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The nursery is its usual version of ordered chaos. Aegon, aged three, has constructed a tourney on the floor with his wooden horses and knights. Daella, five, sits surrounded by a tea party of dolls. Her twin Matarys is the only one doing as he was instructed by the nursemaids: napping in his small bed. Aemon is absent, although Maekar can predict with certainty that his almost seven year old prodigy has snuck off to the library again. The older children are, he can only hope, at their lessons.
Rhae – his youngest child, and tying with Aerion for the most difficult in temper – sits in her cradle and screams. Rhae is still a babe, and her shrieks are quite natural, but they do grate on the nerves. Nevertheless Maekar plucks his daughter from the sweat-damp blankets and she quiets immediately, nestling into the front of his body and drooling onto his shoulder.
“Why is it that you all cling to me, and never your kepa?” Maekar grumbles, smoothing back Rhae’s golden curls.
Aegon removes a wooden horse from his mouth long enough to say, “Muna soft, Kepa pointy.” As though this explains everything. Perhaps it does. Maekar clenches his jaw, for he cannot fault his son for a correct observation.
He carries Rhae across the nursery, easing himself down into the rocking chair close to where Daella is whispering to her dolls. The chair groans horribly under his weight, but Rhae grips the front of his robe with her tiny fists, apparently satisfied with her new position. Her little cheek presses to his chest as one might press to a pillow.
“Soft.” Maekar grumbles under his breath. He does not like the implication, but it is one he has had to grow used to in the last decade. At least his children do not mean it with anything other than love.
***
“What is it that troubles you, my dear?” Baelor asks in his mild, enquiring tone. Maekar stands at the other side of their chamber, his back turned to his brother. He bares his teeth and aims a kick toward a chest of clothes in front of him.
“Nothing that need concern you. Go back to your reading.” He sniffs. He tells himself that there is no need to lose his temper. No need to involve Baelor in his petty domestic troubles.
Alas, Baelor refuses to let the matter go. He crosses the room, invades Maekar's space, and kisses the crown of his head.
“You seem upset,” Baelor nuzzles into Maekar's hair. He is both the elder and the taller between them, standing nearly a head and shoulders above Maekar in height. “I want to know what has offended my husband so terribly.”
Maekar grinds his teeth, turning sharply and coming face to face with Baelor's muscular chest, clad only in a thin linen shirt. The sight of Baelor's perfect physique is enough to undo him. “My clothes from before I bore Rhae. They no longer fit. I must have them altered, or new things made. And that means the same for my armour, too.”
“That is most inconvenient.” Baelor agrees. He does not understand, however. Maekar turns his head away.
“It is not the inconvenience that concerns me. It is… surely you must have noticed, Baelor. I am fat. Not just from pregnancy any longer – that ought to have worn off by now. I cannot blame Rhae for the fact that I…”
Baelor presses a finger to Maekar's lips before he can say more. Maekar growls on instinct, snapping at the digit, but Baelor only takes him by the jaw instead.
“You have the body you were born for, sweetling. A bigger body, perhaps, than before – but it is yours nonetheless. Do you think I desire you less for it?”
Maekar shrugs. He has no real desire to be told that he is still fuckable.
“The court laughs at me already. I have never been a fit omega for you. Short and broad and pock-marked. They will not take kindly to this development. I care not for my own sake but yet again, I am a disgrace to you…”
Baelor's grip tightens on his jaw, and Maekar is forced to look up into those two-toned eyes. They are narrowed in displeasure.
“My love is not a disgrace. My husband is not a disgrace,” He rumbles, and his free hand goes to Maekar's thick waist as though it belongs there. “I could not wish for more, Maekar. But I am lucky enough to have more of you. It pleases me more than you could ever imagine. Eight children you have given to me and the realm. Battles you have won. How could I not take pleasure in seeing you well cared for, well fed?”
Maekar's traitorous cheeks flush red immediately.
“I am not sure if that helps at all,” He mumbles, although it does. Somewhat. “It is disconcerting, not to recognise myself in the mirror. Our children see me as some kind of glorified mattress, not the anvil to your hammer.”
“Our children love you and respect you in equal measure, as I do as well.” Baelor squeezes him, pulling him close. Their bodies tuck together perfectly, as Maekar must admit they always have. Baelor's hand sneaks under his robe, and he makes a disappointed sound when he finds more linen instead of bare skin.
Maekar sighs. His forehead rests against Baelor's collarbone. “I believe it. But I wish I liked this half as much as you all seem to.”
“I could teach you to like it, sweetling.” Baelor whispers, and nearly purrs in triumph as his fingers at last make contact with Maekar's flesh. He gropes quite shamelessly at the roll of fat over Maekar's hip, sliding across the smooth skin like he's searching for treasure.
Maekar doesn't flinch, although it takes some effort. No, he has never been a slight and delicate creature under Baelor's hands, not even when they were still boys. Bulky, they called him in the yard, or thickset. They were fine words to describe a knight, words he never objected to then.
He is still strong. Stronger than he was at Redgrass, probably. He sees the fear on the faces of the squires, when he sets about practising with his mace. They laugh only when they think he cannot see. Then they talk about how he has gone soft, and make their lewd jokes about his body.
“Do you know how proud I am to be your alpha, dearest? Not because of your looks, or because you bear our children so finely – those are indeed wonderful things, but they do not define you,” Baelor still caresses Maekar's skin, finding the soft, thick roll of his belly and sinking his fingers in as though it belongs to him. “It is because you are so wholly mine. My Maekar, who came into the world to be my other half. Until I had you I had nothing. So when I tell you that I am pleased that there is more of you…”
He gives Maekar's belly a little shake, and growls his approval so that it cannot be doubted. Maekar turns his head away, but only so Baelor will not see the slight smile on his face.
“You are ridiculous,” Maekar grumbles, while Baelor laughs and kisses at his neck. “And lecherous, pawing at me like that. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I am not ashamed in the least,” Baelor answers cheerfully. “Do you understand, sweetling, how deeply I feel for you? It goes beyond all words. Everything about you is so dear to me, I cannot imagine losing even an inch of you.”
“I understand,” Maekar tucks his face back in against Baelor's chest. “It is the same for me.”
Baelor purrs his satisfaction at that answer. His conniving hands have somehow managed to push Maekar's layers of clothing to the side, and even unlaced the top of his breeches to fully release his stomach.
“There he is. My mate, my omega. My love. Shall I show you what a lecher I can really be?”
Maekar sniffs slightly, as though indifferent. But his cheek rubs against Baelor's chest, and his hands drift closer to his husband. “If you must.” He sighs, and lets himself be hauled in for a kiss.
He can be soft, if only for the sake of his family. Baelor, most of all, deserves all the softness in the realm. Maekar can give him that – especially when Baelor gives him such sweetness, in return.