Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Maekar has infrequently been grumbling to himself for at least an hour now, low sounds that are probably meant to go into his beard and stay there, but as much as Baelor loves said beard, it does not serve in this regard. He sighs, likewise not for the first time, and looks up from the hefty tome he's currently trying to read, something about forestry, to glare at his brother. Who does not even deign to glare back at him, scowling instead at the letter in his hand, slouching in the big upholstered armchair beside the King's desk Baelor is sitting at, elbow propped up on one armrest. Next to him the sidetable is littered with more correspondence, half of it sorted into a system Baelor could not understand even if he had studied it from birth. He remembers what it was like, being the Hand of the King, and for a moment envies his brother. It would be cruel, making Maekar King, but he makes a better Hand than Baelor himself had been. Smiles are better suited to kings.

He catches himself staring, at the lines on Maekar's face and his pale eyes and long fingers and the sprawl of his body that means there will be massaging later in bed, and looks back down at the tome, trying to find his place, when the door opens. There's a big frame in fine clothes filling the doorway, and Duncan smiles and comes to him first. He leans down and kisses his husband sweetly, lingering bent over the desk, one large hand stroking Baelor's cheek softly, almost reverently. Baelor's hand comes up from the book, circling Duncan's wrist – not that he could actually close his fingers around it – and he presses a soft kiss to the heel of his hand.

"Everything alright with the horses?" he murmurs and lets go of that thick wrist.

"Aye," Duncan laughs, straightening again, "and now Egg's thrown me out of the stables, although why he feels the need to prove himself grown by helping birth a foal of all things I could not tell you. But it suits me right well, not sitting in the damned straw any more." He turns, finally, to Maekar, who again does not look up, doesn't move at all in fact, and Baelor knows it's petulance that his son asked Duncan to check on the horses (not at all to keep him company) and not him, even though Maekar hates sitting in the straw and would have complained about the smell the entire time.

"You're in my chair," Duncan says accusatory, hands on his hips and shoulders squared, and still Maekar's gaze is on the vellum. His voice is clipped.

"Last time I checked," he remarks, emphasising pettily, "it was the King's chair." His head twitches a little bit, but otherwise he remains dead still, though to Baelor his slouch looks rather tense.

Duncan indulges his antics. "Aye, and who 'm I married to?"

"And I am his Hand," Maekar rebukes, "which makes me higher in rank than the fucking Queen." Still no movement.

Duncan scoffs, and suddenly both of them are looking at Baelor, who has been watching them with fond amusement until now and suddenly feels his eyebrows raise on their own accord.

"Do not bring me into this." Maekar opens his mouth, Duncan draws in a breath, and Baelor tilts his head and shoots them both an incredulous glance. "I should think the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the Hand of the King are quite capable of resolving a border dispute amongst themselves," he says and looks back down at the page he hasn't been reading since before Duncan came in. His lovers are distracting, and Baelor loves watching them, but this they can fight out between themselves.

Which does not mean he will stop listening. Or watching, once he can risk accidentally making eye contact again.

Maekar, unsuccessful in his usual strategy of letting his big brother handle his troubles, tries a different tack.

"I'm already sitting here."

"Oh very mature of you, Lord Hand. But would a man as honourable as yourself truly leave the Queen standing?"

"There are other chairs." There is the rustling of vellum, and Baelor hazards a glance. Maekar and Duncan are now looking at each other, Duncan's hands still at his hips but his back eased. Maekar, mostly hidden behind Duncan's bulk, has a stubborn tilt to his clenched jaw, but the letter is lying on the table now and the hand Baelor can see is open and gesticulating at the other chairs that are indeed in the room.

"But you know damn well they are too small for me to sit in comfortably." Duncan is right, both in the fact and that Maekar knows it. Baelor swallows a fond smile at their affectations that he had at first thought would be temporary. He really should have known better. They are both headstrong and stubborn and love to argue with each other, and Baelor is quite glad they fit together so well, and that for Maekar it cuts down on time spent arguing with him instead. He initially had feared they were posturing, vying for his affections, fighting out an imaginary war about him, but never once has he been dragged baselessly into an actual fight between them, so he indulges them, every so often, like the gracious King he is. It is no hardship.

"It is not my fault that you are a great big oaf of a man." As customary, there is less swearing for Maekar and more proper articulation for Duncan, and Baelor wishes he could get them to talk that courtly in actual court, if not the small council, but then he remembers that only he gets to hear them like this, and maybe those lords can stand to be coursed out sometimes. It keeps them humble, and slightly afraid of his Hand, which nobody enjoys more than said man.

"The great big oaf is going to remove you from that chair by force if you do not withdraw at once."

Maekar snarls and gives up on etiquette. "I'll knife you, you poor-bred bastard." There is, Baelor notes with a bit of relief he would never confess to, absolutely no heat behind his words, and Duncan takes them with an easy smile in his voice.

"Does the incestuous alien have something to say about my breeding?"

"I will-" but Duncan cuts him off.

"And you left your knife by the door." A beat of silence. Maekar tries something very unwise, but from his tone Baelor is sure he does not realise it.

"My mother sat with me in this chair years before you were even born!"

"Aye?" Baelor can hear the smugness in Duncan's voice and looks up to see his brother's horrified realisation of what he has just given his opponent. "Your mother? And what position did she hold in court?"

Maekar sputters, but it's too late. Duncan's massive hands at the end of his more massive arms grab him like a child, right hand behind the back and left one under his knees, and in one quick turn he's sitting in the chair, a protesting Maekar cradled on his lap.

Neither of them even glances at Baelor, and Duncan grabs Maekar's chin with his left hand, turns his head, and slots their lips together. It's a filthy kiss, Baelor can see their tongues slide against each other between shiny spit-slicked lips, hear the wet noises of their movements between low moans and grunts, and then his brother bites Duncan, who laughs and lets up. Even with Maekar sitting on his thick thighs their heads are not quite level, and Baelor could watch his brother's sleek, lithe form framed by the smooth, expansive planes of his husband's massive shape forever and still hunger for it. Maekar is dressed in dark, formfitting clothes, long lines across Duncan in his lighter garb. Where Maekar had sprawled and still only used part of the big armchair, Duncan now fills it, easy and soft. They're grinning at each other.

Duncan puts his left hand on Maekar's thighs, hoists him properly back up onto his lap, and starts petting him, absent-mindedly moving his fingers across the dark fabric, and his hand is so big. Baelor has little hope for the tome in front of him on the desk.

But Maekar just reaches behind him, steadied by Duncan's other arm around his back, and continues his work of reading and sorting, reading and sorting, occasionally making Duncan grab the papers for him or directing his longer arms to put them onto a farther pile. Duncan hums here and there, places lazy kisses on Maekar's temple and forehead, and otherwise sits, eyes half-closed, happy to dose and, Baelor knows from experience, radiate warmth. What exactly, Baelor thinks, went wrong, that the King is sitting at a desk on a subpar chair while his younger brother and Hand gets to sit on the very comfortable lap of said King's husband. But he loves them dearly, and he really does have to read at least this chapter and the next, so he lets them indulge, as he always does, and Duncan smiles at him, soft and open and beautiful, over silver-white hair.

Pages later Baelor looks up to a movement across the room. Maekar, apparently dissatisfied with Duncan's fetching skills, is stretching backwards over the armrest, long arms reaching for one of the papers on the sidetable, longer legs extending in the other direction for balance, and he's wiggling. With his ass still firmly planted in Duncan's lap, Duncan obviously having noticed, and he's glaring at Maekar, whose wiggling is turning into writhing when his arms are still not long enough, dark doublet riding up to expose a strip of pale skin at his belly. Duncan's right hand is still underneath Maekar's back, but the left holding down Maekar's legs lifts for just a moment. With a loud thud Maekar's boot smacks down onto the flagstone, and Duncan's large hand is now spanning the inside of the thigh remaining across his lap, light skin on dark fabric. Baelor abandons his book again and watches his brother turn red from the overhead stretch and the struggle to sit back up, paper in hand, until Duncan lifts his torso, other hand remaining on Maekar's inner thigh. Now Maekar finally glares back at Duncan, and meanly grinds his hips once in Duncan's lap. Baelor can feel his own cock slowly hardening in his breeches, and he is only watching, which means Duncan is definitely hard.

Maekar tugs his doublet back down over his stomach and goes to lean back against Duncan's chest to read what he just retrieved, but Duncan, with his right hand now in Maekar's neck (Gods, spanning from ear to ear easily, Baelor will never tire of that sight alone), forces his head back around to kiss him hungrily, left hand moving leisurely up Maekar's thigh towards his groin. His dark breeches and the angle hide any reaction, but they moan into each other's mouth. Maekar refuses to let go of the hard-won letter. He breaks the kiss.

"I have to fucking finish this," he snarls. "Unlike some people my position requires actual work." Duncan grins like a shark.

"Oh, I think in this position I can do most of the work," he leers and palms Maekar's cock trough his breeches. Baelor stutters through a breath at the way his brothers crotch just disappears beneath Duncan's hand. Maekar groans and tries to move away from that hand half-heartedly.

"You reek," he protests, even though he is mouthing at Duncan's jaw and neck unhurriedly.

"Mmm," Duncan hums, "like a horse, I reckon." He tilts his head to bare more of his neck and groans as well, deep and pleased.

"Like the stables," Maekar grumbles between open-mouthed kisses to Duncan's throat, "and if you make a jape about riding I will-" Duncan kisses him again.

They stay like that for a bit, kissing deeply, Maekar squirming a little on Duncan's lap, and Baelor muses idly how he might join them, when he sees Duncan's hand move at his brother's crotch.

He's opening the laces, one-handed since his other is still at Maekar's head, now grabbing at the silver-white strands, and has sneaked in his fingertips before Maekar realises. His hands, the right still grabbing that letter, grasp at Duncan's large wrist, trying to pull it away, but it is a useless endeavour: Duncan's arms are stronger, and he has good leverage in this position besides, and Baelor enjoys his brother's useless struggle against his own pleasure so much. Still no one has even looked at him, and he feels dirty and aroused, watching his husband force his brother to cuckold him, the King. His small groan at the thought is lost in Maekar's complaints.

"Take your hand away," Maekar protests again, undercut by the breathy tone of his voice. Duncan just hums. His arm, crossing over Maekar, effectively holding him in place, barely strains against Maekar's efforts to get out from under it entirely, or at least get it back to more innocent territory. Baelor can see his fingers moving inside his brother's breeches, leisurely and unconcerned but slowly driving Maekar insane, if the twitching of his long, lean thighs is anything to go by. His cock is straining against the fabric and towards those fingers. He again yanks at Duncan's wrist, to no avail, and then apparently decides on a different course of action.

"Fine," he huffs, ceding ground he cannot truly afford to loose. It is all Duncan needs, and his left hand is fully inside now, stroking over Maekar's cock, the fabric stretched over it, showing every languid movement. Maekar is stoically back to reading the letter, Duncan mouthing at his temple and jaw, nuzzling his pretty beard, and Baelor can see the strain in his brothers face, the thin control he has over himself at least, after losing control over the situation. It rankles him, Baelor knows, to cede to Duncan instead of his older brother, because Duncan does not want it for itself, never one to really enjoy people doing what he tells them to. Duncan just likes people being pleased and happy, and with Maekar that usually means pleasing him by force. His brother does not want to show weakness, and for him that includes pleasure. It suits Baelor just fine, having to break his little brother a bit, and Duncan seems to have developed a taste for it as well.

Baelor, seeing the slow, deliberate movements of Duncan's massive hand in Maekar's breeches, turns back to his book. This seems like it will take its time.

For a while, there's only the slow breathing of himself and Duncan, the slightly uneven breathing of Maekar, the occasional muffled sound of a kiss against Maekar's skin, and the rustling of handling letters and turning pages. They are back to the easy atmosphere of before, except that every time Baelor glances up he can see the small movements in Maekar's breeches, and his brother has a dusting of pink across the fair skin of his cheeks. Baelor smiles to himself and turns back to the page. His lovers will be beautifully placid and mellow after this, and incredibly worked up, and he is already planning on how, exactly, he is going to use that to his own benefit (And theirs, of course. If they are good. Perhaps.) when he hears Maekar groan, and then a muffled curse.

Duncan makes a low, crooning sound into Maekar's neck, his right hand covering Maekar's mouth and most of his lower face, and Baelor can feel his cock twitch in his breeches where he's sitting. He can see Duncan's left hand between his brothers thighs again, now glistening with oil, wherever he may have gotten that from. It moves, from what little Baelor can see, past his brother's cock and to his ass. Baelor knows Duncan has inserted the first of his thick fingers by the way Maekar stops cursing and gasps instead behind that large hand on his face, body going taut. Duncan's hand between his legs shifts, and a fully-body shiver runs trough his brother. The hand on his face is drawn back to grip into his fair hair in a way Baelor guesses is slightly painful and knows his brother likes.

Maekar's face is flushed, and his body has begun squirming in a most enticing way, continouos little motions emanating from his hips, still firmly seated in Duncan's lap. Duncan himself seems almost unaffected, has a certain glint in his eyes that makes Baelor reconsider his plan of watching them until he is invited, until they beg for his presence, the King's presence, like they should. But before he can reach a decision, absent-mindedly spinning the ring around his ring finger, Duncan prevails.

"I thought you had work to do, Lord Hand?" His voice is low, Baelor can hear the smirk in it, and Maekar groans in answer, and pulls a face. "Do not let me keep you from it with the unimportant dawdling my largely ceremonial position permits me. I only have to sit around and look pretty, after all. Unlike some people." Baelor can't keep the grin from his face. Duncan spoke in a very courtly, elaborate tone that Maekar most definitely cannot replicate right now, which he knows, which is why he opts to, instead of answering, bite Duncan's neck. Or he tries, but Duncan just tightens his hand slightly, and Maekar's snarl turns into a long, drawn-out moan when Duncan – presumably – pushes his second thick finger into Maekar and rubs over that spot inside.

Duncan just hums and continues the stretching, and Baelor finds himself leaning slightly forward to get a better view. Maekar is writhing in Duncan's hold, face turned red and strained, and he's making small, desperate sounds that go straight to Baelor's cock. The room is filled with his brother's moans and whines and the slick sounds of Duncan's fingers in his ass, long lean legs sporadically jerking on Duncan's tree-trunk thighs. Maekar's hands are clutching at Duncan's left arm with no hope of his fingers closing around it. His hips move and move and move.

"Maybe," Duncan starts conversationally, and Maekar's glare is cut off by a motion between his thighs that makes his eyes snap shut, "you don't want to work today." Maekar makes some kind of huffing sound and tries to leverage his hips up and away from Duncan's fingers. Duncan's muscles in his arm tighten. Maekar's legs tremble slightly. He does not move an inch, at least not away. "Maybe today you want to be the one sitting around and looking pretty." Maekar's knuckles are white on Duncan's arm, and his eyes are still pressed closed, an almost pained expression on his drawn-tight face. "Maybe the King will grant you that."

Duncan's brilliantly blue eyes snap to Baelor, and thankfully his pant is hidden beneath the desperate, keening "haah" his brother makes. Duncan has yanked his head around so that only he is looking at Baelor. There's a heated look on his face. Duncan has a plan, but he submits to Baelor and his will. Baelor palms his cock through his breeches and smiles.

"I do think the Hand as earned a small respite." he allows magnanimously. Duncan murmurs something into Maekar's ear that sounds suspiciously like "I'll make it a big one" and draws his hand out of his breeches. It glistens with oil and sweat, and for a moment Baelor wants to command the Hand to lick it clean, but this is Duncan's endeavour, at least for now.

Duncan wipes it liberally on Maekar's doublet and breeches, who immediately growls in protest, which Duncan silences once again quite effectively with his large hand. And then instead of a jape about how Maekar needs to get out of these soiled clothes he just takes them off, which Baelor finds he quite enjoys. It's not teasing at all, just very effective work that leaves his brother sputtering – and blessedly naked, finally.

His skin is scarred, all of them are, but the milky white is always a nice contrast to Duncan's golden tan and Baelor's ruddy bronze. It begs for bites and bruises, and seeing it now flushed and exposed in long lines, supple and tight over his brother's quivering muscles, punches the breath out of Baelor. It's a very nice contrast, all that pale, naked skin on display against Duncan, still fully clothed on the chair underneath. Maekar squirms in Duncan's renewed hold and Baelor couldn't look away if he wanted to, eyes roving over his brother's body over and over again.

Duncan's hands glide to Maekar's hips, and he lifts him. Just like that, and Baelor squeezes his cock so as not to come immediately at the sight.

Duncan lifts Maekar and sets him down on his lap properly now, legs folded and held apart by those massive clothes thighs, bare ass nicely on top of his crotch. Maekar grunts and writhes and Duncan catches him with his left arm across his chest and upper stomach, a secure hold, and Maekar writhes some more. Baelor is vain enough to think it for his benefit, even though his brother's eyes are firmly shut. His cock is an angry red and straining against his belly, but when he grasps for it Duncan just bats his hands away and tuts. Maekar whines and groans and writhes some more around Duncan's firm voice.

"The King told you to sit here looking pretty." No glance in Baelor's direction. "I will do the work." He reaches a hand behind his brother's back and down, and Baelor realises Duncan is getting his cock out. It always excites him, watching his husband fuck his little brother, but normally Baelor himself has to initiate it. He distantly thinks he might be drooling onto his desk.

Duncan shifts around a bit under Maekar's thrashing, securely held body, pale skin already rubbed red on Duncan's clothes, and then he opens his legs further. It presses Maekar's legs apart even more, gives Baelor an excellent view, which is probably the point. Duncan glances at him – it is definitely the point, to give his King the best view of his husband debasing his little brother, which, Gods, Baelor could die right now and he'd die happy.

Duncan has gotten his cock out of his breeches, flushed and hard and as impressive in size as all of him, and holds it steady while preparing to lift Maekar with the other arm. A large hand splays over Maekar's abdomen, meticulously not touching his leaking cock, tilting his pelvis backwards and arching his spine, and Baelor has to take a moment to admire his brother's perfect body, pale skin pulled tight over his cut stomach and his ribs heaving with every breathy groan, the trim chest Baelor wants to knead in his hands, flushed nipples and silver scars, and his sparse white body hair is catching the light and giving him a golden glow. Maekar is graceful in a sinewy way, but Baelor knows he does not want to hear that. A shame.

Duncan lifts him, thighs still holding Maekar's legs spread, and makes sure to let Baelor see how his brother glides down onto his cock. Duncan grunts with the effort of going slow. Maekar's breathing has quickened and he's making desperate, pained whines and keens, his eyes shut, his brow furrowed with the ache, his lips stretched tight over his gritted teeth. His legs around Duncan's thigh are quivering, his body taut, and his hands are desperately scrambling for purchase around Duncan's head and neck as he is slowly, inescapably lowered onto that fat cock, as his ass stretches to accommodate the Queen. Baelor is panting like a dog.

There is a long "haaah" and then Maekar's whines turn into moans as he is fully seated in Duncan's lap, split apart by his massive cock and held wide open by his massive thighs. Duncan barely gives him time to adjust before he starts moving, languidly fucking up into that tight heat, broad, deep strokes that make Maekar's face screw up even more, contort with the no doubt aching stretch of it. His arms are tense around Duncan's head, his hands likely gripping painfully into his hair, and then harmonising moans and the squelching sounds of fucking fill the air as Duncan snaps his hips up again and again.

The next time Duncan meets Baelor's eyes Baelor cocks his head to the side, and Duncan immediately obeys, as he knew he would. Baelor shivers in anticipation.

With the way Maekar is made to kneel across and around Duncan's thighs, giving Baelor an excellent view on Duncan's cock moving inside him, he has almost no leverage to move himself, helplessly subject to Duncan's pace, slightly pulling himself up against his neck. It would be more effective, Baelor knows, to have his hands on Duncan's knees – but that would block Baelor's view. So instead, he makes Duncan do the work.

Duncan puts his hands around Maekar's waist, fingers not quite touching, splaying over that beautifully pale skin, and lifts.

Maekar makes an animalistic sound, high and whimpering and desperate, morphing into a deep, raspy moan that probably rattles in his chest, as he is pushed and pulled over Duncan's cock, fucked without any control, angled toward Duncan's barrel chest to give Baelor the best view, skin surely getting rubbed raw against the tunic Duncan is still wearing. His inner thighs are already an angry red from the friction against the breeches. It makes his weeping, untouched cock stand out less, which is a shame.

Duncan moans into Maekar's neck, both of the red from lust and exertion, Maekar's blush reaching far down his chest and over his shoulders. The pace of their fucking is brutal, steady and deep, and fast now with Duncan allowed to use his hands. They can't last long like this, Baelor thinks, and Duncan's eyes snap open and there's a desperation in them as he grunts with exertion, and Baelor thinks: ah.

They are waiting for him.

He could just give them permission, but instead he surrenders to his desire to finally participate. He gets up, cock hard and leaking in his breeches, and crosses over to their chair – his chair, really. In his study, in his castle, in his kingdom. Occupied by his Queen and his Hand, his husband and his brother. They might be his favourite possessions.

He steps between their spread legs, and Duncan is still looking at him from between Maekar's bare arms, pupils blown and a deferential, almost reverent look on his face. Maekar's head is thrown back into the crook of Duncan's neck, loud moans and groans being punched out of him with every thrust, and the long, pale, unevenly flushed line of his throat begs for attention. Baelor puts a ringed hand there, deep bronze on milky white and blotchy red, fingers leisurely covering most of the delicate skin, and Maekar's eyes snap open. He just looks at Baelor, moaning and panting and still being moved, being used, at Baelor's command. His throat is hot under Baelor's touch, and vibrates with the noises he is making, and Baelor leans down to torture his brother a bit. He brings their mouths close, hot breath between their open lips, panting into each other, but when Maekar tries to surge up and close the gap he holds him down, cuts off some of his air, presses his fingers lightly into his pulse, and listens to his little brother choke. Duncan whines and loses his rhythm for a moment, and Baelor feels himself smile.

He puts his other hand on Duncan's muscular shoulder opposite his brother's head, and still Duncan is looking at him, panting and subservient, tongue coming out to wet his lips. The muscles of his arms are tense beneath his tunic, his thighs twitching, all of his body working at Baelor's command and for his pleasure now, and trembling with the effort of it.

Baelor looks his fill between them, bodies moving and straining for him, and leaves his hands where they are, hot brands of ownership and favour.

"You'd like to come, would you not," he murmurs. Ever the gracious King, he does not make it a question; he knows neither of them could answer him right now, at least not properly. Duncan gasps and swallows hard, and Maekar whines, high and drawn out, a base sound of pain and pleasure both.

"Shall I grant you your release then?" His voice is low and raspy from his lustful panting and building arousal. "Should the King have mercy?" There's a sob and a deep groan, and Maekar's fingers fist desperately in Duncan's hair. Something is touching Baelor's leg; he glances down and sees Duncan's massive thighs struggling to hold apart Maekar's folded legs.

"Well then. Come." Maekar howls as he comes untouched all over the pale skin of his stomach, legs convulsing around Duncan's and arms going slack behind his head. Duncan is holding Baelor's gaze fervently, and he groans deep in his chest, stuttering grunts and then gasping for air, as he slams Maekar down onto his cock and buries himself deep inside. He still looks at Baelor as he comes, though it almost seems to pain him. Baelor is pretty sure his hand on his brother's throat is the only thing holding him up, as Duncan's arms have gone slack with his release.

He lets them breathe for a moment, then straightens up slightly. "Oh, very good," he praises, "I am very pleased with your display." Maekar seems almost passed out, but Duncan's face glows with his tired smile. Baelor, delighting in his cruelty, his power, takes his hands away. His lovers are fucked out and exhausted, and still he commands their undivided attention, and gets it.

"Turn him around," he orders Duncan, whose arms shake with exertion, but still he complies, drags Maekar off his cock at Baelor's behest and turns him around so he's kneeling around Duncan's thighs again, face buried in Duncan's neck, ass presented to his King. His brother moans pitifully at being jostled, and at the knowledge what will come next. His loose, fucked-raw hole is dripping with Duncan's seed.

Maekar's hands, shaking, come up to Duncan's shoulders, and Maekar drapes himself over Duncan's clothed front as much as he can to steady himself for Baelor. His ass is only held up by Duncan's straining arms, large hands on those naked, lean thighs, spreading them even further than his own thighs already do, presenting his brother's glistening hole to Baelor, Duncan's own seed still leaking from it. Baelor opens his laces.

It's heavenly, to finally slide home into his brother, fucked-loose and hot and wet. He moans, and slides his ringed hands over that smooth, white expanse of Maekar's back. He already knows he won't last long, not after the show his lovers put on for him, and he grips Duncan's massive, tensed biceps and begins thrusting in earnest.

He loses himself in it, the slick-hot-perfect sensation around his cock, clawing into Duncan's taut upper arms and biting into his brothers pale, scarred shoulders. All of them are making noises, moans and groans and whines, and there's the wet squelch of fucking a fucked hole and the slapping of skin, muffled by the fabric of his own breeches. A lesser man would think himself unworthy of such bliss, but Baelor revels in it, that he gets to have this, all his desires secured at his side. They are his, to have and to keep, to command and to enjoy, and the most wonderful thing is how they love him, and he loves them, and they love each other.

"Kiss," he grunts out between thrusts, and sees his brother weakly lift his head to hastily obey, struggling to keep his balance against his powerful strokes, and then he is kissing Duncan, without any grace, and their lips are shiny with spit and they keep missing each other and sliding apart because Baelor is still fucking Maekar, held up and presented by Duncan, and then he moans and folds over onto his brother's back, is distantly aware of Duncan keeping them at least vaguely upright, and comes.

Duncan has gathered them against his chest. Baelor is too old to share a chair with his brother, much less a lap, so he's half standing as he pets Duncan's head and runs his other hand through Maekar's hair.

"I love you both so much," he says, and Duncan replies "We love you too," because Maekar only grumbles where his face is still pressed against Duncan's neck. He straightens up, looks down at himself and wrinkles his nose.

"These clothes need a wash," he looks up at Duncan, "and yours as well, and you" he says to Maekar, "need a bath." Maekar grumbles again in answer, then pushes himself slightly off Duncan and glares at his brother.

"And whose fault is that?" His protest is decidedly undercut by his flushed skin and relaxed movements and the slight smile he can't keep off his face.

"Hush your mouth," Duncan says and stands up with Maekar still held to his chest. "There's a bath in the other room, and then we'll have supper brought up." Baelor asks "Is there an occasion?" over Maekar's outraged "You planned this?!" and Duncan blushes and grins.

"Supper," he just says and carries Maekar through the door to his bath.

Chapter Text

Baelor actually managed to finish those two chapters by the time they sit down for supper, all of them now dressed in sleepclothes.

"Well," Duncan says halfway through the meal with a sly grin on his face, "anything of note in those important letters you just absolutely had to read?" Maekar had apparently insisted Duncan bring the remaining few to him to read in the bath.

Now he throws Duncan a dirty look, and Baelor clears his throat in hopes of thwarting another argument, at least for now, and it seems to work when Maekar launches into a rundown of the news of their kingdom, interspersed with cursing out one maester's handwriting and complaining about how this or that lord can't ever seem to be brief. He sees Duncan's fond smile and feels sure that it is mirrored on his own face.

Most of this, though, truly is just the usual trappings of the Hand of the King, Baelor recognises, and he knows his brother is more than capable to deal with it however he sees fit. What he says last however makes Baelor pay proper attention again.

"A tourney?" he asks. Maekar nods.

"Yes, five moons from now, near Maidenpool, a few days' ride from here, so I thought–" they both look at Duncan then, evidently having had the same thought. As Queen his knightly ventures naturally have to take a step back, and Duncan is taking well to his new duties and shifted priorities, but he still loves the tourneys and the hedges between them, loves training in the yard now that he is able to again, and Baelor would not want to keep him from it more than he has to.

"Since you had to miss the last one, you might want to attend this one instead?" Maekar sounds matter-of-factly, but Baelor has to tamp down on the urge to apologise again – it had been his fault, albeit unwittingly, that Duncan had not been able to attend, since he had been carrying Baelor's child.

At the thought of Duncan pregnant with his child Baelor feels his blood rush south again, slowly but steadily, bolstered by their earlier activities. He had been so beautiful, soft and languid and easy, heavy with the heir to the Iron Throne, to Baelor's throne, though he had hardly been showing, even after the quickening, his big frame hiding it well into the last weeks. But everybody had known, and Baelor had felt the tautness of his stomach and the softening of his curves and later the kicks of their beautiful little babe growing inside Duncan, safe beneath all that muscle and strength. Gods, Baelor is already lost again in the vision of Duncan swelling with his seed.

"It's an excellent opportunity," he cuts his own thoughts off, "with very favourable conditions. By then Vaelarys will be old enough to stand being apart from you for a few weeks, and it's not far besides, so even if you'd have to cut your stay short you'd be back quickly."

Maekar is just opening his mouth to comment, probably on how there won't be any reason to come back early, but Duncan just shakes his head and murmurs a "I won't go, but thank you." into a piece of bread. He looks vaguely uncomfortable and won't meet Baelor's eye, and he is still debating whether to this is an issue to press or to let go without a fuss when Maekar, always the blunt one between the two of them, makes the choice for him.

"Why ever the fuck not?? You were moping about it for two bloody moons–" Duncan makes to answer but Maekar forges ahead, "–even if you didn't say anything, Duncan, I have fucking eyes. And now that the perfect fucking tourney presents itself you won't even consider it?!" Baelor can tell by Maekar's agitation that he had been pleased to be able to give Duncan this; even though Maekar still does not understand why Duncan clings so vehemently to his knighthood – "I get that he wants breaks from this, I just don't understand why they have to be filled with being beaten bloody on horseback and then sleeping on the fucking ground in a ditch, Baelor, honestly" – he likes to see him happy just as much as Baelor does.

Duncan sits hunched over his bowl and still doesn't meet Baelor's gaze, eyes shifting through the room as if with nerves.

"Is it something to do with Aegon?" Baelor tries, and gets a dirty look from Maekar for it. "He will be happy to squire for you, you know that." Baelor cannot think of a reason Duncan would decline, and it unsettles him more than he is comfortable with.

"It's not about Aegon," Duncan says firmly, and Baelor can feel his brother unclench the same small amount he does. "He's a good lad, a good squire, he'd do great. But I just can't go." It's definitely nerves, the way he shifts in his seat and casts his glance through the room.

"Are you afraid then? That you won't perform well?" Baelor asks, softly. Maekar just snorts.

"You need to stop agonising, boy," and Baelor can see the way Duncan flushes at the moniker; he likes when Maekar calls him that, and does not like how much he likes it, and Maekar knows both of these facts and ruthlessly employs them to his advantage whenever he thinks Baelor will let him get away with it, "you will not shame the crown," because that, Duncan likes as well; belonging to them, riding with their favour, "and even if you don't perform well they'll only talk about how formidable it is for you to ride so soon after bearing the realm an heir, I'll fucking make sure of that." Baelor loves when they are pulling on the same side.

"I thought you didn't like me playin' at being a knight?" Duncan sounds more baffled than angry, and he's not wrong, but–

"I don't like the Queen fucking sleeping in hedges and being hit hard repeatedly," Maekar grouses, "and you are a bloody knight, it's just the lesser fucking rank." He huffs and crosses his arms to better lean back in his chair and glare at Duncan. Duncan petulantly glares back.

"So you will go to the tourney then?" Baelor asks. They are still no closer to an actual answer. "It might be your last opportunity for a while," he says with a smile decidedly not roguish in manner, thank you very much.

Maekar barks an incredulous laugh. "Someone thinking himself very virile I see," and Baelor sputters a bit, because he hadn't meant it like that, but he also hadn't strictly not meant it like that, before he gets out a "Maester Yormwell says there is precedent of bearing men conceiving again after carrying the first babe to full term, and then being quite fertile indeed," and he does not say it as primly as he could.

Maekar scoffs. "Yes, and he also said that it was rare, and not likely to occur in the first two years after the first babe was born. Might I remind you of the age of your son?"

"But it would be good, would it not," Duncan says quietly, and he is not quipping like Baelor and Maekar had been. "If I were to bear you another child. Another heir." Baelor's heart breaks at his tone, insecure like he rarely ever is these days. There is a truth to his words: more children would secure the line, appease the Great Houses and bring stability. Another son or two, and daughters to unite the realm through marriage and strengthen the ties of the Great and lesser houses to the Targaryen dynasty. And Gods, fuck the dynasty, but how Baelor wishes for a daughter, tall like Duncan and just as beautiful.

"I married you because I love you," he tells Duncan, earnest, almost imploring, "and I thank the Gods every day for our son." He had not thought himself capable of so much happiness any more when he had lost his two eldest. "It has nothing to do with that godsdamned throne."

"He'd probably die of arousal, if he got you pregnant again," Maekar says dryly, and then continues over Baelor's indignation and Duncan's embarrassment, "so you'll go then? To that bloody tourney?"

"I can't," Duncan says, but this time he looks almost giddy, and Maekar heaves a great sigh and looks at him, head tilted, in a way that Baelor has been told repeatedly his little brother gets from him.

"I would, really, but the plate won't fit me probably by then I think." And Baelor is still pondering if there might be a drought coming he somehow hasn't heard about yet when his brother is already laughing, loud and loose with surprise and happiness, and then it finally catches up with him, why Duncan will not fit into his armour.

He doesn't know what his face might be doing as he stares in wonder at his husband's still-flat stomach. Maybe this time it will show properly, he thinks, absurdly, and looks up into the laughing faces of his lovers and then he is laughing too. There's hugging and kissing, Maekar manoeuvring them away from the table, and Baelor is so, so happy. They're having another child!

Nonsensically, the first thing out of his mouth is a half-terrified "Already??" and then they're all laughing even harder, and kissing again, and Baelor's hands are on Duncan's stomach, and he fancies himself that there is already a tautness that wasn't there before, and then his brother's hands are there as well, fingers tangling, and he is kissing Duncan deeply when he finally becomes aware of the growing hardness in his breeches.

Gods, another babe, and they hadn't even been sleeping together again for more than a few moons. For Duncan to know already his seed had to have taken fast. Maekar might be right: he might die of arousal.

"It is early still," Duncan says when he can extricate himself from Baelor's mouth on his, "but Maester Yormwell said I might as well tell you already, since the nervousness of hiding it might just make me feel worse."

"How do you feel?" Baelor asks, mostly out of concern and a little out of selfishness.

"Good, mostly," he answers. "Happy," and he is smiling so very beautifully.

"Are you gonna fuck him standing up?" Maekar has stepped back slightly, is leaning against the table and watching them. Baelor leers at Duncan.

"No," he says, and at the slight pressure of his hand on Duncan's chest – has it already gotten fuller? – he walks backwards into their bedroom. Baelor has him lying on the bed, hands at the hem of his tunic, by the time he realises that they are alone.

He looks back, and Maekar is standing in the door, whole body rigid. Baelor just tilts his head, and Maekar drops his crossed arms.

"Are you sure–"

"Yes," Baelor cuts him off, and doesn't even wait to see if he is obeyed. He turns back to Duncan, and while he is taking off his tunic there are hands tugging down his breeches and smallclothes.

Baelor is kneeling astride his husband, hands on his belly where he is growing their babe, where his seed has taken root once again, and just looks and looks his fill.

"You are so beautiful, so perfect," he praises, hands stroking over Duncan's stomach, "carrying my children so well, Gods," and he's kneading those plump tits, "you take my seed so well. You're so good for me." Duncan is moaning beneath him, a flush spreading down his neck and chest at the praise, and Baelor's hands are just roaming and roaming across those soft, golden planes.

"Seven fucking hells Baelor, you're already stupid with it, aren't you?" Maekar grumbles behind him, arms reaching around him and long fingers working open Baelor's laces, "seven bloody fucks," as Baelor complicates his task by leaning forward and kissing Duncan's lips, already pink and wet from before. He's gotten him pregnant. Again. He's with child.

"Come here," Maekar huffs and wrenches him up before unceremoniously divesting him of his sleepclothes. Baelor is immediately back on Duncan, kissing along his body, leaving slight beard-burn on his neck and chest and his stomach, Gods, he's carrying Baelor's child. Both of them are moaning, breathy sounds of pleasure, and in the back of his mind Baelor thinks that it is quite unfair to lavish all his attention on Duncan, that he doesn't even know where Maekar is right now, except that he is sure of his brother's presence in the room – he had told him to stay. But, Gods, how is he supposed to to do anything but worship the bearer of his children?

"Please, Baelor," Duncan whines, "please," and Baelor wants to– needs to put something in him, right now, chase where his seed has taken. Some distant part of him is dimly aware how shamelessly he is acting, neglecting his brother, but there is a burning hunger in him, and he cannot rein in his lust. He almost feels like a spectator in his own body.

Maekar is to his right, trying to press a vessel of oil into his hands, but they have developed a mind of their own, grabbing and pulling at Duncan, whose begging has turned into wordless groans. Maekar curses again and snatches up his right, secure grip around Baelor's wrist, and coats his fingers liberally. Something about that, his brother's complete disregard of his own pleasure, breaks through the haze and everything snaps into a feverish focus. "Yes, good," Baelor pants, and with his clean hand in Maekar's neck pulls him into a searing kiss. "Closer, up, serve your King," he says after, still breathless, and it's a testament to Maekar's own arousal that he only groans in response as Baelor takes his left hand, pulls him up onto the bed by it to kneel next to him between Duncan's massive legs, shoulders knocking against each other.

"Look at him," Baelor commands, and Maekar obeys, gaze heavy, lips parted around his heavy breathing, and Duncan whines under the attention, and would surely flush more if he could. He has begun writhing on the bed, legs squirming around them, hands grabbing fistfuls of the sheets, and begs "please, please, Baelor, please," desperate and wanton. His sizeable cock stands red and angry and ignored.

Baelor takes Maekar's hand he is still holding and coats it in the oil as well, and then, unconcerned with Maekar's jolt, brings it between Duncan's spread legs. All of them moan then, at the first touch of Maekar's long fingers to Duncan's hole, and his legs spasm as he arches halfway off the bed. In one perfectly mirrored move they put their clean hands on Duncan's hips and press him back down on the bed. "No," Baelor tells him. Duncan's skin is hot under his palm, and his thumb strokes over his abdomen, where their babe is growing already, his babe, inside his man, and he groans. Duncan's body strains against the need to thrash. Baelor is so hard it almost hurts.

He clasps Maekar's oiled hand in his, interlacing their fingers, silver and bronze, and extends their index fingers together.

"Feel him," he tells Maekar as he reaches forward their hands as one to rub oil into Duncan's skin, over his hole, starts pressing in. Duncan keens at the pressure of two fingers at once without any preparation.

"Hush, my love," he murmurs, petting over Duncan's stomach and sides, but he doesn't relent. He can feel a shiver run through his brother where they are pressed side to side.

"I would not deny my brother," he says, and can feel Duncan's body yielding already. They all know that he has made this decision for Maekar, that his brother is just as much a vessel for him as Duncan is, when he gets like this.

"He cannot grow my seed, so I have to give him a different purpose," Baelor explains, and Maekar, cock without a doubt uncomfortably restrained by the breeches Baelor has not allowed him to take off, groans and buries his face in Baelor's neck. Duncan whines again, and it morphs into a hoarse moan as their fingers finally push past his resistance and they have to hold him down again.

"Do you feel him, brother?" Baelor asks, "does he not feel like the most perfect thing?" and Maekar just groans in answer and nips at his neck. Duncan is scorching hot inside, the oil making for a slick, easy slide, and Baelor is fascinated by the pressure of his brother's finger next to his. Gods, how lucky he is, that he gets to have them both, that they are just as shameless with it as he is.

"You're being so good for me," he praises them, "taking my orders so well," and there's a rhythm now in the sliding and stretching, Duncan fluttering around their fingers, "obeying me so perfectly," and then he adds their middle fingers and Duncan arches off the bed again with a silent scream.

"Baelor," Maekar is panting against his ear, "brother, please." Baelor can see his arm tremble where he is holding it taut to be able to follow Baelor's every lead. He is flushed as well, and watching their joined hands with enraptured attention, and his hips are bucking ever so slightly in search of just a little more friction.

"Not before I am satisfied," he tells him. He slides their fingers out of Duncan, who whines at the loss, and just looks at his husband for a moment, writhing in front of him on the mattress, and when he feels Maekar start to shift beside him he lifts their still-joined hands and guides them to his lips, kissing each of Maekar's knuckles and then sucking their extended fingers still wet with oil and Duncan into his mouth to lick them clean, all the while looking at Duncan, holding his heady gaze. He cannot tell which of his lovers moans first.

Baelor lets the fingers glide out from between his spit-shiny lips and separates their hands again. There is something molten beneath his skin, a great tide swirling through his body, a fiery, directionless pulling, and his heartbeat cannot catch up. His cockstand is almost an afterthought behind the full-body sensation of his devotion, his love.

"I will keep you heavy with my babes," he swears solemnly, "always put another one in you, before your body even notices its emptiness." He will be embarrassed about this after, Baelor thinks, and they will have a great laugh, but right now Maekar is gasping, and Duncan is moaning beneath him, and Baelor's hands are back on Duncan's stomach.

"Please, your Grace," Duncan begs, and Baelor grabs his hips and finally slides home into his husband.

Duncan is still tight despite their fingers, so Baelor gives him time to adjust before starting to thrust the way he wants to, long, hard strokes that slam their bodies together with slick squelching noises and the loud slap of skin on skin. Duncan is wet from oil and sweat, and so hot and perfect, and Baelor loses himself in it for a bit, eyes jumping from his face to his stomach to the place they are joined and back to his stomach. Duncan notices him watching and untangles his hands from the sheets to place them on his belly, and Baelor falters in his next thrust and almost spends right there. Duncan's hands are so big, Baelor loves them so much, and they frame his stomach perfectly, giving the appearance of a bump Baelor knows is not yet there, but still something in him howls in satisfaction. He might die from the gluttony.

He angles his thrusts, and Duncan starts begging again, "please please please" he whines and moans, and Baelor is panting and there is probably spit dripping from his mouth onto Duncan's sweaty, flushed skin.

"Maekar," Baelor groans, and out of the corner of his eye sees his brother jolt from the reverie he sunk into while watching them, being forbidden to actually do anything about his own hardness. He knows his brother likes it like that, every once in a while.

"I will reward you," he pants, still fucking into that tight, perfect heat. His hands are leaving bruises at the plump hips, and he shifts them down to grab at the joint of Duncan's thighs to his torso instead.

He looks back at Duncan. "Do you want his mouth?" he asks and watches his eyes roll back in pleasure, feeling his walls tightening around his cock.

Maekar makes an undignified sound.

"Suck him," Baelor says, and Maekar obeys.

He gets on his hands and knees beside them on the big bed, still fully clothed, and Duncan's whole body jerks at the first touch of his tongue. When Maekar takes him properly into his mouth, slides his lips over that thick cock they completely neglected until now and opens his throat for his Queen, Baelor feels it around his length, Duncan's pleasure flooding his body after being denied for so long. Baelor aims for his sweet spot as Maekar's head bobs up and down above his hips, and every thrust is pressing his own stomach against the side of his brother's skull, the wispy beard tickling his abdomen, ivory whiskers tangling with the ebony curls of his pubic hair as his brother works.

It's a shame that his brother's silver-white head of hair is in the way now, blocking most of his view of Duncan's stomach, but those obscene sounds, the slapping and squelching of Baelor's thrusts and the sucking and slurping of Maekar's mouth, are worth the sacrifice.

It doesn't take long until Baelor feels Duncan begin to spasm around his length. He knows what his husband likes, and so since Duncan's own hands are occupied he indulges them. He puts a hand onto his brother's still moving head, tightens his fingers around those silver-white strands, and holds him down, pushes him far onto the Queen's fat cock, lets him choke on it.

"Come for me," he tells Duncan and feels his release in the spasms around his own cock, tightening in waves, and Baelor folds forward with the feeling of it, just managing to bring both hands up to catch his weight on Duncan's chest, rutting with abandon to the sounds of Duncan's moans and his brother's heaving gasps somewhere underneath him and then coming himself.

They're all lying in a tangle and catching their breaths until Baelor finds Maekar's eyes, who looks at him with dread and anticipation both. Baelor grins, but it's mostly teeth.

"Undress, please," he tells his brother.

Maekar stands up, knees a bit wobbly, hands shaking, chest still heaving with breaths, and strips. His cock is hard and red, longer than Baelor's but less thick, although both just by a margin. Baelor pets over Duncan's stomach while he watches him, murmurs "very good" and "you have done so well" and "you please me so" and, most importantly, "you carry my children so well". Duncan envelops his hand in one of his own large ones, and Baelor brings them up and kisses Duncan's knuckles one by one.

"I love you," Duncan whispers. "I love you as well," Baelor answers.

When he looks up Maekar is done, and Baelor pushes up to kneel between Duncan's legs again, pushes them apart further, sees his own seed leaking out of his husband and growls. He grabs for Maekar, tugging him back onto the bed and claiming his mouth, biting his lip and clawing at his arms and back. His brother matches him for desperation, whines and groans into his mouth and chases after him when Baelor pulls back. He arranged them so that Maekar is kneeling in front of him between Duncan's legs, their bodies pressed as close as they will go: Maekar's legs wedged between Baelor's, his ass against Baelor's crotch, his back pressed against Baelor's chest, so tightly that his chest hair does not tickle him and there is sweat already pooling between them. Baelor hooks his chin over his brother's shoulder and hugs him from behind with his hands resting on that breast he did not get to knead earlier. It is surely a nice picture for Duncan, the contrast of light and dark between the brothers, but Baelor has no regard for it right now. His brother's beautiful body has a purpose to achieve for him.

"I want you to mount him as well," Baelor tells his brother, and feels the shiver going through his body almost as his own. Duncan whines, and looks like he cannot decide if this is the thing he wants most or least in the world. Baelor presses them forward, and Maekar sinks easily into that fucked-out hole dripping with his older brother's seed. Duncan twitches and bucks, and then Maekar is fully buried in Baelor's husband's body, who is carrying their babe, and Baelor buries his teeth in Maekar's neck in retaliation.

It is Baelor who starts their moving. He draws Maekar back by the hips and then drives him forward with a powerful thrust, does it again and again, their skin never separating, and even though they have never done it like this the rhythm comes to them naturally.

The sounds of fucking fill the air again, slick and wet and slapping and moaning, a deep, steady pace because Maekar is already wound tight and close. Maekar's hands are providing their leverage at Duncan's hips now, so Baelor is finally free to put his own against Duncan's soft, pregnant stomach, but he finds they are too small there and bites Maekar again for it. He'll be a just King again tomorrow.

"Hands," he urges Duncan, who needs two thrusts before he understands what Baelor wants.

"We are fucking his brains right out of his head," he murmurs into his brother's shoulder, and the only indication of him hearing it is a punched-out groan. Duncan's hands fit just right at his belly.

Baelor's thighs burn, his body not made for two couplings so close together any more in multiple ways, but it's so good, and he puts his hands at Maekar's hips and slides them down until they sit in the crook at the top of his thighs, fingers splaying over his abdomen toward his crotch, so that he can feel the muscles there twitching and so his fingers are pressed against the sensitive skin between Duncan's cock and hole with every thrust.

"Duncan," Baelor says, because he is reasonably sure that he needs to, "you are taking my brother so well." Duncan moans at that, and Maekar grunts and speeds up their thrusts, so Baelor continues.

"You are so beautiful like this, and you both fit so well together, Duncan, and you carry so well for me, and you would carry Maekar's babes just as perfectly." Maekar makes a sound like he's in physical pain at that, and bucks against him, and Duncan is still moaning, his head lolling from side to side and the hands at his belly clench and unclench, but they stay there. "You would bear him beautiful children, silver hair and golden skin and so tall. You want to, do you not? Carry both our babes, take our seed and grow it into Targaryens big as the dragons themselves, but so very gentle." He can feel Maekar's peak nearing beneath his hands, so he turns to him. "And you want to breed the Queen, do you not? Have him bear your bastards right here under my roof, make a cuckold of your King, and watch everyone realise it when I present to the realm a silver-haired babe." Maekar's whole body is tensed against him, all of his muscles taut, but he is still fucking into Duncan with wild abandon, jaw clenched around feral grunts, following Baelor's pace. "But in truth they would not really be your babes, would they? They would still be mine. Because you are mine." Maekar comes with a shout.

Baelor watches his lovers slowly rouse from their fuck-drunk stupor, his head bedded on Duncan's soft chest in a position mirrored by Maekar on his other side. His hand is once again petting Duncan's stomach. He's had time to think now, about all the things he said, and wants to curse himself a little bit. Duncan will have taken all of his declarations as the bedroom talk they are – except, of course, how he loves them, and how joyous he is about the babe, and that he will be quite pleased to have a plump Duncan complaining about his back again, even though he really is quite sorry that he will have to miss that tourney.

But Maekar is different, and what Baelor said to him was a lot more serious besides. He knows he should not like it, another man fucking his pregnant husband, fantasising about the babe being his brother's instead of his own, he should think himself cuckolded, but Maekar is his, just as much as Duncan is, so why would he not use them both to his pleasure? And he would love any child of Maekar's as his own, already does now that Duncan has become half of a mother to them, if not before. But his brother will not simply believe that.

Across from him Maekar has opened his eyes and is, predictably, fretting. And he'd have Baelor's head, if he knew that Baelor was calling it that, even just in his own head.

Baelor sighs. "It was bedroom talk." Maekar gives him a dirty look.

"Just because you barely talk in bed, and then obviously only the deepest of truths–"

"This is not about your questionable tastes," Maekar interrupts him harshly. Baelor is already preparing a quip about how Maekar is one of those questionable tastes when he continues, true misery in his voice: "It could be real."

Baelor is taken aback. He expected either a strong rebuttal of the thought or guilt at having enjoyed it, but this?

"What d'you mean?" Duncan asks around a yawn, and when Maekar looks at him Baelor thinks there might be unshed tears in his brothers eyes, but his voice is firm.

"How far along are you?" he asks.

Duncan shrugs. "Maester Yormwell says it's too early to tell, and hard to know precisely at all with bearing men besides."

"So it could be three or four moons," Maekar says, and looks at them expectantly, before giving up and clarifying: "Or it could be just one or two," and he looks like a man sentenced to the sword.

Judging from Duncan's sudden breath he understands at the same time Baelor does.

"It really could be your child," Duncan says, and there is a sense of wonder in the tone of his voice that tugs at Baelor's soul and tastes like the Dornish sweets his mother used to love.

Baelor knows what storm must be brewing in his brother's mind, so he cuts it short before it can lay waste to the tranquillity and tenderness of their evening.

"Then I'll be overjoyed. Just as I will be if it is my seed that has taken," and Duncan swats at him for that, but he's smiling and there's a far-away, blissful look in his eyes as he no doubt imagines both. Duncan is a better father than Maekar and Baelor combined, and does not even have to try.

"But it will look like me," Maekar hisses, "you said it yourself, everyone will know!"

"They'll know what, Maekar, that you are loved? Well we cannot have that, now, can we," Baelor says dryly, right to Maekar's outraged face.

"No, you idiot," he bites out between clenched teeth, "that I really am cuckolding you," and that part he says so low Baelor almost can't make it out. But he can, and laughs in his brothers face. Maekar starts furiously sputtering something, but Baelor stops him with a raised hand.

"We are Targaryens, Maekar. There might be outrage at first, but in the end they will accept brothers sharing a third, and likely it will be better received than anything our grandfather ever did. I have been King for a while now, my position is not as precarious as all that any more."

"But the Blackfyres–"

"–have wed half-siblings, and uncles to nieces, and our babes won't even be incestuous since they can only be either mine or yours." Maekar looks lost, and Baelor's soul won't take it. "Brother, look at me," he says, and waits until Maekar is meeting his eyes, and very nearly gasps at the misery he finds on his brother's face. "This babe, Gods be good, will be born hale and hearty, and I will present it to the realm as my" – and he falters for a second, at the reminder of his loss, an ache almost gone sweet with time passed and new love – "second child, no matter after whom it takes, and the court will congratulate me. And should this babe truly look like you they will know that the Hand fucks the Queen occasionally–" and Maekar's eyes get so very round at this that Baelor has to fight down the laughter, "and no one will doubt that I know and approve. The Anvil would not turn on the Hammer." Baelor had put as much steady conviction as he could into his voice, because he truly is sure that everything will turn out well, and now he leans forward to kiss Maekar, who, if his lips are any indication, has indeed been soothed by it, at least for now.

"I'm really very happy that in your imaginary politics this babe does not end the great Targaryen dynasty by being born, truly I am," Duncan says from above them, "but what are we telling the children??"