—so deeply are you engraved (certainly, within mine heart)
young!baelor 'breakspear' targaryen x reader x young!maekar i targaryen summary: the keep is quiet. baelor's distractions have sequestered themselves away, waiting for him. wc: 3k tags: implied targcest between baelor and maekar, polyamory, smut, religious guilt, not beta read but short and sweet
It’s a strange thing. A difficult thing. A thing hardly understood.
Baelor found the Keep particularly quiet that day, which he took note of with all the hesitance of a person who feared his own superstition. The day was pale and sunny, the first clear sky in two moons; a gentle chill had settled over King’s Landing, one that brought with it a sort of nostalgia for warmer days.
Only a man, he found his mind wandering. It tended to do that often, these days, and the distraction was as welcome as it was not. It mattered not if he was breaking his fast, gathering for luncheon, dining with his family, sitting the Small Council, attending his father as he held court — his mind returned to the same place.
(It was a strange thing. A foolish thing. A blasphemous thing. He told himself this often, but his mind did not care for the telling.)
His father did not speak of it, though Baelor would be a fool to assume he did not know. He did not speak of the letters sent to the Keep during the honeymoon, or the inappropriate amount of time spent with a man who was not your husband.
They had proven themselves during the Rebellion; it was for this reason that their father seemed to acquiesce their strange dalliance.
By the time his father adjourned the Council — earlier than he would usually dare, but with that smile in his eye that said he was doing it for Baelor’s benefit — his distraction had coiled something terrible beneath his skin, his perfect princely skin. Immediately he thought to temper himself, and so he stood by the window in the hallway outside the Small Council chamber, and peered out across the length of King’s Landing. He eyed the plumes of smoke and the flocks of birds and the little people scurrying about like ants in the Keep, and tried to think of his duties to that smoke and those birds and those people.
There was a sort of calmness within duty, within routine. A safety that could not cast judgement or turn him inside out, a refuge that would not pick and prod at the darkest, most shameful parts of him.
(Still, his mind returned to that place.)
A maid scurried past, arms laden with fresh linens, and he knew he made a strange sight. There he was, The Hammer, the King’s heir, newlywed and handling his introspection in a quiet hallway instead of in the arms of his ladywife. If only it was not with her that his introspection battled.
And he had come to terms with it, really — had come to terms with the arrangement before he had wed you, even. In fact, he had agreed wholeheartedly, and with a vehemence he had never allowed himself to feel, and had come to terms with his own peculiarity for coming to terms with the peculiar arrangement. He had accepted it with all the surety of someone who knew you, and knew the certainty of loving you — an inevitability as unshakeable as the sun rising each morning.
He thought it a boon. A spoil of war, he had once mused, comforting himself in that way that one often does when they don’t want to confront their own deficiencies. After he had bled and fought for the land, he thought to allow himself just this — his duty, and his love, and his oddities, not at war but existing alongside each other.
But that was before. Before the wedding night. Before the marriage bed. Before—
The Keep was quiet. Too quiet. His distractions had no doubt squirrelled themselves away to do what distractions often did, and he had neither reason nor excuse to not join them. His duties never quite ceased, but they were no longer pressing, and he was newly wed, and it was expected, wasn’t it, that he would spend some time performing all those duties of marriagehood?
In the end, the fires would burn and the birds would fly and the people would scurry, even in his absence.
Baelor exhaled, and resigned himself to his fate; he turned from the window, and followed his heart to Maegor’s Holdfast.
Your solar was a comfort to him. You had been very particular in its design — rich colours, but straying from black and red, for he had enough of it himself. You enjoyed purples and greens and sunny yellows, and gauzy curtains that filtered light in a soft, dream-like haze. The windows were large and arched, and the doors to the balcony were almost always open, save for those days when the wind blustered and the rain fell like ice; there were cushions and pillows and blankets, and rugs underfoot, and flowers upon the table that you picked from the gardens. Roses, he noted.
The solar was quiet, too. Empty. Even the serving maids and guards had been dismissed.
But the bedroom door was ajar, and he knew where you were as thoroughly as he knew the pounding in his ears. It was some innate sense that he had developed upon your meeting, he thought, or some innate sense that had burrowed in him and sprouted upon the birth of his youngest brother.
It was there that his legs carried him, as if possessed; it was there that he could hear you, hear your movements, the groans and shifts of your beloved. Through that doorway, he saw, the sun had cast its favour — golden light bathed the room, and he felt its warmth as he neared. The warmth only deepened as his fingers brushed the handle and pushed the door further open.
His heart was in his throat. He knew what would greet him. Hungered for it, even, and hated himself for it, and despite the hatred, couldn’t stop himself from seeking it out.
“There you are,” you said when he stepped through, voice something like a sigh. You shifted yourself — the length of your spine curling and twisting in tandem, your hips doing something he knew to be nefarious — and Maekar groaned from beneath you. “We’ve been waiting, husband.”
It is said with all the nonchalance of a person who is decidedly not mounting his youngest brother. And yet, there you are, upon his lap, completely bare and shameless for it. His stomach twisted pleasantly.
His brother was red from the shoulders up, face contorted in a grimace that Baelor knew was all pleasure. His brother’s hands — calloused, his mind noted, as if it were important — did not seem to know what to do with themselves. One moment they gripped your hips with all the ferocity he used on his mace; the next, his brother seemed to remember you to be precious, and soft, with flesh that gave and bruised, and flexed them away.
“Has it been terribly long?” he said, feigning normality. His voice was hoarse, and you cast him a knowing smile over your shoulder.
“Oh, quite. Though I’ve taken the opportunity to work on Maekar’s patience.”
“There is nothing wrong with my patience,” Maekar said, and it was funny, Baelor thought, the way he tried to temper himself. Like a cat that’d had its claws nipped — unwilling to hurt you, or treat you too roughly, but with a nature that did not know how to exist without it. “Now move.”
“He was ever so hesitant,” you continued. Baelor looked away from you, then; at the spread of clothes haphazardly discarded upon the floor, and the bowl of fruits on the bedside table, and the chalice of wine — one, not two, though doubtlessly you’d both supped from it. Still, from the corner of his traitorous eye he saw your hand smooth over the white fur of Maekar’s chest; saw the way his brother’s scowl lightened, if only minutely. “We have passed our honeymoon, Baelor, but—”
“Stop.” It came as a hiss, but you were well-versed in his brother’s shortness — tended him with a hand almost as practiced as Baelor’s own — and tilted your head.
(Baelor did not know where to look. He had every right to stare at the heavy curve of your breasts, or the fold of your stomach, or the pooling of the sheets around your bottom. He was your husband. He had taken you in this very bed more than once. He knew how your skin dented under his fingertips and how your mouth tasted, and how your breath shorted in your chest as you came.
But it felt wrong, here. Perverted. Deviant. His eyes still found themselves trailing back to the pair of you, though.)
“Are you ashamed, my love?” you cooed. You cupped Maekar’s face, then, thumbs running over his pockmarked cheeks and growing whiskers. Baelor is struck by it — the tenderness with which you hold his brother. When had Maekar ever been treated so gently by someone who wasn’t his mother? He could see the fight seep from him. “Such feelings do not serve you. Haven’t you learned this?”
Maekar said nothing. Baelor took the chair from the writing desk, dragged it to the bedside, and sat down. His trousers were painfully tight; within minutes, seconds, his manhood had stiffened. But he did not shed his layers or clamber onto the bed with you — not yet. There was that something forcing his limbs to lock; shame, or guilt, or sin sitting alongside the unbearable heat.
It had been acceptable when you were trading kisses. Acceptable, when your hands found both Maekar’s and Baelor’s own; sweet, when he found you reading softly to his brother in the evenings, the contention gone from his shoulders. It had been pure. Understandable. It was love, and Baelor knew love, and he knew Maekar, and he knew you.
But this was a new development. This was… it was everything he had ever denied himself, gluttony and lust and vice, and perhaps he had been denied it for good reason. Perhaps he sat upon a precipice from which he could not return — whether by his own will, or yours, or Maekar’s.
There was a gravelly groan, and Baelor watched as you hinged low and placed a chaste kiss upon Maekar’s lips — watched as you pulled away, your lover chasing you, neck straining in his attempt. But you had already turned your own gaze on Baelor, and it burned like fire.
“What are you doing over there?” you demanded.
“Watching you.”
“Undress, my prince.”
He didn’t answer. His eyes trailed downwards, instead — his traitorous eyes, which he could rarely control, which were slaves to his most base instincts. They smoothed over your breasts, the hardened buds that begged his attention, and you arched your back and pushed them out as if to punish him. There was the round curve of your hip, and the freckles and scars that coloured your skin; the squeeze of your thighs around Maekar’s broad hips — and then there, yes, there, where your cunt had split around the thick length of his brother, your dark curls pressed against shocking white. His throat went dry again. He looked to Maekar — his brother was already watching him.
“The bed is big enough for three,” you said.
“I know.”
“Hm.” Your gaze returned to his brother. “Well, I shan’t move until you do.”
Maekar scowled. “Woman—”
“What will I do with you both?” you interjected loudly. “You are princes of this land, and cannot bear to take advantage of it. If there is anyone who can share a wife in this realm, it is you two.”
Your fingers trailed over a dusky nipple, and Maekar’s stomach tensed. Those hands clutched you once more.
“In fact,” you said quietly, “I was under the impression that that was the agreement.”
There was silence. The breath had stilled in Baelor’s chest. The flush of Maekar’s skin had not abated — and you, as you tended to, sat between them with all the compelling allure of a crown jewel. A bridge between brothers. An outstretched hand, a whisper of comfort. A reassurance — no matter the dirt, or the blood, or the shame, I will love you still.
There was no man Baelor trusted more with you than Maekar. There was no woman Baelor trusted more with Maekar than you.
“Ask him, Maekar,” you said. Your fingers kept true to their devilish path — back and forth, tweaking the bud of Maekar’s nipple, scraping your nail against it gently.
Maekar was not a man accustomed to begging. He was unfalteringly proud and stubborn — something Baelor hoped would dampen with age —, and though he took orders like any good soldier, this was decidedly not a war. The bed was not a battlefield, and you were no General; but Maekar’s lips parted, and he peered up at you with that same sort of devotion, and Baelor’s heart was in his throat.
“Ask him, my love,” you repeated, voice soft. “Don’t you want me to move?”
His chest shuddered — and, with a moment’s hesitation, Maekar’s eyes met his. Dark violet, near blue; eyes Baelor had met a thousand times and more, and yet he had never seen them take on this edge. It burrowed itself in the deepest part of him — grew brambles and thorns and fixed itself somewhere deep and dark. Baelor’s jaw was clenched so tight it ached.
Maekar swallowed. His own reservations showed on his face — flitted across his familiar features in the press of his brow, the momentary gritting of his teeth. But it broke, then, and there was only that natural, ever-present frown on his face, and a sense of resignation that Baelor knew all too well.
“…Please.”
Gods. Seven, give him strength. His fingers trembled as they unfastened his Hand pin, unbuttoned his doublet, and then his shirt. His eyes were not on the buttons, or the laces — they were on you, on Maekar, watching as you finally fulfilled your promise and moved atop him. The sound of your cunt stretching around him, your bottom slapping gently against his thighs — your soft, breathy moans, and Maekar’s answering groans. Fuck, damn him, and damn it all — damn you, and your insatiable desire, and your shamelessness, and his leash that you so firmly held—
You sighed into his mouth when he kissed you, your jaw a weight in his hand. He handled you with a roughness he had not allowed himself before — not a lack of care, never that, but with the knowledge that you could take what he gave you and more. His other hand helped you rock — back and forth, up and down, a frantic sort of movement that stuttered your breathing and had you clutching him, clutching Maekar, caught between hammer and anvil.
A laugh erupted from you. Breathy, and proud, and so entirely satisfied. Pulling back, you peered up at him, eyes glittering with mirth. “There you are, Baelor. I thought you’d never crack.”
“I’ll allow myself this,” he heard himself say. He hardly recognised his own voice, gruff and breathless as it was, edged with an impatience he did not know he could express so freely. “Come here, wife.”
He leaned forward to kiss you again — and, so taken with you, and the sounds of pleasure that filled the room, he did not realise he’d steadied himself with a hand on the hard plane of Maekar’s stomach until it tensed.
He looked at Maekar.
Maekar looked at him.
He did not move it.
The sun was beginning to set. The light was a burnt orange, warm and comforting, and Baelor felt himself succumb to its warmth.
Maekar had fallen asleep first — which was funny in that way that Maekar was often funny, in that contradictory and haughty way of his. The young man had collapsed with his head upon your breasts, snoring loudly, thoroughly spent and satisfied. You had taken him for all he was worth, and it had left you trembling, flushed with a fine layer of sweat, and incredibly smug. You pet Maekar's hair fondly, thoughtlessly, like it was little more than second nature to seek him out; you did the same to Baelor, hand covering his own over your stomach.
“Are you finished brooding, now?” you asked.
He stilled. “…I don’t quite know what you mean.”
“Oh, please. Avoiding my solar when Maekar is here, and averting your gaze like a virgin pure. A wife notices these things.”
“I could be jealous,” he said, knowing the words to be untruthful. It was not jealousy that had simmered in his stomach.
“You’re not,” you said, smiling knowingly. “Not of him, nor of me.”
Baelor didn’t speak; just continued to feel your skin under his fingers, and come to terms with the more lecherous facets of an already peculiar arrangement; the more lecherous facets of himself, who had only ever been the perfect, order-following eldest son. Noble and brave and pious.
Your hand lifted from his, and came to cup his cheek.
“In here,” you said quietly, “you may leave your reservations at the door. Shed your skin, husband, and live freely.”
He looked into your eyes, the unbridled fondness in them, and suddenly felt a lump in his throat. When had a person last looked upon him with such unfettered affection? Unaffected by his status, or his standing, or the blood on his hands? Not anticipating a reward or boon or favour?
“I — I am afraid I do not know how,” Baelor said, swallowing, and let himself be drawn towards you once more. He pressed his nose to the crook of your neck, and heard the shakiness of his breath echo against you.
“You did it today,” you reminded him. “Come, look at me.”
He did as he was asked. He tended to do that, where you were concerned.
“You did it today,” you said, smiling. “And all it took was a whisper from Maekar, you tender-hearted sap.”
His cheeks flushed. “Yes, well…”
“It seems like a grand undertaking, but you have undertaken it and survived.”
“Barely,” he said dryly.
“All limbs and extremities accounted for — you shan’t be so lucky, next time, between Maekar and I.”
A surprised laugh stirred his chest. “I shall look forward to it.”
— and Baelor found, surprisingly, that he meant it.
Between Maekar’s snores, and your steady breaths, the Keep was no longer quiet.
