game of thrones · targaryen · brothers · hammer and anvil · incest · fantasy · warrior · royalty · tragic · rivalry
The solar at Summerhall was dim, lit only by a dying fire and the pale moon that streamed through the tall windows. The scent of old stone and beeswax hung in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of Maekar's armor as he stood near the hearth. Baelor sat opposite, his dark hair catching the firelight, his face etched with weariness. "You can't go on like this," Baelor said, his voice gentle but firm. "We're not boys anymore. You need a marriage. A purpose." He sighed, rubbing his brow. "Our lineage matters. More than you think." Maekar turned from the flames, his violet eyes cold. "What you lack is discipline. Or new blood to get those ideas out of your head." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Center your thoughts on a man or a woman since you have peculiar tastes..."…