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He had been watching Baelor repeat the same motion for near two hours without breaking the pattern. Maekar’s brow creased in wonder and concentration; surely by now Baelor would pause at least once to wipe the sweat from his palms. If he was sweating or not, his brother did not seem to notice.
Maekar, from where he sat kept rhythm with Baelor’s movements, tapping the heel of his foot against the fieldstone wall. He thrust the long wooden stick forward and quickly brought it back, the point never dropping below eye level. One, two. One two. Tap tap.
It was only meant to be a warm-up before the formal lesson, but Baelor had finished his studies quickly to practice before the spearman met with him.
“How is my form?” His brother asked, suddenly breaking the spell.
Flawless, Maekar had wished to say. At least that’s what the dornish spearman had told him when he began his training. “Needs work,” he said instead, straightening a little. He was still rather upset that his father had not let him train with the spear as well.
At ten, Maekar was old enough to train with the sword, but not quite old enough to pick up the spear. He had protested alright, but it fell on deaf ears.
“You reckon you can do better, little brother?” Baelor asked with a crooked grin.
“I did not say that,” he blurted. Though in truth, it did not seem like such a difficult drill, and he doubted it took much practice to master.
“But,” Baelor lowered the spear, tucking it close to his body the same way the spearman did whenever he stood idle, “you are thinking it.”
Baelor’s mismatched eyes sparkled with mischief; he was goading him now. Maekar leapt off the short wall, baited by his brother, and held his hand out, palm up.
The stick rolled out of Baelor’s palm and into Maekar’s and the younger boy took the position the spearman had taught Baelor at the start of his training near a fortnight ago. Legs shoulder length apart, feet pointing forward and away from Baelor, one hand cupped near the end of the stick and the other higher. Like Baelor had been instructed, Maekar kept the tip raised, never letting it drop below eye level.
When he began, Baelor stepped back and behind Maekar, observing the line of his shoulders. His arms crossed over his shoulders and he nodded his head, approving of Maekar’s form and quick thrusts.
Maekar’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile when he saw his brother’s reaction. That was when he added the long thrust the spearman had also taught his brother. He repeated the motion for the short thrust, where his lower hand did not go above his chest, and the long thrust, where his hand went at the level of his armpit.
He repeated the paired exercises ten times, his breath whistling out of him with every thrust, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.
“Well–” Baelor began, but a third voice rose behind them.
The dornishman dismounted his horse, tying it beside the brothers’ underneath the tree. Side by side, the differences between the breeds was more noticeable. The sand steed was smaller, finer, but Maekar knew it was quicker than any knight’s steed.
He'd been allowed to ride it once. It was swift and for the smallest of moments he felt that is what the dragonlords of old must've felt soaring on their beasts.
“It would be wise,” said the dornishman as he moved from under the shade of the tree, “if His Grace allowed all his sons to take to the spear.” His lilt was not too dissimilar to their mother’s, though the Targaryen court had somewhat worn away at Myriah’s accent.
The man smiled openly and easily and Baelor smiled back at him, gesturing toward his little brother. “He took to the sword quicker than I at his age,” he boasted as if the accomplishment were his own. “I’ve no doubt that given the chance, he’d excel at this too.”
Heat crept up Maekar’s neck and settled on his face. He tipped his chin and returned the stick to Baelor. His father would not allow it. At least not until Baelor proved it was not a wasted skill.
The dornishman looked around them as if expecting someone might be eavesdropping. Maekar looked too. There was no one and there was no place anyone could hide behind; the tree trunks were too skinny and the fieldstone wall was short enough to give away any sneak.
The man looked serious as he looked around and his voice dropped to a whisper, “I can train two princelings at once…only if word never reaches His Grace.”
Baelor laughed, nervous. He was never good at lying or keeping secrets. It was as if compelled by something unseen. Any secret, big or small, hardly ever lasted a secret with him. It would swell in his throat until it spilled from his mouth.
Maekar agreed immediately.
A second stick was given to Maekar and he beamed, testing the weight of it in both hands.
Overhead, a large raven perched itself on a thin branch. It croaked, the sound almost unpleasant in Maekar’s ear. “Corn!” It cawed, the sound too raspy and ugly. “Corn, corn!”
“Seems he has lost his way,” the dornishman said.
“His way! His way!” The bird echoed. “Corn! Corn! His Grace! Corn!”
A Keep raven, Maekar thought. Perhaps it had lost its way. He paid it no mind.
They went over the basics, thrusts and slices and before long, Maekar was growing more adept at it. He smiled wider whenever their instructor praised him. Nice form, prince, and flawless stance, young Maekar, made Maekar feel he might burst from the flattery alone.
He peered once to his brother beside him. Flawless form, he thought again. Baelor smiled at him when he caught his gaze.
An hour passed and they kept at it. Maekar could not even feel the sweat dripping down his spine, much less the sweat of his palm. He only gripped the stick tighter whenever it slipped from his hands.
“How about a match?” the dornishman asked enthusiastically, looking between the brothers.
That wiped Maekar’s smile clean off. He was not nearly as good as Baelor with a sword, much less a spear, and he had less experience with it. He gulped but did not back down.
“Remember your lessons,” the man said as the brothers stood before each other.
Baelor smiled widely and Maekar scowled, an attempt to conceal his own smile.
“I won’t hold back,” Maekar warned.
“Wouldn’t count on it, Maekar.”
The bout began at the instructor’s command.
Maekar took a step to circle Baelor, but his brother caught him halfway into the next step and jabbed his stick near his lower hand. It would surely leave a band of purple and blue across his knuckles.
A giggle escaped Baelor’s lips and he gave a long thrust just in time for Maekar to recover. Maekar stepped back, dodging the blow and adjusting his hold on the stick.
The next lunge came and Maekar blocked it. The shock from where the sticks met traveled up his arm making his grip loosen just the slightest. Baelor slashed the air landing a blow against Maekar’s shoulder that made him lose his balance.
Maekar nearly fell over, but he dug his heel firmly into the earth. “What are you smiling for?”
Baelor shrugged, flexing his fingers around the stick, “said you wouldn’t hold back.” His nose crinkled as his smile deepened. He was ridiculously pleased with himself.
With a huff, Maekar took his position again, legs wide. This time he held the stick like a sword instead and hacked at the air. Baelor parried that quickly, stepping aside and landing a new strike on Maekar’s leg.
“Come on now, my prince.” The dornishman reminded him, “it is a spear not a sword.”
Maekar did not hear him. He cut wide, hitting Baelor once at his stomach, then again higher up with more force. Baelor stepped back, ducking under the arc of his brother’s impulsive attack and jabbed Maekar again, this time striking his ribs.
Baelor laughed.
There was nothing humorous about this to Maekar. Without thinking much on it, he swung the stick once more, wide and fast, and aimed for his brother’s head. That would shut him up, he mused.
“Not the head, prince,” the man chided as he blocked the hit just before it made contact with the side of Baelor’s head. “You can kill a man with a blow to the head.”
The raven, which had been quiet until then, repeated the man’s words: “kill a man kill a man!”
Baelor looked up at the branch, then back at Maekar. “It was a good match, brother.”
Maekar was so upset, he couldn’t even nod his head.
“Let us continue with the drills,” the man prompted. And they did. Short thrusts, long thrusts and slashes.
That is how their aunt Daenerys found them, both jabbing the air with the solemnity of war-seasoned men, not boys whose voice had not yet begun to crack.
Daemon rode some feet behind her with that smug grin of his that Maekar misliked so.
“Your lord father has sent us to fetch you,” Daenerys said warmly.
The boys settled their spears to their sides and greeted the princess. Though Maekar could not help but notice the matching pendants the pair wore. From Daenerys’s neck hung a polished citrine pendant crowned with a shard of black dragonglass; from Daemon’s, the order was reversed, dragonglass set with citrine.
He also noticed Blackfyre in its scabbard strapped to his horse’s saddle. He’d had it for two years now and it never left his side. He probably sleeps beside it too.
“There is to be a council meeting and your father wishes for you to attend,” she spoke to Baelor. She turned to Maekar, “and your lady mother wishes to have you fitted for a new doublet. You’re outgrowing your old ones.”
Baelor tittered, “she called you fat, Maekar.”
Behind them, the dornishman chuckled.
The princess gave Baelor a cutting look. “The meeting begins in two hours.”
“We must practice still,” Maekar said quietly.
At that, Daemon perked up. “Did your father not forbid you from the spear?” There was amusement in his voice.
“My father has given me leave,” Maekar lied quickly. He continued his drill again.
“Are you any good with it?” Daemon asked, directing the question to Baelor. Baelor tensed slightly, just enough for Maekar to notice.
“He’s very good,” Maekar cut in. “Isn’t that right?” He asked the spearman.
“The prince handles himself well. Keeps a good point,” he praised. “He learns quickly.”
Unbidden, Daemon dismounted his horse and dragged his sword from its scabbard. “Then shall we test his progress? Steel and spear.”
Maekar nodded with fervor and the instructor reached for a real spear to hand to young Baelor. For his part, Baelor only accepted the spear.
Daenerys came off her horse as well and took a seat on the fieldstone wall where Maekar had been earlier.
The bout began as soon as Baelor planted his boots firmly against the earth. His posture was without flaw and his jaw set.
“Get him, Baelor!” Maekar roared as soon as the weapons made contact.
They parried for a time with quick ripostes, but neither could manage an opening. Baelor was on the defense, his stance had not suffered from Daemon’s persistence to break it, though he would not have to wait much.
His swings were faster; Baelor blocked a high one, then a low one, but he could not defend against a second high strike. Hit after hit rained down on Baelor. For every one he blocked, two more struck true.
Still, Baelor held his ground without being pushed back. Then the flat of Blackfyre clipped Baelor against his face. Blood bloomed at once from his nose. The instructor only sucked his teeth for he could not intervene or call out a penalty in a friendly match.
Whoreson! Maekar took a step forward, teeth gritted. “Go on, Baelor!”
They circled each other as blood streamed from Baelor’s nose into his mouth and down his chin.
“Kill a man! Kill a man!” the raven cried again. That is when Daemon lunged at Baelor, sword raised high. Baelor met him with a quick, short jab, with a second and third that struck in rapid succession.
To Maekar’s delight, Baelor was gaining ground and pressing the bastard back. Daemon’s back was to Maekar and he was only a couple of steps away from colliding into him. There was nowhere to go; he was caught between the brothers: Baelor with a wicked, bloody grin before him and Maekar with a smile that split his face in two. With a breathless laugh, Maekar shoved him back toward Baelor.
“Best not run away,” he said, overjoyed.
Daemon tumbled forward, momentarily off balance and Baelor used the opening to hit his wrist with the side of his spear. The force of it loosened his grip and his sword clattered onto the ground before Daemon could recover. Baelor’s spear slashed the air again from beneath as Daemon lowered himself to retrieve his weapon. The spearpoint stopped dead at his throat.
His hands rose slowly, “I yield. You win,” Daemon said and there was little mirth in it.
“That settles it then,” Daenerys said almost dismissively. “We must return to the Keep at once. “But how will you explain the blood to your father?” She grinned like a cat as she mounted her horse once more.
Maekar looked to Baelor at that and made his way toward him.
“Is it bad?” Asked his older brother.
“You stopped bleeding, here,” Maekar tugged his sleeve over his fingers and with no gentleness, he scrubbed away at the blood that began to dry and flake.
Baelor winced back but Maekar kept his head steady.
“Easy my prince,” the spearman stepped forward, pulling a handkerchief from his trousers, “you’ll make him bleed again.”
He took Baelor’s head and tipped it back, wiping away with more softness than his brother had. “You fought well. Your form was flawless.”
Baelor grinned, looking away flustered. His eyes landed on a corner of the handkerchief and traced the embroidery. The floss was already losing its color making it an offwhite against the white linen.
“Your mother’s name?” Baelor asked.
Maekar peered at it and he could almost make out the initials. He might like to one day have a lady gift him her handkerchief. He’d wipe his brow with it after a successful tourney. But ladies' favors were for men, not boys like him. One day.
“My lady’s,” the man corrected. “You might get your horse,” he turned to Maekar. “Training is done for the day.”
As he walked toward the horses, Maekar realized he was smiling. It was a good match, he thought. “He made short work of him,” he said to his horse as he untied it. “He’s good, you know?” The horse only snorted and stamped.
“Maekar,” Baelor shouted after him, his head still in the man’s hand, the handkerchief now suspended over his lip.
“His Grace!” The raven said once more before flying off crying corn, corn, corn.
“Get my horse too,” Baelor asked.
Maekar brought both horses with him, though had he a third arm, he would’ve untied the sand steed as well.
Daenerys and Daemon had already gone ahead, chattering animatedly amongst themselves.
“We must catch up to them,” Baelor climbed his saddle in a quick motion. “Race you home,” he pressed his heels into the horse and set off at a gallop.
Maekar had only just managed to put his foot through the stirrup, but hauled himself up quickly onto the saddle. Baelor might’ve beaten Daemon, but Maekar would not see him continue this winning streak today.