see it,” he gasped. “I didn’t see it in my dreams. I should have. I should have known something was wrong. I should have been there. I should have—”
Maekar’s heart cracked open.
Daeron had always had prophetic dreams. Glimpses of things to come.
And in Maekar’s first life—
Daeron had dreamed nothing of his father’s despair.
Because Daeron had been dead by then.
Maekar lifted one trembling hand (carefully, mindful of the fresh stitches) and cupped the back of Daeron’s head.
“It was not yours to see,” he said softly.
Daeron let out a broken sound.
“I drink and laugh and fight and I never looked at you,” he sobbed. “I never saw that you were hurting.”
Maekar felt the guilt try to rise.
He crushed it.
Not this time.
Aerion shifted suddenly, desperation flaring in his eyes.
“Don’t leave us,” he said in a rush. “Don’t leave us like she did.”
The chamber went very still.
Dyanna.
Dyanna Dayne.
Their mother.
Gone too soon.
Aerion’s voice trembled.
“I can’t lose you too,” he whispered. “I won’t survive it.”
Aegon clung tighter at those words.
Maekar felt something rise inside him. His instincts unfurled fully. His scent shifted. Deliberately. He tempered it. Smoothed out the sharp edges of fear and iron and lingering blood. He softened it into warmth.Into hearthfire. Into steady stone walls and sun-warmed linen. Into safety.
The effect was immediate.
Aegon’s frantic breathing eased first.
Aerion’s trembling lessened.
Even Daeron’s ragged sobbing began to slow.
Baelor felt it too.
The grounding, soothing wave of scent wrapping around them like invisible arms.
Maekar stroked Daeron’s hair gently.
“You are my strong boy,” he murmured. “You were never meant to carry my shadows.”
Daeron shook his head fiercely.
“I would,” he insisted hoarsely. “I would carry them. All of them.”
Aerion crawled upward slightly until his face was level with Maekar’s.
“I’ll withdraw every accusation,” he said fiercely. “I’ll bend the knee in front of the entire realm if it means you stay.”
Maekar managed a faint, shaky smile.
“You already have.”
Aerion’s breath hitched.
Aegon lifted his tear-streaked face.
“Are you going to die?” he whispered bluntly.
Maekar’s heart squeezed painfully.
“No,” he said firmly.
He glanced up briefly.
Baelor was watching him with something unreadable in his eyes. Relief. Exhaustion. Fear still coiled tight beneath it all. Maekar shifted carefully, realizing fully now that he was indeed nestled between Baelor’s spread legs, propped securely against his brother’s chest. Baelor’s arms adjusted slightly, one hand sliding up to brace gently at Maekar’s shoulder.
“You are not dying,” Baelor echoed quietly, but there was warning in his tone. A promise.
Maekar looked back down at his sons.
“I am here,” he said softly. “I am not going anywhere.”
Daeron let out another broken sob and leaned forward, pressing his face against Maekar’s abdomen like he had as a child. Aerion tucked his head under Maekar’s chin. Aegon climbed fully into his lap now, heedless of dignity, small arms wrapping tight around his waist. Maekar winced faintly as his wrists throbbed, but he did not pull away. He curled his arms around them as much as the bandages allowed.
Holding.
Holding like a dragon around its hoard.
Only this treasure breathed.
Baelor lowered his chin slightly, resting it gently against the crown of Maekar’s head. His arms closed around the entire tangled mass of sons and brother.
The calm did not last.
It never did.
For two days after the Trial’s quiet dissolution, Ashford hummed with confused whispers and restrained speculation. No blood spilled. No champions fell. The realm would grumble, but no one dared openly question Baelor’s authority when he declared the matter resolved.
Inside the castle, however, peace was far more fragile.
Maekar stayed mostly in Baelor’s chambers.
He ate little.
He slept in fragments.
His sons rarely left his side.
They hovered—Daeron standing guard near doorways, Aerion pacing like a restless hound, Aegon curled close whenever allowed. Even Aemon’s absence felt heavy, as if the air itself knew one pup was missing from the nest.
Baelor never let Maekar wake alone. But the quiet spaces between heartbeats were the worst. Because the urges had not vanished with the second chance.
They lingered.
Coiled.
Waiting.
Maekar had forgotten how sharp they could be when denied.
The first time the pull crept in again, it was subtle.
A pressure behind his ribs. A crawling restlessness beneath his skin. His mind whispering ugly, familiar things.
You failed them once.
You will fail them again.
You do not deserve this warmth.
You do not deserve a second chance.
His wrists ached constantly where the stitches pulled. The throbbing felt like a reminder. Like unfinished business. He tried to temper his scent. Tried to drown himself in the steady presence of his sons. In Baelor’s grounding strength. But addiction to pain was a quiet, patient monster.
And one night, when the others finally slept—Daeron collapsed in a chair, Aerion slumped against the wall, Aegon curled tight at the foot of the bed—
Maekar slipped away.
He did not mean to.
Not fully.
He simply stood.
Moved.
Silent.
The corridor was dim.
He knew where weapons were kept. He knew where servants left things unattended.
It was not difficult.
The blade was small.
Not even a dagger. Just a short eating knife forgotten on a sideboard.
His hands shook as he stared at it.
His mind screamed two opposing truths.
You promised.
Just one.
His breath grew uneven.
He pressed the blade lightly to the inside of his forearm, just above the bandage line.
The first sting made him gasp softly.
Relief followed immediately.
A terrible, shameful wave of it.
The chaos in his head dulled.
The whispering quieted.
He pressed harder.
A thin red line bloomed.
He hated himself even as he did it.
Footsteps echoed faintly behind him.
He did not hear them until a shadow fell across the wall.
“Maekar.”
The knife slipped from his fingers.
Baelor did not shout.
Did not rage.
He simply stepped forward.
His expression did not carry anger.
Only heartbreak.
Maekar couldn’t meet his eyes.
“I tried,” Maekar whispered hoarsely. “I did.”
Baelor crossed the remaining distance slowly, as though approaching a wounded animal.
“I know.”
He took Maekar’s wrist gently, turning the arm to inspect the shallow cut.
It was not deep.
Not like before.
But it was deliberate.
Baelor exhaled slowly.
“Come,” he murmured.
He guided Maekar back into the chamber without calling attention, without waking the others.
They sat on the edge of the bed.
Baelor fetched clean water himself. Cloth. Salve.
He knelt in front of Maekar.
And cleaned the wound.
Carefully.
Tenderly.
Like Maekar was something sacred.
Neither spoke for a long while.
The cloth moved slowly over skin. Baelor’s fingers steady and warm. His scent thickened slightly, comforting alpha strength, grounding and solid.
Maekar breathed it in desperately.
“I hate this,” Maekar said finally, voice barely audible.
“I know,” Baelor replied.
“I don’t want to be like this.”
“I know.”
Baelor finished wrapping the new cut in clean linen, fingers deft but gentle.
Then he did something unexpected.
He rose and climbed onto the bed behind Maekar. He drew Maekar back carefully until he rested between his legs again, just as before. But this time Baelor did not hold him from the front. He wrapped his arms around Maekar’s waist from behind and lowered his head.
He tucked his face into the crook of Maekar’s neck.
Breathing him in.
Holding him close.
The intimacy of it broke something inside Maekar.
Baelor’s breath was warm against his skin.
“I will not scold you,” Baelor murmured softly. “This is not weakness. It is pain without a proper outlet.”
Maekar’s throat tightened.
“I don’t trust myself,” he admitted.
Baelor’s arms tightened fractionally.
“Then you will not be alone.”
They sat like that for a long while.
Baelor’s steady breathing against his neck.
Maekar slowly matching it.
Matching the rhythm.
Letting it anchor him.
After some time, Baelor spoke again.
“We should return to King’s Landing.”
Maekar stiffened slightly.
“The Red Keep?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Ashford is full of eyes and whispers. Because your children are unsettled. Because you need your own chambers. Familiar walls.”
Baelor’s voice lowered.
“And because if the darkness comes again, I would rather face it in a place where we have more control.”
Maekar swallowed.
The thought of riding alone—hours of open road, no walls, no watchful brother—
His stomach twisted.
“Baelor,” he said quietly.
“Yes?”
“Please let me ride with you.”
Baelor lifted his head slightly.
Maekar turned just enough to meet his gaze.
“I do not trust myself if I am alone,” he admitted, shame threading the words. “If I ride by myself… I might do something dreadful.”
Baelor did not hesitate.
“You will ride with me.”
The certainty in his tone eased something deep in Maekar’s chest.
“I won’t leave your side,” Baelor added.
Maekar nodded shakily.
Baelor pressed a brief, firm kiss into Maekar’s hairline—protective, brotherly, grounding.
Then he rose.
He stepped into the corridor and began issuing quiet, efficient orders.
“Break camp.”
“Pack the horses.”
“Send word to the guard— we depart within the hour.”
There was no room for argument in his voice.
Inside the chamber, the shift in energy woke the pups.
Aegon sat up first, blinking.
“Muña?”
Daeron jerked awake immediately after.
Aerion followed, ever alert.
They saw Maekar sitting upright on the bed, wrists freshly wrapped.
They saw Baelor striding back in, already adjusting the clasps of his cloak.
“Are we leaving?” Aerion asked sharply.
“Yes,” Baelor answered.
“Home,” Maekar said softly.
The word rippled through them.
Home.
Aegon scrambled off the bed and ran to Maekar instantly, wrapping around him again.
“I’m riding near you,” he declared fiercely.
“So am I,” Aerion said.
Daeron stepped closer, jaw set.
“No one rides alone.”
Baelor gave them all a long look.
“You will give your muña space to breathe,” he said firmly. “But you will stay close.”
They nodded immediately.
There was no argument now. No bravado.
Only fierce, terrified loyalty.
Within the hour, the courtyard filled with movement.
Horses saddled. Guards assembling. Trunks secured.
Whispers followed them like wind.
Maekar stepped into the daylight carefully.
The sun felt too bright.
The world too loud.
Baelor’s stallion waited.
Strong. Black. Massive.
Baelor mounted first.
Then he reached down.
Maekar stepped forward, heart hammering.
Baelor’s hand closed around his wrist gently,careful of the bandages, and lifted him up behind the saddle. Maekar settled in front of him, back against Baelor’s chest. Baelor’s arms wrapped around him to take the reins.
Solid.
Secure.
Maekar exhaled slowly.
His sons mounted nearby—Daeron rigid and watchful, Aerion tight with restless protectiveness, Aegon stubbornly determined not to fall behind.
As the gates of Ashford opened, Baelor leaned slightly closer.
“You are not alone,” he murmured into Maekar’s hair.
Maekar closed his eyes briefly.
“I know.”
And this time—
He let himself believe it.
The gates of the Red Keep rose ahead of them like some ancient beast carved from stone, all red walls and shadowed battlements against a bruised evening sky.
Red Keep had never looked so massive to Maekar.
Or maybe he had just never felt this small.
He was folded against Baelor’s chest on the same horse, trembling so hard his teeth kept clicking together. His fingers were twisted in the front of Baelor’s tunic, knuckles white, refusing to let go even for breath. Every jolt of the ride sent sparks of pain up his arms where the fresh stitches pulled tight over ruined skin.
He was trying not to sob.
He was failing.
Baelor’s hand was steady at the back of his neck, fingers warm, thumb brushing slow circles beneath his hairline. His other arm stayed wrapped around Maekar’s waist, holding him in place like something precious and breakable.
“It’s alright,” Baelor murmured into his temple, voice low enough that only Maekar could hear. “I’ve got you. Just breathe for me. In… and out.”
Maekar’s breath hitched. He buried his face deeper into Baelor’s chest, inhaling.
He clung to the scent there—clean linen, steel, and something warm and distinctly Baelor. It steadied him just enough that he didn’t slide into the dark place clawing at the edges of his mind.
Behind them, his sons rode close. Daeron at the front, rigid and watchful. Aerion pale but determined. Little Aegon stubbornly upright in his saddle, eyes red from crying.
None of them strayed more than a few paces away.
When the gates opened, the sound echoed like thunder.
The courtyard stilled.
Servants paused. Guards straightened. Stable boys froze mid-step.
Because the sight before them made no sense.
Baelor and Maekar riding together.
Maekar pale as milk. Eyes rimmed red. Clinging like he might shatter if someone breathed too hard.
And blood seeping faintly through the wrappings at his wrists.
Word traveled faster than horses.
By the time they dismounted, their parents were already crossing the yard.
King Daeron moved first.
Daeron II Targaryen did not run. Kings did not run.
He ran.
Myriah followed at his side, skirts gathered in her fists, face already tight with dread.
Myriah Martell saw everything in a single glance.
The way Baelor kept one arm locked around Maekar’s waist.
The way Maekar would not release him.
The way the linen around his wrists was dark. Too dark.
“Maekar?” Daeron’s voice cracked.
Baelor helped him down carefully, hands firm at his ribs.
Maekar’s boots touched stone.
His knees buckled.
Baelor caught him instantly, hauling him close again, practically holding his entire weight.
“Why,” Daeron breathed, stepping closer, eyes scanning his son’s face. “Why are you riding together? What has happened—”
He reached for Maekar’s wrist.
Just to pull him into a gentle embrace.
Just to hold his son.
Maekar lurched back with a sharp hiss.
The sound was animal.
Pain tore through him as the stitches ripped open.
Fresh blood welled instantly, soaking through linen, spilling warm over his hands and dripping down onto the red stone.
Behind him, all three of his sons moved at once.
“Don’t!” Daeron barked.
“Muña—!”
“Please—!”
Baelor stepped between them, one hand bracing Maekar’s shoulders as Maekar sagged forward, breathing fast and shallow.
The king froze.
Then he saw it.
The linen unraveling.
The dark red spreading.
The tremor in Maekar’s body.
“Inside,” Baelor said quietly, though his voice was tight. “We need to go inside. Now.”
Myriah was already there, slipping beneath Maekar’s other arm.
“Oh my heart,” she whispered, horror breaking through her composure. “My sweet boy…”
Maekar could barely focus.
His vision swam.
Each step left small crimson droplets behind him, pooling faintly on the floor of the hall as they guided him inward. He felt like he was walking through water. Through a dream. The throne room blurred past.
Servants stared.
Guards looked away.
He smelled blood.
His blood.
It mixed wrong with the familiar scents of home.
They brought him into a private chamber. Sat him down gently.
Baelor knelt before him immediately.
His sons clustered around like frightened wolves.
Daeron stood there for a heartbeat too long, staring at the spreading stain across the floor.
Then something inside him broke.
Myriah moved first.
She knelt before her son and began unwrapping the soaked linen from his wrists.
Her hands did not shake.
Her face did.
The cloth peeled back slowly.
And the room went silent.
There were old scars.
Thin silver lines.
Thicker ridges.
Crossed patterns.
Layered history.
And beneath them—
Fresh, torn flesh where the stitches had ripped open.
Angry. Raw. Mangled.
Daeron made a sound.
It was not kingly.
It was not dignified.
It was the sound of a father whose heart had just been crushed in his chest.
He staggered forward and dropped to his knees.
“My boy,” he whispered hoarsely.
He took Maekar’s hands carefully this time—so carefully—as if even the air might hurt him.
“Why?” His voice broke entirely. “Why, Maekar? Why would you do this to yourself?”
Tears were running openly down the king’s face now.
“I gave you steel and training and war and duty. I failed you somewhere. Tell me where I failed you.”
Maekar stared at him.
The room felt far away.
He could smell his father.
Warm spice. Leather. Familiar comfort.
It hit something deep and aching inside him.
“I… didn’t want to feel,” Maekar said finally.
His voice was quiet. Flat. Slightly numb.
The admission hung in the air like smoke.
Daeron bowed his head over his son’s ruined wrists.
“You could have come to me,” he choked. “Seven hells, Maekar, you could have come to me.”
Maekar swayed.
The pressure in his chest finally cracked.
He leaned forward.
Collapsed against his father’s chest.
Daeron caught him immediately, wrapping both arms around him, heedless of the blood.
Maekar buried his face against him like he had not done since childhood.
He inhaled.
Gods.
He hadn’t realized how badly he needed this.
That scent.
That steady warmth.
That feeling of being held by someone who had loved him since before he could walk.
“I’m tired,” Maekar whispered.
Daeron pressed his cheek into his son’s hair.
“I know,” he said brokenly. “I know, my brave boy.”
Behind them, Baelor stood very still.
His jaw was tight.
His eyes red.
But there was relief there too—relief that Maekar had leaned into the embrace instead of pulling away.
Myriah worked quickly, cleaning the wounds with gentle efficiency. Fresh thread. Fresh needle.
She stitched him back together with hands that had once mended scraped knees and childish cuts.
Daeron did not release him once.
Not even when Maekar trembled.
Not even when he winced.
Not even when tears finally began slipping silently down his face again.
His sons edged closer.
Daeron knelt at his father’s side, pressing his forehead to Maekar’s shoulder.
“I’m here, muña,” he whispered fiercely.
Aerion rested his hand over Maekar’s back.
Aegon clung to Baelor’s cloak but would not look away.
The king held his son tighter.
“You are not alone in this house,” Daeron said firmly, though his voice shook. “Not while I draw breath.”
Maekar’s fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his father’s tunic.
He didn’t speak again.
He just stayed there.
Breathing in the comfort.
Letting himself be held.
For once not a prince.
Not a warrior.
Not a father.
Just someone’s son.
They stayed like that for a long while.
Myriah finished the last careful stitch and wrapped fresh linen around Maekar’s wrists, softer this time, layered thick. She pressed a kiss to his brow before rising, though she did not go far.
Maekar hadn’t moved from where he’d folded himself into his father’s chest.
Daeron was still on his knees.
Still holding him.
Still breathing like a man who had nearly lost something he could not survive losing.
Baelor sat close at Maekar’s back, one steady hand braced between his shoulder blades. His sons were pressed in too — Daeron against his right side, Aerion’s fingers curled into his sleeve, Aegon practically in his lap.
It felt like a den.
Like a pack gathered tight against winter.
Maekar inhaled slowly.
His scent shifted without him meaning it to — less sharp grief, less metallic fear. Something softer. Something warm and low. It was instinct. Protective. Soothing.
His boys visibly relaxed.
Daeron pressed his face deeper into his shoulder.
Aerion’s breathing steadied.
Aegon stopped shaking.
Maekar swallowed.
He needed to say it before courage slipped away.
His fingers twitched weakly against his father’s tunic.
“Father?” His voice came out smaller than he meant it to. Trembling. Young.
Daeron immediately lifted his head. “Anything,” he said at once. “You need only ask.”
Maekar hesitated.
The words felt heavy.
“I… could you bring my girls from Summerhall?”
The room went very still. He kept his gaze lowered, shame flickering across his face like he was asking for something selfish.
“I know they are safe there. I know it is what was decided but… I need them.” His throat tightened. “I need my daughters home.”
Baelor’s hand pressed more firmly at his back in silent support.
Myriah stepped closer again.
Daeron’s expression softened instantly.
“Of course,” the king said without hesitation. “Rhae and Daella will be brought here at once.”
Rhae Targaryen
Daella Targaryen
“There is no decision that stands above your well-being,” Daeron added quietly.
Maekar’s breath hitched.
But he wasn’t finished.
His fingers tightened slightly in his father’s tunic.
“And… Aemon.”
That name alone made Aerion glance up sharply.
Maekar forced himself to continue.
“Could you… just once… make an exception?” His voice nearly broke. “Let him come from the Citadel. Just for a little while.”
The air shifted.
The Citadel was not easily bent. Its chains were not lightly loosened.Citadel did not give up its novices simply because a prince felt lonely. An order from the King and the King alone would work.
Maekar’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“I need my pups right now.”
There it was. The truth of it. Not politics. Not optics. Need. Raw and unhidden.
He finally looked up at his father, violet eyes rimmed red and fragile.
“I don’t trust my mind when I am alone,” he admitted softly. “But when they are near… when all of them are near… it is quieter.”
Daeron closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, they were bright with tears again.
“My son,” he murmured.
He reached up and cradled Maekar’s face carefully between his palms, avoiding the bandages.
“There will be no rules that matter more than you.”
His voice turned steady. Kingly. Decisive.
“A raven will fly tonight. Aemon will be summoned home.For as long as you need him.”
Maekar’s breath left him in a shaky rush. Relief hit so hard it made him sway. Baelor steadied him immediately, pressing his forehead lightly to the back of Maekar’s head.
“You see?” Baelor murmured softly. “You never have to carry this alone.”
Maekar’s eyes slid closed. His pack. All of them. His daughters on their way. Aemon coming home. His sons pressed against him. Baelor warm at his back. His mother close. His father holding him like he had when he was small enough to fit entirely in his arms. For the first time since waking in this second life, the ache in his chest dulled slightly.
“I’m sorry,” Maekar whispered suddenly, voice cracking. “For being weak.”
Daeron pulled him tighter.
“You are not weak,” the king said fiercely. “You are in pain. There is a difference.”
Aerion leaned up and pressed a tearful kiss to Maekar’s shoulder.
“We’ll guard you,” he said stubbornly.
Daeron nodded sharply. “Every night if we have to.”
Aegon puffed up. “I’ll sleep at the door.”
Baelor huffed a soft, broken laugh.
“You’ll sleep where you are told,” he corrected gently.
Maekar let out a small, fragile sound that might have been the beginning of a laugh.
Or another sob.
Maybe both.
But he didn’t pull away.
He curled deeper into them instead.
And this time, when his eyes closed, it was not from despair.
It was from the first fragile flicker of safety.
The ravens flew before sunrise.
By midmorning, the castle was restless.
Maekar had not left the solar. He sat surrounded — truly surrounded — by bodies and warmth and quiet watchfulness. Baelor remained close enough that their shoulders touched. His sons refused to stray more than a few steps away.
Every footstep in the corridor made Maekar’s head lift.
Every distant shout made his breath hitch.
Until finally—
Hoofbeats.
Fast. Urgent.
The sound echoed through the courtyard like a promise.
Maekar was on his feet before anyone could stop him.
“Maekar—” Baelor started, reaching.
Too late.
Maekar was already moving.
He stumbled once, balance still fragile, but caught himself on the doorway. His wrists throbbed under fresh bandages. He barely felt it.
He reached the stairs of the entrance hall just as the carriage door opened. Two small figures spilled out. White hair flashing in the sun.
“Muña!”
He broke.
Truly broke.
He didn’t walk.
He ran.
Staggering, uneven, half-sobbing as he crossed the courtyard. Rhae Targaryen reached him first, fierce little thing that she was, crashing into him with surprising force. Maekar dropped to his knees just in time, arms wrapping around her small body as if she might vanish. Daella Targaryen followed a second later, nearly tackling both of them.
“Muña, muña, muña!”
Maekar gathered them both up against his chest, clutching them so tight his bandaged wrists trembled.
“My sweetlings,” he choked. “My babies.”
He pressed his face into their hair, breathing them in like a starving man. Summer sun and lavender soap and something bright and uniquely them.
His scent flooded outward, warm, protective, shaking but soft.
Rhae began crying almost immediately.
Daella clung harder.
“You’re crying,” Daella said in alarm, tiny hands framing his face.
“I know,” Maekar laughed wetly. “I know, little dove.”
Behind them, Baelor and the boys stood back, giving space but watching closely. Daeron stood beside Myriah, hands clasped behind his back only because he forced them there. Maekar rose slowly, still clutching both daughters against him. They wrapped around him like vines, one on each side, refusing to let go. He didn’t ask them to. He just held them.
Over and over, he whispered, “I missed you. I missed you so much.”
Rhae pulled back first, studying his face with frightening seriousness for one so young.
“You look sad,” she said bluntly.
Maekar swallowed.
“Not now,” he whispered. “Not with you here.”
The courtyard softened around them.
For a few hours, it felt lighter. Maekar sat in the sunlit courtyard his family surrounding him.
Until—
Another commotion at the gates.
Another horse.
This one ridden hard.
And before anyone could announce him.
“Muña!”
The voice cracked with adolescence and distance and years spent away. Maekar’s heart stopped. He turned just in time to see him. Tall now. Longer limbs. Robes of grey tossed carelessly aside as he leapt from the horse before it had even fully halted.
Aemon did not walk.
He ran.
“I don’t care that I’m supposed to bow!” Aemon shouted breathlessly at a swiftly approaching guard, eyes shining with tears. “Muña!”
He collided with Maekar full force. Maekar barely managed to brace before Aemon launched himself into his arms. Fifteen years old and still climbing him like a child.
Maekar caught him.
Clutched him.
Held him like he would never let go. The impact knocked the air from his lungs but he welcomed it. He buried his face into Aemon’s shoulder, fingers gripping desperately into the fabric at his back.
He had not held him like this in so long.
Not properly.
Not without distance.
“I thought” Aemon’s voice broke violently. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“You won’t,” Maekar said fiercely, though his voice trembled. “You won’t. I’m here.”
Aemon pulled back just enough to see his face.
And then he saw the bandages.
His eyes dropped.
To Maekar’s wrists.
He went very still.
The courtyard quieted again.
King Daeron stepped forward slowly.
“Aemon,” he said gently.
Aemon didn’t release Maekar, but he looked to his grandfather. Daeron’s voice was calm. Measured.
“There has been… much grief in this family,” the king began. “Your mother has carried more than he should have alone.”
Aemon’s jaw tightened.
“I was supposed to see,” he whispered hoarsely. “I see things. I should have known.”
Daeron’s gaze softened painfully.
“You are not a god, my boy.”
Aemon’s hands tightened in Maekar’s tunic.
“What happened?” he asked, voice small now. Frightened. Daeron did not lie.
“Your mother has been hurting himself.”
The words fell heavy. Aemon inhaled sharply. Maekar felt it against his chest.
“He did not wish to feel the grief,” Daeron continued quietly. “It overwhelmed him.”
Aemon’s eyes filled.
He looked back at Maekar.
“You didn’t call for me,” he whispered, wounded.
Maekar cupped his son’s face carefully between his palms.
“I didn’t think I deserved to,” he admitted.
Aemon shook his head violently.
“That’s stupid,” he said through tears. “You always deserve me.”
That did it. Maekar laughed and sobbed at once, pulling him close again. Behind them, Rhae and Daella had attached themselves to his sides again. Daeron and Aerion hovered near. Baelor stepped closer, one hand settling warm and steady at Maekar’s back.
All of them.
Every one of his children.
Around him.
King Daeron watched the cluster of white heads and trembling shoulders. And quietly, fiercely, he swore that whatever darkness had touched his son would not take him again.
Not while this family still stood.
Maekar didn’t let them scatter.
Not even for a moment.
Once the first wave of tears and embraces had settled into something softer, something almost dazed, he gathered them all with a quiet urgency that made everyone move without question.
“Come,” he murmured.
His face had gone pale again — white as parchment beneath the flush of earlier emotion. The effort of standing so long, of holding so tight, was catching up with him. His wrists throbbed beneath linen. His legs felt unsteady.
Daeron was at his right immediately.
Aemon at his left.
They slipped beneath his arms without a word.
Behind them came the rest. Rhae and Daella hand in hand, Aegon hovering, Aerion watchful and quiet. Baelor shadowed them all, close enough to catch anyone who faltered. They returned to his chambers. Maekar’s nest.
It wasn’t truly a nest, of course.
But it felt like one.
Heavy curtains drawn halfway to soften the light. Furs layered thick across the bed and floor. Cushions scattered. The air faintly scented with lavender and cedar and something warmer, something that was purely him.
He exhaled the second he crossed the threshold.
“Close the doors,” he whispered.
They did.
He moved toward the bed but swayed halfway there.Daeron tightened his grip.
“Easy, muña.”
Maekar gave a faint, distracted nod. He climbed onto the bed with help, settling against the mountain of pillows. His daughters crawled up first without invitation, pressing into his sides. Aegon followed stubbornly. Aemon slid in at his shoulder.
Daeron hesitated only a breath before joining them.
Aerion stayed at the edge for a moment longer.
Watching.
Then Baelor crossed the room, gently guiding Aerion closer with a quiet hand at his back.
Within minutes, Maekar was completely surrounded.
Buried.
White hair everywhere. Warm limbs overlapping. The weight of them pressing in.
It was overwhelming.
It was exactly what he wanted.
He inhaled deeply.
Let his scent rise again, warmer this time, richer. Protective and soothing and steady.
His children responded without thinking.
Rhae melted against his ribs.
Daella nuzzled beneath his chin.
Aemon’s breathing slowed.
Daeron rested his forehead against Maekar’s temple.
Even Aerion relaxed visibly.
Baelor remained at the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly on Maekar’s ankle, a silent anchor.
Maekar closed his eyes.
“I just need you all close,” he murmured faintly. “Just for a while.”
“No one is going anywhere,” Baelor said softly.
Hours passed.
They drifted into sleep in pieces, one by one.
The room grew heavy and warm and quiet.
But Maekar did not sleep deeply.
The ache under his skin never quite left.
When he woke, it was dark.
The bed was still full.
Bodies tangled together in a loose pile.
His heart clenched with gratitude so sharp it hurt.
And yet—
The restlessness was back.
A crawling thing under his ribs.
He moved slowly, carefully, sliding out from beneath Rhae’s arm, lifting Daella’s hand gently away. Aemon stirred but did not wake.
Maekar stepped onto the cold stone floor.
He did not wake Baelor.
He did not wake his sons.
He just walked.
Out of the chamber.
Down the corridor.
Into the gardens.
The night air hit his face cool and sharp.
Moonlight silvered the paths.
He wandered without direction, bare feet against damp grass, arms folded loosely around himself.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
He just couldn’t stay still.
Behind him a shadow separated itself from the wall.
Aerion. He had watched. He always watched.
Aerion waited until his mother reached the willow tree near the small reflecting pool before following properly. Maekar sank down at its base, back against the trunk, staring at nothing. The willow’s branches hung low around him like curtains.
He looked so small there.
So tired.
Aerion stepped forward quietly.
“Muña?”
Maekar blinked, startled, and then softened immediately.
“Aerion.”
He tried to smile.
It didn’t quite hold.
Aerion crossed the distance and dropped to his knees without hesitation. Then, just like he had as a boy, he crawled straight into Maekar’s lap. Maekar’s arms came around him automatically. Even with bandaged wrists. Aerion buried his face into the crook of his neck. And then he broke.
“I’m sorry,” he sobbed.
The words tore out of him raw.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
Maekar stiffened slightly.
“For what, my little one?” he whispered.
Aerion shook his head violently against his shoulder.
“I make things worse,” he choked. “I’m angry and I shout and I fight and I didn’t see. I didn’t see you hurting. I should have.”
Maekar’s grip tightened.
“Oh, Aerion.”
“I thought you were strong enough for anything,” Aerion gasped. “I thought you didn’t need— I thought—”
He couldn’t finish.
Maekar pressed his face into his son’s hair.
“You listen to me,” he said softly but firmly.
Aerion’s sobbing hitched.
“I am strong,” Maekar continued. “And I am weak. I am both. That is what makes me human.”
Aerion’s hands fisted in his tunic.
“I don’t want you to hurt,” he whispered desperately.
“I know.”
Maekar breathed him in — smoke and steel and salt tears.
He let his scent rise again, wrapping it around Aerion like a blanket.
“You are not responsible for my wounds,” he murmured. “None of you are.”
Aerion’s crying softened to trembling breaths.
“I need you alive,” he said quietly.
Maekar swallowed hard.
“I am trying,” he answered honestly.
They sat there for a long time.
Under the willow.
Moonlight painting them silver.
Aerion curled small despite his growing height, tucked against his father’s chest.
And when Maekar finally rested his chin atop his son’s head, holding him close in the quiet garden, he realized something fragile but real.
The darkness was still there.
But he was not facing it alone anymore.