By the time the second batch of the so-called "dancers" arrived, Maekar had enough of the ridiculousness and went out to find where Baelor had fucked off.
He'd left with a wineskin, from what Maekar remembered, and with the intention to be alone before the celebrations swelled. Maekar had been of the mind to join him if hadn't been gorging himself with the food. Walten Hayford's taste for festivities was something that Maekar found distasteful (he would have thrown the next woman who tried to sit on his lap, manners be damned), but the man's talent for curing sweetmeats was not to be laughed at. Not that he'd tell the old man that.
Baelor was not in his tent, nor in the command post, but Maekar found him a good distance away where the rabble from the celebrations were distant enough to be muted. It was a clear night out, and Baelor deemed it pertinent to bask out with alcohol, brooding like some fucking learned man from YiTi.
Maekar sat next to him with a groan. Baelor drank as if unperturbed at his intrusion, the bastard.
"I see that Lord Hayford's entertainment is as riveting as ever," he said lightly.
"Oh, fuck off. You weren't there."
"Yes, a shame, that." It was spoken with the same voice he used for counting grains.
"If I was his wife, I'd wish I died in childbed too."
"Seven hells," Maekar heard him mutter under his breath amusedly. "Now that is a slight on his lady wife."
"What? I heard it from the woman herself. Were you not there when we heard her also promising to geld him the next time he brings home another bastard?"
"Yes." Maekar was not fooled at the way Baelor's voice sounded strained as if refusing to laugh. "It does not bear repeating, however."
"Although," said Baelor, "I did see a woman earlier approach Lord Hayford with a boy of around three in tow. She might have to geld him after all."
They both shared a glance before bursting into a laugh.
"That was fucking terrible," Maekar grumbled, sobering. He could acknowledge as much. And he could respect how headstrong Lady Hayford was.
Baelor hummed noncommittally, falling back to his silence.
"So what are you doing here then?"
A shrug. "I'm not yet in the mood for the celebrations, I find."
So was Maekar, in truth. He'd rather be ahorsed at present and on his way to the Red Keep. He missed Dyanna, and he wanted to see how tall Daeron and Aerion had grown after several moons.
Baelor continued, "Not to mention the far too many deaths to think of."
That, and the significant ones that Baelor tried not to dwell on. Maekar eyed his wineskin, deciding to take a swig himself. Baelor said nothing, but then again, it was a shit wine.
"That bastard still owed me fifty golden dragons," Maekar said after some time, the memory insignificant now. "He claimed that Aegor is an unstoppable ass. The blood of the horse in him, he said." He snorted. "I proved him wrong, of course. And Aegor is still a fucking ass. I didn't tell Daemon that I got a rib almost broken. He might took it for a draw."
"It might as well be, seeing as he didn't end up paying," Baelor pointed out amusedly. He swallowed a huge drink. "Daemon was the one who introduced me to Volantene ale. Said I didn't look like the type for the sweetness of Dornish wine despite that side of the family. He knew I have no special fondness for ciders either. He was right that I'd like the ale though. He had a sweet tooth himself and liked the Redwyne grapes, but he shared half a casket of that ale with me."
Baelor looked distantly, where darknesss covered the red of the field beyond. Where the dead bodies lay in heaps not too long ago. "Maekar... I'm glad we don't have dragons."
Maekar grunted. So was he.
He quietly considered the alcohol that they were presently sharing and knew it would not compare to the one Baelor spoke of, but it seemed a fitting one to spill on the bit of grass on their feet that remained green. Baelor mimicked the gesture wordlessly until the wineskin emptied, and with the spilled wine the late fond memory of a once friend.
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