Chapter Text
The midday sun of Sunspear was a merciless, blinding thing, beating down on the terracotta tiles of the balcony until the air itself seemed to shimmer and dance. For Prince Baelor Targaryen, it was nothing short of paradise.
Baelor stood by the carved stone balustrade, his dark hair unbound, wearing only a light linen tunic left unlaced at the throat. In King’s Landing, a perpetual, damp chill seemed to cling to his bones—a lingering cold that followed him from the Red Keep’s drafty halls to the tourney grounds. But here, in the southernmost reach of the realm, the heat enveloped him like a heavy, comforting blanket. He closed his eyes, leaning his forearms against the sun-baked stone. He could feel the warmth seeping directly into his joints, chasing away the familiar aches. A faint, contented smile touched his lips.
"Are you trying to turn yourself into ash, or are you simply mad?"
Baelor opened his eyes and turned his head. His younger brother, Prince Maekar, was scowling from the shaded archway of their solar. Where Baelor looked relaxed, Maekar looked as though he were actively being tortured. The younger prince’s usually pale Valyrian skin had turned a vibrant, angry shade of crimson. Sweat plastered his silver hair to his forehead, and he was currently shrugging out of a light silken doublet with enough force to tear the seams.
"I am merely enjoying the weather, Maekar," Baelor said, pushing off the balustrade and stepping lazily into the shade. "It is peaceful. You should try it."
"If I step out there for another moment, I will spontaneously combust," Maekar grumbled, throwing the doublet over a chair. He picked up a small clay jar from the table, his scowl deepening. "And I refuse to believe anyone enjoys this. It is a furnace."
Baelor leaned against the archway, folding his arms. He watched with great amusement as Maekar dipped two fingers into the jar, scooping out a thick, reddish paste. The Dornish servants had offered it after Maekar’s first day in the sun had left his shoulders peeling like boiled onions. It smelled strongly of jasmine and earth.
With a look of profound disgust, Maekar began slapping the greasy mixture onto his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, leaving stark white and red streaks across his face.
"Careful, brother," Baelor teased gently, a laugh rumbling in his chest. "A few more coats of that and you'll match the Martell banners entirely. Perhaps we can string you up on the battlements to announce our presence."
Maekar shot him a venomous glare from his violet eyes. "Laugh all you want. You have our mother's coloring to thank for your thick skin. The rest of us were not bred to be roasted alive. I smell like a perfumed goat."
"A very well-protected goat," Baelor conceded, his eyes crinkling. "Come. Our cousins expect us for the midday feast. Try not to frighten them with your war paint."
The feast was held in a shaded, airy pavilion overlooking the sea, but the shade offered Baelor little protection from the true battleground. The Dornish lords and ladies sat on cushioned floor mats, lounging in the heat with effortless grace.
When the servants brought the first courses, the aromas alone made Baelor’s chest tighten. There were platters of lemon-honey glazed fowl, bowls of sharp mustard seeds, and heavily spiced strongwines. But the centerpiece was a massive platter of grilled sand snake, drenched in a dark, red sauce thick with dragon peppers.
"Ah, the true taste of Dorne," Maekar declared, his sour mood evaporating instantly. He reached out with his knife, spearing a thick cut of the snake and dragging it generously through the red sauce before dropping it onto his plate.
Baelor swallowed hard. He knew what was coming. He was half-Dornish; the lords of Sunspear expected him to feast with the fiery passion of a true Martell. Trying to maintain his composure, Baelor took a small piece of the snake, carefully scraping off as much of the sauce as he could without drawing attention, and placed it on his tongue.
Instantly, a fire erupted in his mouth.
It wasn't just heat; it was pure, unadulterated agony. The spice bypassed his tongue and seared straight down his throat, pooling in his stomach like liquid lead. Baelor’s face, which had been comfortably warm all morning, suddenly turned deathly pale, then a flushed, mottled red. Sweat erupted across his forehead. His dark eyes watered so fiercely the pavilion began to blur.
He reached blindly for his goblet, knocking it slightly before gripping the stem and downing the watered wine in a single, desperate gulp. It did nothing to quench the fire.
Beside him, Maekar let out a loud, full-throated laugh—a rare sound that made several Dornish knights turn their heads in surprise. Maekar was chewing a mouthful of the venom-laced peppers, a massive grin on his streaked face. Sweat beaded on the younger prince's brow, but his violet eyes danced with genuine, ecstatic pleasure.
"Is it too cold for you, Baelor?" Maekar asked loudly, reaching over to spoon more of the demonic sauce onto his own plate. "I find it has a rather pleasant kick. A bit mild, perhaps."
Baelor coughed, covering his mouth with a linen napkin. His throat felt as though it had been scoured with sand. "It is... robust," he choked out, his voice hoarse.
The Dornish host sitting across from them, a cousin with a wicked glint in his eye, smiled knowingly. "Does the Prince of Dragonstone not favor our peppers? Perhaps we can send to the kitchens for some boiled oats?"
Baelor forced a strained smile, a single tear escaping his right eye to cut a path down his sweaty cheek. "No, no. It is delicious. Truly."
He managed exactly two more agonizing bites before his stomach gave a violent lurch. His mouth was entirely numb. Quietly, preserving what little dignity he had left, Baelor stood. "If you will excuse me, my lords. The journey... it seems I need a moment of fresh air."
As Baelor fled the pavilion, he heard Maekar’s booming laughter following him out, along with the scrape of a knife as his brother happily dragged Baelor’s abandoned plate across the table. Let him have his victory, Baelor thought, leaning against a cool stone pillar outside the privy, gasping for breath. Tonight, I will make him wear the widest, most ridiculous straw hat in Dorne.
The Water Gardens were an oasis of cool shadows, whispering palms, and the sweet, heavy scent of blood oranges. For Prince Baelor Targaryen, it was a paradise crafted from pink marble and sunlight.
He lounged comfortably on a wide stone bench, the terracotta tiles beneath his boots radiating a glorious, baking heat that traveled up his legs and settled deeply into his bones. He wore a tunic of sheer black linen, the laces completely undone, allowing the warm, dry breeze to caress his chest. He felt loose. He felt light. The perpetual, dull ache that haunted his joints in the damp halls of the Red Keep was entirely gone, burned away by the Dornish sun. He picked up a segmented slice of blood orange from a silver platter beside him, popping it into his mouth and closing his eyes as the sweet juice exploded on his tongue.
A heavy, wet, and thoroughly exhausted groan echoed from the shallow pool a few feet away.
Baelor opened one eye. "If you sigh any louder, Maekar, the palace guards will think you are dying. Or that I am murdering you."
"I am dying," Maekar grumbled, his voice echoing slightly over the gentle lapping of the water. "I have been slowly roasting on a spit since we crossed the Red Mountains. This water is the only thing standing between me and spontaneous combustion."
Baelor let out a low chuckle, sitting up and resting his forearms on his knees to watch his younger brother. Maekar was fully submerged in one of the grand, shaded pools, the water coming up to his broad shoulders. He had stripped down to his smallclothes the absolute moment proper etiquette allowed, tossing his heavy doublet and tunic onto the marble with the frantic urgency of a man on fire.
Even now, sitting in the cool, shaded water, Maekar’s face was flushed a deep, violent pink. Streaks of the greasy, reddish-white sun paste he loathed so much still clung to his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, making him look less like a prince of the blood royal and more like a very angry, heavily painted river demon.
"You look ridiculous," Baelor offered mildly, picking up another slice of orange. "Like a boiled crab that has somehow found its way into a noblewoman's bath."
"And you look like a lizard," Maekar shot back, sweeping a handful of water over his silver hair, slicking it back from his forehead. He let out a long, shuddering breath as the water cooled his scalp. "I do not understand how you can sit out there. The stone you are resting on could fry an egg. You are sweating, Baelor."
"I am glowing, brother," Baelor corrected with a serene smile. "It is healthy. The maesters say a good sweat purges the humors. You should come out and try it."
"I would rather throw myself from the Spear Tower," Maekar said flatly. But the sheer venom was missing from his voice. The cool water of the gardens had finally doused his legendary temper. He leaned his head back against the edge of the pool, closing his violet eyes. "By the Seven, it is actually tolerable in here. The water is cold. Finally, something in this blighted desert that isn't actively trying to set me ablaze."
Baelor watched him, the teasing smile softening into something more fond. Maekar had always been a furnace, both in temperament and body. He was a warrior built for the biting winds of the Marches, not the languid, stifling heat of Dorne. To see him finally relaxed, the tense lines around his mouth smoothing out, brought Baelor a deep sense of relief.
"I am glad you have found a sanctuary, brother," Baelor said, taking a sip of watered wine. "Though I fear what you will do when we must ride back to Sunspear for the evening feast. Will you ask the servants to carry you in a barrel of water?"
Maekar opened one eye, glaring up at him. "Do not tempt me. I will make you carry the barrel."
Before Baelor could issue a retort, a sudden, high-pitched shriek shattered the peaceful quiet of the gardens.
From the archways leading to the inner courtyards, a massive horde of children suddenly erupted into the sunlight. There were perhaps two dozen of them, ranging from toddlers barely able to walk to lanky squires of ten or eleven. They were a chaotic mix of highborn and lowborn, a tradition Maron Martell fiercely protected. Some wore fine silks, others rough spun, and many wore nothing at all. They sprinted across the pink marble with zero regard for royal decorum, screaming, laughing, and brandishing wooden toy swords or handfuls of water lilies.
Baelor sat up a little straighter, preparing to call for the guards to clear the pool for the Prince, but he paused.
The children had spotted Maekar.
A large, imposing man with stark Valyrian features, glaring out from the water with sun-paste smeared across his face, was a startling sight. The vanguard of the children—a group of three little girls with wild, dark curls and missing front teeth—skidded to a halt at the edge of the pool. They stared down at Maekar with wide, nervous eyes.
Maekar stared back. He looked immense in the water, his broad, scarred shoulders tense. Baelor held his breath, knowing his brother’s patience for interruptions was famously thin. Please don't yell at them, Maekar, Baelor thought, bracing himself to intervene.
One of the little girls, braver or perhaps more foolish than the rest, giggled. She reached her foot out and kicked a small spray of water directly into Maekar’s face.
The droplets hit Maekar’s cheeks, washing away a bit of the reddish paste. Silence fell over the immediate area. Baelor winced.
Slowly, Maekar raised a massive hand to wipe the water from his eyes. He looked at the little girl, his face entirely unreadable. Then, with a sudden, roaring shout that echoed off the marble walls, Maekar brought both his palms down flat against the surface of the pool.
A tidal wave of water erupted upwards, completely drenching the three little girls on the edge.
They shrieked—not in terror, but in absolute, unrestrained delight.
"The Sea Dragon!" one of the boys yelled from the back of the pack, pointing a wooden sword at Maekar. "Attack the Sea Dragon!"
Instantly, the apprehension vanished. The children swarmed the edges of the pool, jumping in with massive, ungraceful splashes. Baelor watched in stunned fascination as his gruff, serious, battle-hardened brother was immediately besieged by a dozen Dornish children.
"Ah! So it's war, is it?" Maekar bellowed, a massive, genuine grin breaking across his face. He waded deeper into the pool, the water sloshing against his chest. A brave boy of perhaps six leaped from the side, aiming squarely for Maekar’s back. Maekar spun, catching the boy effortlessly under the arms before he hit the water, lifting him high into the air. The boy squealed with laughter as Maekar tossed him gently into a deeper, safer part of the pool.
"You cannot defeat the dragon!" Maekar roared, slapping the water again, sending another massive spray over a group of shrieking girls. "I breathe water and ice!"
"We are the Dornish spears!" a little girl yelled, swimming furiously toward him and smacking his arm with a wet water lily. "Die, dragon!"
"A fatal blow!" Maekar gasped in mock agony, clutching his chest. He sank dramatically beneath the surface, blowing a massive stream of bubbles, before exploding upwards a moment later, water cascading from his silver hair. He scooped up two smaller children, one in each arm, holding them above the water as they giggled frantically and slapped at his shoulders.
Baelor sat back against the warm marble, completely forgetting his orange. He watched his brother with a tight, sudden lump in his throat.
It was easy to forget, amidst the politics of King’s Landing and the rumors of Maekar’s prickly, unforgiving nature, that his brother was a father. A father to four sons and two daughters. Maekar loved his children fiercely, even when they disappointed him, even when they baffled him. He had been away from Summerhall for months on this royal progress, and Baelor suddenly realized just how deeply Maekar must be aching for his own brood.
He saw it in the gentle, careful way Maekar’s massive hands supported the smaller children in the water. He saw it in the booming, theatrical voice he used to play the villain, making sure he was frightening enough to be fun, but never terrifying. He saw it in the pure, unadulterated joy lighting up Maekar's violet eyes—a joy Baelor rarely saw in the council chambers or the training yard.
A small boy, entirely naked and shivering despite the heat, waded slowly toward Baelor’s end of the pool, looking up at the golden prince with wide, uncertain eyes.
Baelor smiled softly, leaning forward. "Are you not going to fight the Sea Dragon, little warrior?"
The boy shook his head, water dripping from his dark hair. "He is too big, my prince."
"He is big," Baelor agreed, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "But he has a weakness. Do you see the white streaks on his face?"
The boy nodded solemnly.
"If you splash the white streaks, the dragon loses his power," Baelor lied smoothly. "Go on. Strike for the realm."
The boy’s eyes lit up. He turned and threw himself into the water, paddling furiously toward Maekar’s blind side. Baelor watched as the boy reached his brother and smacked the surface of the water, sending a pathetic, tiny splash directly into Maekar’s ear.
Maekar turned, his eyes narrowing in mock fury. He looked from the boy, up to the marble bench where Baelor was sitting. Baelor raised his goblet in a cheerful salute, offering a wicked grin.
"Treason!" Maekar shouted, pointing a massive, dripping finger at Baelor. He looked down at the children swarming his waist. "The true villain sits upon the shore! The Sun King! Soak him!"
Baelor’s grin vanished. "Now, wait just a moment—"
"Attack!" Maekar ordered.
With a unified war cry, the children abandoned the Sea Dragon and rushed the edge of the pool nearest to Baelor. Dozens of small hands hit the water simultaneously.
A massive, freezing sheet of pool water flew over the marble lip, hitting Baelor squarely in the chest and face. The shock of the cold against his sun-baked skin made Baelor gasp, his dark hair instantly plastered to his forehead. Water dripped down his nose and soaked his black linen tunic, ruining it entirely.
From the center of the pool, Maekar’s booming, full-throated laughter echoed through the gardens, louder than the screeching of the children.
"Not so glowing now, are we, brother?" Maekar called out, wiping a stray drop of water from his eye, looking lighter and younger than he had in years.
Baelor blinked the water from his eyes, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He looked down at his soaked, clinging clothes, then out at his brother, who was currently being climbed like a rock formation by three toddlers.
Slowly, Baelor began to laugh. It started as a low chuckle and grew into a loud, joyous sound that mixed with the splashing and the shouting.
"I concede the battle, Sea Dragon," Baelor called back, shaking his wet head like a dog. "But the war is not over. Tonight, at the feast, I will make certain they seat you next to the dragon peppers."
"You can try!" Maekar challenged happily, tossing a laughing girl into the air. "But I have an army now!"
Baelor leaned back against the warm marble, the sun already beginning to dry his wet clothes. He watched his fearsome, battle-hardened brother play the fool for a courtyard of Dornish children, and thought that, perhaps, this trip to Dorne had been exactly what they both needed.