Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Baelor had not slept. 

All through the night, no rest was granted him. He sat at his table until the first light of dawn crept over the windows, turning over in his head what he would say to his sire come morning. Then what his father would answer in turn. And then every possible reply he might need to give to every possible question the king could ask. In his mind alone, he had traced each path of the exchange til it led to the conclusion he sought.

And he simply had to reach that conclusion. There could be no other ending, for any other outcome would mean losing that which could not be lost. And Baelor had never been a vain man; he did not begrudge defeat if such were the will the gods had set before him. But there was one thing—one alone—that he would never concede to lose.

Maekar.

In truth, he had believed there was still time. Time to think, to devise a careful course of action and, more importantly, to gently soften his parents toward the notion that he must, irrevocably, wed his youngest brother. Maekar was little more than a pup, and Baelor had not imagined that mother and father, enlightened as they fancied themselves, would hasten to deliver him into the arms of some lord so soon.

There had to be something more at work here… Something the king had not yet revealed. Maekar had likely not been wrong to ask what prize had been promised in exchange for a prince’s hand. Baelor had his suspicions, and he was sure he would soon see them confirmed. 

Yet more pressing than the cause was the means by which he would undo this matter. Depending on how the conversation with father would go, hundred courses of possible action had already unfolded in his thoughts—among them the whim to steal Maekar away in the dead of night and carry him off to some hidden place where none but Baelor could find him.

But Baelor believed himself better than that. He would persuade his father with words alone. If he could not… What manner of king would he one day prove to be? From an early age he had, watching the man whose place he was meant to take, learned how to bend men and move a whole realm with nothing but the power of a smart tongue. Words are a ruler’s first weapon, Baelor.

And if not for his words, only his sword would remain.

The brave knight strikes the foul villain down and gets the enamored prince for himself, the children's tales go. But in truth, he did not wish to be driven so far as to challenge the old knight for Maekar’s hand before the whole of the court. He knew well the disgrace it would bring upon their house. Perhaps Maekar would take some gratification in it, the killing. He was a ruthless omega. Baelor could picture a fierce, vengeful face watching his blade run the old man through. Then the scandal, the whispers… 

But no. It should not be settled in blood.

And so, though he had not closed his eyes for so much as a blink, he washed and dressed with his usual care when dawn broke. Composed in outward appearance, no sign of the night’s uneasiness lingered upon him. He made his way to the King’s private chamber, where he knew his father kept the habit of sitting alone in meditation each start of a new day.

There, Baelor stood before a tall stained glass window, hands clasped behind his back, waiting. The birds had only just begun their daybreak songs and the castle stirred slowly to life. Servants moved like shadows through the corridors, torches were being blown out, doors unbarred, people coming alive. And thus the King found him. 

Daeron was taken by surprise, halting him in the doorway as he marked the unexpected presence.

Yet he recovered swiftly— the doors were shut behind him by a guard and he took his seat with what seemed deliberate calm, setting about straightening the chaos that he called a writing table first. Books left open and pages unfinished, parchments blotted with ink, quills snapped and discarded without ceremony. Such was the desk of a man whose thoughts ran quicker than his own hand could follow.

He took his time before giving Baelor his full attention. He did not appear in the least curious about his son’s ambush; Baelor suspected the King understood precisely why he had come—and may even have anticipated it, startled though he had been to find him there so early without so much as the courtesy of requesting audience as custom required.

For a fleeting moment, Baelor saw himself questioning how far his father truly perceived. He had always believed his secret to be his alone, yet the King’s cunning was not to be dismissed—nor a father’s gift for knowing his children, even in the things they dare not speak aloud. It was a possibility he had to be prepared for; that Daeron already knew and had done nothing to help him. 

He could not allow that idea to unnerve him, though. If his father suspected him… Well, it might spare him the burden of explanation. And he did not fear censure over the fact Maekar was his babe brother. After all, they both stood there because, once upon a time, a man had bedded his own sisters. He did not fear the ire of Gods for his sinful ways and knew his father most likely wouldn’t either. Baelor’s grandsire and grandmother shared a womb themselves.

There were those, he knew, who muttered of their line as depraved and incestuous. Yet their House had been founded upon the very principle of blood kept pure, and Baelor did not deceive himself into thinking that tradition would end with him. Maybe his father did?

No—what weighed upon him was something far less abstract than fickle morality, a morality that had never truly bound his blood, his kind, anyways. 

Why should a dragon trouble himself with the judgments of men? So a Targaryen would say.

Yet Baelor found, more often than he liked, that he felt more man than dragon.

And men bear burdens.

His was an entire realm. 

A realm filled with people—high and low born alike, each with their expectations, their loyalties, their grievances, their praises and condemnations. All of them judged. And all of them believed they had a right to speak of what dragons, for all his family vaunted untouchability, chose to do.

Thus his concern did not stem from whatever gods—whose existence he was not even certain he believed in—might name it sinful to desire one’s own blood. It was not divine judgment that weighed upon him. It was the judgment of men. Men near and tangible, men whose approval or disfavor bore real consequence.

What troubled him most were the lords of the council. They might judge the match ill-advised, might argue that more advantageous alliances awaited. And they could point to his brother’s temperament as cause enough to object.

It was no secret that Maekar was no docile or steady-tempered omega. Many would say he was unfit to be queen, Baelor was sure of it.

Baelor knew better. He alone truly saw the measure of his brother’s potential. Maekar had never required more than a steady hand to guide him and another to do the soothing. Praise when he proved himself worthy of it, firm words when his temper threatened to overtake him—nothing more.

There, he thought, was where father and mother had always failed.

The royal couple granted the boy liberties very few lords or ladies would afford an omega child. Maekar thought it was all thanks to Baelor’s meddling, but in truth the couple could have simply denied all they asked for. How many lords allowed their omega sons or daughters to train daily along squires and knights? To cast aside lessons of sewing and harp playing in favor of learning the sword? Very few. Maekar was fortunate and did not even see it; but age would bring that understanding, in time. 

Yet Baelor knew the King and Queen, as much as they coddled the boy, still harbored hope of reshaping him, of breaking him and then piecing together a new Maekar. A gentler, more compliant version. One less prone to get hurt by the evil in people. 

Baelor had never wished to change what was already shaped to perfection. He would have Maekar as he was: rude and constantly complaining, audacious and unyielding. He knew no one could ever love his brother as good. Not because Maekar was undeserving of love; on the contrary, he was deserving of it in ways few could fathom. But because no one would ever see who he was the same as Baelor did.

In his heart, Baelor had no doubt that their parents had done what they believed best for the lad. Yet he had long since come to see that fathers and mothers rarely understood their children in full. Perhaps it was only siblings who truly did.

The time had come for Maekar to be his responsibility entirely, with Baelor as his lord husband. No one else knew how to steady him as Baelor did. He would finish shaping him—not by carving away what lay at his core, never that. But by refining it, tempering it as one tempers steel, preserving the sharp edges which Baelor loved most.

“You have come to speak of your brother’s marriage,” the King declared, no trace of doubt in his voice.

They regarded one another in silence for a time. At length, the King raised a hand and invited Baelor to take the seat opposite him, which he did.

“Have you answered the letter?” Baelor asked at once. Daeron’s reply would change everything; it would determine the course he must take next.

If the royal seal had not yet reached the Reach with an answer, then it would suffice to persuade his father that no letter need ever be sent. But if a raven had already taken flight, bearing his brother’s fate in its claws, then harsher measures would be required.

Baelor was prepared for those as well.

Yet his father’s answer brought him a measure of relief—the best he could have hoped for:

“No… I have sent nothing. There has been no official confirmation, if that is what you seek to know.”

“Good. Then I still have the chance to make you change your mind,” Baelor said, confidence ringing in his voice as he fixed his father an unwavering stare. 

The King’s mouth curved faintly at one corner, and he shook his head with almost affection.

“I admire your confidence, son, and I will allow you to speak—I can see you are clearly in need of it. But let me remind you, Baelor, that the decision is mine alone.” The smile faded from his lips, though the affection did not leave his eyes.

“Yes, Your Grace, that I understand entirely, and I would not have you think otherwise. But I know as well that you are, above all, a rational man—one who does not fear to change his mind when a better plan is set before him.”

Twas the moment Baelor had to stand his ground. He could not lapse into petulance; had to be more lord than son.

His father regarded him expectantly. Baelor took his silence as leave to continue.

“And that is what I have come to offer you. Another course. One that does not end with Maekar doing something reckless.”

At the mention of his son, something mournful seemed to pass through the man’s gaze and his violet eyes lowered toward the floor.

Baelor knew well that his father did not wish unhappiness upon his youngest lad. He loved him above all things, loved all his children. He was a good man.

But he also knew he could and, perhaps, should press upon that weakness; upon a father’s dread of wounding his cherished child. He was not above appealing to the old man’s heart. Beyond fairness or sentiment, he stood ready to do whatever must be done to deliver his brother from that circumstance. That aside, it was only just that Maekar’s feelings be taken into account. What were they otherwise—a bunch of savages?

“My mother spoke of other letters. It was not kind of her to do so. Maekar was ashamed. But do tell me of them. Was there truly none among them better than Lord Florent?” Baelor pressed.

“They were mostly lesser lords…” the King mused. “We answered, as custom requires. Though we always claimed Maekar was yet too young, that the matter might be revisited in time. But there was one proposal among them that your mother and I found… Promising. One we believed your brother might even come to favor.”

That was not good.

Baelor masked his unease, allowing none of it to reach his face. Fortunately for him, his father—being a beta—could not sense the sudden tumult in his scent.

“Who, father? Which lord or lady would that be?”

“The second daughter of House Dayne. As a second-born, she need not inherit her house’s title. Maekar could remain a prince, and their offspring as well. We might even keep them here, close at hand. They would not need to depart for Starfall. She is an alpha, of course… And of the same age as Maekar. Myriah says she is dashing and clever. They are cousins, as you might remember.”

A young Dayne. Dashing and clever. And a proper alpha. In truth, it would be an excellent match for Maekar.

Which meant Baelor had to find fault in it.

He could not risk that, should he succeed in dismantling Lord Florent’s proposal, his father’s thoughts would simply return to this one instead.

“It does sound favorable, father. However…” Baelor feigned pause, as though weighing the matter carefully, drawing a slight furrow into his brow. “A Dornish house? I imagine mother is particularly pleased by the notion. Yet between the two of us, I must say… We both know what is being whispered at court. It troubles me that we may be seen as too indulgent towards Dorne.”

“We are already being seen as too indulgent towards Dorne,” the King sighed. The subject was hardly new; since King Daeron’s ascent and all the more so now that Dorne had at last joined the rest of the realm, there had been no shortage of murmurs among the court about a Dornish ‘invasion.’ “That is precisely why I dismissed the Dayne for the time being. House Florent, however… They stood in the Reach before even the Tyrell rose. Even before the andals. An ancient and strong line. And, most importantly, not Dornish in the slightest.”

“So that is the reason? That is why you chose Florent?”.

Baelor could feel himself nearing the bottom of it. He aimed to understand precisely what his father saw in the match, if he was to persuade him otherwise.

“Well… Not only that. Lord Florent offered… Certain advantages.”

Motherfucker.

Maekar had been right, in the end: the old fox had spread his legs before the Throne. 

Hardly a surprise; a royal marriage was never secured without an offering weighty enough to tilt the quill in one house’s favor above all others in the realm. 

Baelor only wondered why. Had the old lord truly taken such a liking to Maekar? Or was Florent merely seeking his own advantage through closer ties to the crown? He found that he vastly preferred the latter. The thought of the old man salivating over Maekar made him far more inclined to see the matter concluded in bloodshed after all.

It would be no new tale, but one told a hundred times in a hundred halls: a lecherous aging lord spies some young and fair thing and convinces himself that coin and influence may buy what should never be sold and spends every art at his disposal to have the pretty little bird warming his bed.

But he would sooner see the old man laid cold in a coffin than allow dishonored hands to touch his brother.

“I see… And what advantages would those be?”

“You sipped the wine he brought, did you not?” Daeron asked.

“Yes. It was good wine. What of it?” Surely the man had not purchased Maekar with a few casks of red wine.

“He produces that wine himself. Supplies the whole realm and trades it across the Narrow Sea as well. He cited the figures he's been making in his letter… If what he says holds truth, Florent is exceedingly wealthy, my son. I would dare say wealthier than the Tyrell. And he means to open yet another refinery come summer. He has pledged us half the profits, Baelor.”

So that was it.

Coin.

Gold they had no true need of.

Baelor’s face must have betrayed his displeasure, for his father lowered his gaze, almost as though ashamed.

“You must think me a terrible father… To sell my own son so.”

Baelor did not answer at once—not because he agreed, but because he did not know what words would best serve him. This was not the moment to speak what he truly thought, but what his father needed to hear.

The King seemed to take his silence for condemnation, for he spoke again, hastening to defend himself against an accusation Baelor had not yet voiced.

“Baelor, all your life you have trained to take my place when the time comes. Yet it is in moments like this that I most despise the thought of it—that one day you will sit in my stead. That this sort of decision will be, one day, yours to bear. That you, too, will see hatred in the eyes of a son you once held in your arms and loved beyond measure. And you will know he is miserable because of a choice you made only to please a bunch of old fat fools sat in high chairs.”

Daeron looked weary; Baelor could see a sorrow lingered within his father. He understood then that the man feared he had lost his son’s trust.

“Maekar does not hate you,” Baelor said, his own gentleness and love for his sire overtaking any urge to maneuver the moment to his advantage. “He hates the circumstance you have placed him in, yes. But he would never hate you.”

“Butterwell would not relent, and Elaena and Ronnel spoke of it as though the gods themselves had laid the chance at our feet. When again would we see so much gold offered in exchange for a single marriage?” Butterwell served as Hand of the King, and Lord Ronnel Penrose, with the help of their cousin Lady Elaena, who was now the man’s wife, held sway over the treasury. “I could not say they erred, Baelor. It is an opportunity one can not ignore… Yet I fear Maekar will never forgive me. I never meant to bring him harm, you must believe me.”

Daeron continued to justify himself, as though Baelor’s earlier words had not fully eased him. There was no intentional cruelty in his actions, Baelor knew well. Only the burden of a crown that demanded coin as often as it demanded blood.

“Father… I know better opportunities will come, if only you grant them chance. Our position is not so desperate. The realm prospers. I know the standing of our house is not as unshakable as it once was, yet none can say you have ruled poorly. Highborn and low alike call you the Good King. You need not do this, Father. We have no need of it.”

Daeron studied him and seemed truly to weigh his son’s words.

“Could be. Could be that something better will come, yes,” he allowed at last. “What you said, that little time has passed since Maekar presented, and that new offers are bound to follow, is true. But so too is what Myriah has told. Many already whisper about the boy’s conduct. Lord Florent, however, is… Impressed by him, that much is plain. I would like to believe he would treat your brother well.”

He ought to believe the man would treat Maekar like a whore—that should be nearer the truth. Florent was not in love. He had known the omega scarcely two days, and they had exchanged no more than a handful of words and measured courtesies that Maekar had not even truly meant. What he desired was what hid between his brother’s legs—nothing more.

When the novelty faded, when he discovered the tempest in the form of an omega that he had welcomed into his halls and bed, regret would follow swiftly. And regret, in men such as Aladore Florent, so often curdled into cruelty.

“Perhaps…” Baelor lied. “But regardless of that, Maekar would be unhappy. You know that, do you not, Father?”

“That I do not know for certain, Baelor, nor does you” the King countered, dragging a hand through his thinning silver hair. “No man can claim knowledge of the future. What weighs upon me is the present… It is the pressure from the council to accept this wretched match. The pressure within my own mind when I consider what might be done with such gold… The good it could accomplish. The plans we might at last set in motion. The debts your grandsire left behind—debts we could finally lay to rest…”

“But the decision is yours, Your Grace,” Baelor reminded him. "As you yourself told me moments ago.” The prince spoke with renewed life, bracing both hands upon the table and leaning forward until he had captured his father’s gaze and held it fast. “Just keep in mind that while it is gold that could accomplish much good, yes, it is also gold that could also bring a grave ill. An ill upon our own house.”

Daeron did not seem to take offense at the bluntness of his son’s words. Instead, he answered with equal severity.

“Do you truly believe that can be avoided, Baelor? Tell me honestly. If I say no today, tomorrow I must say yes to some other lord. Your brother cannot remain unwed all his life, however much the two of you might wish it so. You fail to consider that he prefers to live as such now only because he is still more boy than man. But in time he will discover his needs, his longings. He will feel the weight of solitude. Baelor, there is no promise that the most advantageous match will also be the one that grants him happiness, we know that. Regardless, the day he will wed must come. Do you understand it, my son? If I do not disappoint him now, I shall disappoint him later.”

The King had handed him the opening as neatly as if it had been wrapped in silk. The true reason he had come stood before him at last.

Baelor felt his nerves alight beneath his skin, though he had rehearsed the words through the long watches of the night. In truth, he felt he had prepared for this moment his entire life. Since boyhood he had known there would be trials set before him, thresholds to cross, and he had imagined each one in careful detail—how it would unfold, how tall he must stand, the words he would have to utter.

The day he would be dubbed a knight. The day of his marriage. The day he would inherit Dragonstone and be forced to part from his family. The first time he would hold a child of his own in his arms. The day he would take that bloody throne.

Most of those milestones had not yet come, and Baelor had hoped some would remain distant for many years still. But now he stood face to face with one of them, perhaps the most important.

“And what if I were to offer you a match more advantageous still? One that would bring him happiness as well secure the realm?”

Daeron did not trouble to hide his confusion. “What do you speak of? What match could that be, lad? And to whom?”

Baelor did not answer at once. He lowered his gaze, breaking the tether that had held both men's eyes locked together. He was no coward, yet in that moment his hands felt stiff where they pressed against the table, his palms damp.

For a long time, Baelor had harbored the faint hope that matters might resolve themselves without his interference—that the King, or the council, might decree the marriage he so desired of their own accord, as had been done to so many of his ancestors. That fate might spare him the necessity of baring his heart.

But that hope had withered when he heard his father’s words at dinner the night before.

The silence swelled within the chamber, and Baelor feared that, in its midst, his father might perceive his intent before he gave it voice. He did not wish to stand accused; he wished to make confession. He meant to show the steadiness of his resolve, the certainty of his proposal. He needed that. So he forced the words forward before doubt could take root and choke them back. That had ever been his flaw: he thought too much, weighed too long, and in the weighing lost moment.

Not this time.

“Give him to me,” Baelor demanded.

He shattered the silence only for it to settle once more, heavier than before, as a host of emotions crossed the good king’s face and left him bereft of speech. Confusion, comprehension, sorrow, outrage—confusion again. It was hard to say what conclusions Daeron was drawing, yet he was surely drawing them.

Baelor waited. He had expected his confession would be met with surprise. He had done well to hide it all these years—too well, perhaps. He could not have said how; to him it had always seemed quite plain for all to see. Yet none, not even Maekar himself, had appeared to suspect that Baelor’s unwavering devotion and vigilance sprang from anything beyond the fondness of a protective older brother.

“What is it you mean by this, Baelor?” the King at last demanded, rising from his seat and bringing himself level with his son. His expression was stern—stern in a way it seldom was. But Baelor did not flinch; he was no child, and he could not fear speaking the truth when it mattered.

“I mean that it is I who now asks for Maekar’s hand. And do not mistake this for some noble or gallant sacrifice meant to spare him the fate of wedding another,” he made certain to clarify, already foreseeing that his father might think so. “I ask for his hand because I truly desire it. It is my heart’s own wish, and I lay it before you in the hope that you will regard it as well as you can.”

Daeron remained in stunned silence and in his dark eyes Baelor glimpsed shadows that he feared might shape themselves into refusal. Yet he had braced himself for that as well. He would not yield at the first denial; he would not yield at all.

He would make his father see, by whatever means were required, that their marriage would be the best course for Maekar, for their house, for the dynasty. And whether Baelor himself wholly believed that last part… Did not matter. He would persuade his father, the entire council, the realm itself if need be.

“Speak, father,” Baelor urged, loathing to be held suspended in that heavy quiet. He had restrained himself enough; now that he had at last made his confession after keeping it for so long, he felt a pressing need to let it all spill forth—almost as if the words might rise up so he could retch them out. 

The King at last sank heavily back into his seat, as though a great weight had settled upon his shoulders. And so it had; Baelor had just presented him a revelation far from easy to bear.

“Since when?” he asked.

Since when have you desired your brother? The young man knew well that this was what his father meant.

And the answer? Not even he could tell.

Perhaps it had been the day Maekar was born, when Baelor felt plump little hands clasp about his finger with a strength no creature so small ought to possess. Or perhaps it had been in the spring past, when Maekar presented and all the scattered pieces of a puzzle had, all at once, fallen into place.

“It is hard to say…” was all Baelor could offer.

“Baelor… Tell me you have done nothing to stain both of your honors. Especially your brother’s.”

“No, never that. Not in any way, father. I have never laid a hand upon him.” And it was the truth; the touches that lived in his dreams and in his thoughts did not count. That was as far as he had ever gone.

“And Maekar… Does he know?”

Oftentimes, Baelor wondered the same. With so many signs given, could it be that his brother had not yet perceived it? Or not so much as suspected? Yet the answer that ever seemed most likely was no, Maekar knew nothing. He was stubborn, unsure of himself, and still too young, only beginning to understand his own instincts and his own body. Baelor strove each day to show him how precious he was in his eyes, yet at times it seemed his brother’s head was too thick to comprehend that kind of love. Or perhaps the fault was his own… Perhaps he had not done enough. But there was only so much he could do without them being properly mated.

“I cannot say…” the alpha admitted. “But I believe not. He does not know.”

“Baelor…” His father seemed to falter for a moment; he had not yet recovered from the blow of the revelation, yet the young man could see that he was striving to understand him, and for that he felt a measure of gratitude. “You must see, my son. I am trying to look upon this matter in the best light I can, yet you do not make sense. You say it is a course that will bring Maekar happiness, yet he does not even know you love him? Then tell me: how can you be certain he would welcome marriage to you?” Daeron finished, not without gentleness.

It was a fair question. Yes, Baelor believed Maekar did not know of his feelings. But that did not mean they were not returned.

“Father, there are certain things about Maekar and myself that I fear neither you nor mother, however earnestly you try, will ever fully comprehend. Simply because we do not share the same nature.” 

Baelor sought to explain it in the most aseptic manner he could. He had no desire to venture into the particulars of his own intimacy, and though his brother was not present to hear a word of it, he was mindful of his privacy all the same; he knew Maekar would loathe to be laid bare in such a way.

But when his father only regarded him in bafflement, Baelor let out a slow breath. There was no avoiding it. His father was a beta. He would never know what it was to live within the skin of an alpha or omega, no matter how many volumes he had pored over in the royal library after Baelor’s birth and then again after Maekar’s.

“I mean that… I can sense it in him. In his scent. His wanting for me. And… Other signs as well. The signs an omega’s body gives when it longs to couple with an alpha.”

“I see…” Daeron leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a brief moment, ring-laden fingers threading through white hair that Baelor could not tell was owed more to valyrian blood or to the years steadily advancing upon him. When he opened his eyes again, he looked as though he had gone days without sleep. “Baelor… Do you think this might pass? Perhaps… You are young and spend too much time together. It is not uncommon for such feelings to take root. Perhaps, with well-arranged marriages for you both—you with an omega of your choosing, and Maekar… With the best match we can secure. Perhaps then you would forget all this.”

The words were hopeful, yet the expression upon the man’s face did not match them. Baelor had the sense that he spoke out of duty alone, as an attempt he felt bound to make, for it was his charge as father and king. But he could see that his father was beginning to understand he stood before a lost cause. What remained to be seen was whether it was lost to him… Or to his sons.

“No, father… It will not pass. Do you understand it? It will not pass. He is my mate, father. It is him.”

It was the first time he had ever spoken those words aloud. It felt strange—to give voice to something long etched into his heart. Yet he did not dislike the sound of it; it rang true. It felt like an unquestionable certainty, a simple fact that ought to be known, as natural as knowing that if one pricks a finger with a needle, blood will rise.

Maekar was Baelor’s omega.

“And if I tell you that I do not know whether I can grant this, that I do not think it wise to betroth you? Would I then have two sons made miserable with their lives, and resentful of me till my dying day?”

Baelor understood his father’s torment; it was no easy place to stand. He was father and king in one, bound to weigh what best served the crown, yet unwilling to wound his sons. He had already been troubled over Maekar, and now Baelor had doubled the burden with his own needs.

“Father, I understand it is not what the council desires at present, but we shall persuade them! I know we can. We will lay before them arguments they cannot refute!” Baelor spoke with conviction, his eyes alight with the fervor of his cause.

“Such as?”

“Consider this: many whisper that we have grown weak. That without the dragons we are no longer what we once were, that our house has mingled overmuch with Dornish blood. We know it to be folly, yet it is spoken all the same, and we cannot feign deafness. Let us then give them cause to be quieted. A marriage of pure blood, one that binds anew the purity of our line. Let Maekar give me heirs of old valyrian cast so that they will not question their right as they question mine. We shall prove our house remains strong, that we have no need to join ourselves to any other, that the Targaryen dynasty stands complete within itself.”

Daeron seemed to weigh his words. The young heir prince knew well the trials that beset his father’s crown; such matters were part of his daily instruction, and a charge he had laid upon himself—to know all things concerning the kingdom and his heritage, fair or grim. When it came to the role he would one day assume, he would suffer himself no illusion, only the plain truth.

“That is… One way of looking at it. Yet I cannot say that all will receive it kindly. There are those who would see our blood thinned further still, Baelor. There are those who hold our lineage to be a transgression before the Gods. I myself have not ever been wholly in favor of this tradition.”

“Yes, that holds true. And yet, thus far, it is through that very tradition that we have risen to where we stand. It may be—and I pray it shall be so, Father—that in the days of my sons, or perhaps of my grandsons, there will no longer be need of it. That our reign will rest upon pillars raised solely by hard labor and honor. I know that is your wish, and I see each day that it is what you strive to build. And we have come far… Yet for now, we still rely upon our image.”

The King allowed a faint smile to touch one corner of his mouth. 

“You are clever, my son… It makes me proud.”

Baelor felt his fondness for his sire kindle warmly within his chest. Poor King Daeron—too kind, too just. Even when his son drove him into a corner like a hunted beast, he could not help but remain simply father.

“Father… I beg of you, at least make the attempt. I will speak before the council if needed; I do not fear it. Just grant me this, I pray you. I know you to be no tyrant, to hold the council’s place in earnest regard, as you do all realm. But I insist, once again, you remember what you told me: the final word rests with you.”

“And if it comes to nothing, son? What then shall become of you? Could you… Take another omega? And if you were to see Maekar with another, with another alpha… Would you ever be happy, Baelor? Could you live so?”

The sorrow in his father’s gaze was so profound that Baelor nearly chose to lie; nearly gave to the old habit of sweetening bitter truths and turning them easier to swallow. But he could not falter now. His father needed the truth. There were many sacrifices Baelor was willing to make for the realm—but that was not one of them. 

No. He knew he would never be happy without his brother right where he belonged. He could endure, yes. But happiness? No alpha could ever know true happiness without their omega beside them.

“Father, forgive me… But no. I shall not be happy. I will do what is required of me; I will not flee from my duties. But I will not hide the truth: I shall never know happiness if Maekar is given to another. It is to me that he belongs. And he has need of me, I know it! Perhaps until now it has been only as a brother… Yet even that is changing. We are bound to one another. It is our fate.”

A beam of sunlight slipped through the colored panes of the window, and in an instant Daeron’s face was washed half crimson. Only then did Baelor realize how much time had fled. The morning sun already burned in all its strength. Perhaps Maekar was even now in the gardens, training with Ser Quentyn. Baelor hoped it so; yet knowing his brother, it was just as likely he still lay tangled in his blankets, nursing the hurts of the night before.

Maekar… All of it was for him, and because of him. He who deemed himself so small, so lacking in worth. Unaware that for his sake, Baelor was prepared to stand against the whole realm if need be. He was willing to hazard the harmony of his own household, if only that Maekar might be set free.

“I shall do what I can, son. That much I promise you.”

“It is all I ask, father. And I promise you in turn that I will not disappoint you. Nor will Maekar. Together, we shall carry your legacy into the ages. I see it as clear as water, even now.”

The King gave him a gentle laugh. He was not happy, that was plain—yet he still found the strength to smile for the son he loved so dearly. “I know it, my boy. Neither of you would ever disappoint me. You are my pride. Each day I take pride in the men you are becoming.”

Baelor left his sire’s solar with a lighter heart and his hope rekindled. Daeron stood at his side, of that he was certain now. In the end, it was not the king he had needed to win over, but the loving father he had known all his life. He now knew the man would do what lay within his power to aid his cause.

Fervor still coursed through his veins. Though he had not slept at all, he felt no weariness; the last thing he desired was to return to his bed. Perhaps he might go down to the yard and join those at their drills. And if Maekar were there…

He allowed himself to imagine how he might behold his brother now that he stood one step closer to claiming him. Would that fair skin seem to glow the brighter? Would his eyes deepen further into violet when he looked at Baelor’s direction? His lips flush rosier still? Could the warm musk that exhaled from the hollow of his throat grow yet more intoxicating?

Baelor would say nothing—not yet. He must be certain before he spoke to his brother of what had passed. Yet perhaps he could indulge in small liberties. Let his fingers linger a heartbeat longer when his hand found the nape of Maekar’s neck in greeting. Or allow his palm to rest, unhurried, upon the curve of a narrow hip while they talked.

He did not have to imagine for long. 

No sooner had he descended the second flight of stairs than he collided with the very object of his thoughts, who was storming upward, mounting the steps like a charging bull. 

Maekar would have sent him sprawling had Baelor not caught him by the shoulders and pressed him back against the wall, stopping the boy in his tracks.

“Maekar… You are awake. And where do you go in such haste?”

The elder prince allowed himself a moment to study his brother. Maekar was ordinarily meticulous in his appearance, yet that morning his outward state betrayed his inward turmoil. His hair, usually brushed smooth and tucked neatly behind his ears, was disheveled, tangled in knots. His garments seemed thrown on in haste; one button had been fastened into the wrong hole.

“Baelor!” Maekar cried, startled. “I could not sleep any longer. I was looking for you.”

“Were you?” the alpha was unable to keep a note of satisfaction from his voice at learning Maekar sought him.

“Yes… Last night you fled my chambers saying you would set everything right, except you explained nothing and just left me. I woke half-convinced I had dreamt it, so strange it all was. What do you mean to do, exactly?” Maekar pleaded.

Of course. His brother wished to know what was to become of his fate. Sad as it was, Baelor could not speak the truth—not just then. It would put his plan to fault. Maekar deserved certainty, not the fragile promise of an attempt that might yet fail.

He weighed how far he might bend the truth to soothe him without unraveling his scheme.

“It is already done, Maekar. I have just now come from our father’s chambers.” At least that much was true.

Baelor watched Maekar’s throat as he swallowed. He was distraught and Baelor had no need to draw breath to read it. And yet the restless omega scent reached him all the same, searing through his senses. How he longed to soothe him, to gather him close and swear that all would be set right… 

But the truth was, he did not yet know if anything would ever be right for them again.

“And then…?” Maekar dared to ask.

Baelor decided he ought to withhold much of what had transpired that morning—the part where the King entertained the marriage for its financial merit, the part where there had been more agreeable proposals among those that had come seeking the omega and, above all, the part where he had declared himself before his father and begged for his brother’s hand.

“And then… He said he will consider my request that he not wed you to Lord Florent. Said he will bring the matter before the council.”

It was as though a dam had broken when Maekar drew a relieved breath and sagged against the wall Baelor had him pinned by the shoulders, sliding down to the floor as if he had just been told he had escaped death. Perhaps to him it was near enough the same. My poor pup, Baelor thought, his chest tight. 

Maekar sure enough loathed the idea; but was it the thought of wedding that particular man he despised—or the thought of marriage itself?

“Thanks to all the fucking gods…” Maekar groaned.

“But, Maekar, you must understand one thing…” Baelor cut short his brother’s relief.

Maekar opened his eyes at once, his face souring again as he fixed Baelor a scowl. Baelor found he did not mind having those big eyes gazing up at him, even if in anger.

“There is still the chance they may choose another for you to wed.”

“Who? Mother said hardly anyone sent letters!”

“That is not entirely true,” Baelor heard himself say, though the admission ill-served his own purpose. “Letters did come, and more will no doubt arrive—father believes so as well.”

“Oh,” the boy's grimace faltered. “And among them… Was there any of note?”. 

Baelor felt a growl tighten in his throat.

“Perhaps. Father did not give me many particulars,” Baelor lied, though the image of a tall and radiant young woman, dark of hair and owner of lilac eyes, rose unbidden in his thoughts. “But what would you call of note, in truth?” he could not keep from asking.

Maekar hesitated and averted his eyes, a faint flush touching his cheeks. Baelor regretted the question at once.

“Well, someone… Honorable. Strong. Clever. You know. Such things.”

Such things. No, Baelor did not know. Was he himself a man who fit his brother’s measure?

“I see. Then would you be glad if Father chose someone so?”

Maekar shrugged. “I can not say. Being honorable does not mean one would be a good husband, does it? In truth… I would rather not wed at all. Ever. I am not made for it, Baelor; I know it.”

“Nonsense,” Baelor said sternly. “Of course you are. You need only find someone who does not ask you to bend yourself to their expectations. Someone who will take you as you are.”

Then those impossibly large eyes were upon him again and Baelor could stab himself right in the heart when he noticed they now shone with unshed tears. “And where in the seven hells am I to find someone like that?”

Oh, brother. You already did.

                                                                            ··········•··········••··········•··········•

For the remainder of the day, Baelor strove to carry on with his duties as was expected of him. It would not do to be seen neglecting his customary obligations; questions would arise as to his whereabouts, and he had no wish to draw attention to himself just now. He did not know when his father meant to honor his promise—he might lay Baelor’s request before the council this very day, or not for many moons yet. Until then, he would have to live as though nothing had changed.

Yet by midday, he was intercepted by one of his mother’s ladies-in-waiting, who requested a private audience in her lady’s chambers.

Father told her, he realized immediately. 

And so he ground his teeth all the way to his queen’s quarters.

His mother awaited him on the veranda, a table set with tea and fruit before her. She looked as beautiful as ever, draped in her silks. Her beautiful tan face concealed well the stirrings of worry Baelor knew roiled beneath, though he also knew well he would soon hear all about it.

“Sit, son,” she said softly, gesturing to the chair before her. She was alone, having dismissed all her ladies. This conversation was meant for family ears only.

Baelor seated himself in silence. He did not touch the tea or the fruit. He waited for his mother to speak first, for it was she who had summoned him here.

“Your father has told me of what you did earlier today.”

The mask had fallen: her face turned stern, no longer hiding her disapproval of her son’s actions. Baelor knew that look well, though he was seldom its target. Yet many times he had seen it fixed upon his siblings—and even upon his father. Those eagle-like pits of black she called eyes could be quite merciless. 

Baelor remained silent. Not from shame or fear, but simply because he wished to be anywhere but there, being lectured by his mother as though he were a wayward child caught in mischief. He remained only because he knew the conversation must be had; he owed her that much. Nothing more.

She watched him, expectant. Yet when no words came, she let out a long sigh and spoke herself: “You know, Baelor… I have always placed great trust in your wisdom, your prudence. I believed that now that you are a man grown, such follies would trouble you no more. Yet somehow… Somehow, you and your brothers always contrive new ways to make the most disastrous of choices. A talent, I must admit!”

It was hardly fair that she placed him alongside Aerys, Rhaegel, and Maekar; Baelor had seldom done anything beyond what was expected of him. Yet, at the same time, he felt an intrusive satisfaction in finally being counted among the useless alongside his brothers. There was a strange honor, he thought, in standing with the troublemakers.

“I am sorry you feel so, mother. But I do hope you understand this changes nothing for me. Rather, I would wish for your support—you are our mother, and we love you. For me, as I know for Maekar as well, it would mean much. But with or without it… I shall act all the same. I need only the King’s approval. That is all.”

The woman laughed, her cunning tongue already working on a reply to match the veiled insult her son had dealt her: 

“For Maekar…? You speak of what he wishes… But he does not even know! Your father told me, horrified, that you made this decision alone, and that your brother has no notion of what you intend with him. You say you are certain it is what Maekar would want. Is that truly so? For as long as I know—and I know my son well—Maekar wants no marriage at all. Or has he told you something he has kept from me?”

The questions were aimed to pierce through Baelor’s armor, and in some measure, it did. His mother had struck precisely at the weakest point of his plan—and whether she meant it or not, at the part that gnawed most at his heart: the possibility that Maekar might not welcome him.

As Baelor pondered what could he possibly reply to that, Myriah seized the moment to press the wound further: “And so, Baelor, I would have you explain—if Your Grace is so kind—why you are casting aside not only your own future but that of your brother, and by doing so risking the realm’s very peace, all for a union that exists solely in your head!”

The words stung. 

Fragments from the conversation he had with Maekar that morning returned to his mind. He was not able to offer much comfort without exposing himself, so he sent the boy off to Rhaegel’s quarters so that they could play. Play? We are not babes, we do not fucking play, Maekar had grumbled, but went along all the same.

Could it truly be that Baelor was imagining it all? That he had woven a reality that existed only for himself?

“Enough. Enough, Mother, of your presumptions.” Baelor did not raise his voice—he never did, for it was unnecessary. His tone alone was enough to silence any man. Sadly, before him stood no man, but his mother. “Maekar is still a boy, but I am a man, and I will not stand here listening to nonsense as if I were a child. If you wish to speak, we may speak; I have no shame nor hesitation in discussing my decision. But I will not accept judgment—I have the right to ask for his hand, just as any other alpha would.”

“My presumptions? And who here presumes more than you?” Myriah asked, astonished. Baelor began to fear she might be right. By the gods, what had he done? “Baelor, my son, with this behavior of yours, it is like… Like I hardly know you! But do explain, then, I beg you! Speak of your decision, make me see that some part of this is not madness. You know, I always wished to convince myself that this closeness between you two was but the affection of brothers. Yet now I see I was a fool.”

“You were no fool. I did love Maekar as a brother for most of our lives, and I always shall. But things have changed, Mother.” Baelor turned a ring between his fingers, striving not to betray how unsettled the exchange had begun to make him. “Mother… I do not wish to be at odds with you. Please. Do not be angry— just try to understand me. I do what I do because I love him, nothing more.”

His plea seemed to have some effect, and Baelor watched as his mother’s fury softened, the outrage giving way to an uneasy sort of contentment. 

“Oh, Baelor…” the queen sighed. “You foolish boy. Of all the omegas in the realm, all that you could pick, did you have to choose your own brother?”

Baelor could see that his mother’s question bore no malice. He understood why she was so distraught: two sons, two children she had been devoted to raising into courteous men who would honor their station and their house. And now she had one son who wiped his behind with all notions of courtesy, and another who had decided he would go mad if he did not wed his own brother.

“I did not choose, Mother…” Baelor explained, a melancholic smile tugging at his lips. “There was no choice. Call it fate, nature, or a blend of both… I need him. I shall find no peace otherwise. And if Maekar…”

Baelor paused for a heartbeat. When he spoke again, he felt the decision solidifying in his heart as the words left his lips. 

“And if Maekar does not truly desire this union, then… Then I shall be his shield. I shall never touch him beyond what is required to produce an heir, never impose my presence or my feelings upon him. Before the court, we shall appear as a couple. But behind closed doors, in the every common days of life, he need not love me. Thus, he is freed from the burden that torments him; the burden of marrying someone who mistreats him. I would demand nothing of him. I am the only one who could grant him this: selfless love.”

The weight of Baelor’s words filled the silence they caused. He could see the gears inside his mother’s head turning, but Myriah stopped to pour herself another cup of tea, sipping slowly. He did not have much else to say, so he waited for her, until finally she spoke:

“You know… When I was told that the babe I bore was an omega, I found myself wondering if such a thing might ever happen. Between the two of you, I mean,” she sipped again. “I already had an alpha son, and I knew well the customs of the house I had married into. Did I agree with them? No. But my approval mattered little. Gods, even now I’m being slapped in the face by the truth in that. I spoke with Daeron; asked what he thought of such a possibility. Your father was never an enthusiast of the tradition, as you know. He promised me not to worry, that he had far different plans for the future of the dynasty.”

Baelor listened to his mother with rapt attention; it was the first time he had heard of such a thing. He had never imagined that his union with Maekar had once been considered by their parents, not ever.

“And then…” she continued, “Your brother began to grow. Entirely unlike what the septons had told me he ought to be. He was neither sweet nor graceful. And it was then that I began to fear what I fear even now: that by being the complete opposite of what was expected of him, he would suffer. And Baelor, you know it is true. Your brother suffers! He hides it all behind that armor of brutish manners and indifference, but Maekar suffers knowing he is not like his equals. You see, I have known many omegas in my life who wished to be warriors or navigators or merchants. But that was in my youth, when I still lived in a place where such things were accepted—and long before I was a mother to princes.”

Baelor did not interrupt, knowing his mother was leading to something crucial . It was rare for her to lay bare her own feelings so openly; Maekar and she were terribly alike, though neither realized it. He watched her, silently encouraging her to continue.

“We are not in Dorne, Baelor. Here, certain comportment is expected, a certain refinement your brother does not possess. And I have long understood that no matter how much I try to force it upon him, he will never have it. Maekar is beautiful, courageous, strong, and cunning beyond measure. And we love him for it. But who else will love him? Will these people we are meant to rule over be capable of loving him? When your father and I are gone, and it falls to you two to sit the throne, can Maekar be a good queen? Or will he, once more, have to suffer the mockery of those fools around him who can not keep their tongues to themselves?”

Baelor understood now where his mother meant to lead him, and in some measure he shared her fears; so much that, for a moment, he found himself without argument. He had asked himself those same questions before. Would it not be cruelty to press so great a role upon the boy? Yet in the end, Baelor believed it would not. Maekar was meant for greatness. Of that, he was certain.

He saw the genuine worry that crossed his mother’s face. He remembered the doubt in his father’s gaze. The plea that had lingered in his brother’s violet eyes.

“Yesterday you said something…” he began, setting aside mother’s question for a moment. “You asked what sort of alpha would want an omega like him. I would have you know that is not how it works.”

“What?” Myriah blinked, taken aback by the turn of his words.

“That is not how it works, mother. No one desires an omega because they embroider prettily or never forget to cross their legs when they sit. I know that is what the septons teach, but… There are no alpha septons, are there?” 

“Come to your point,” she demanded, irritation creeping into her voice for his roundabout answer.

“I mean that I am not the only one who would want Maekar. Alphas desire omegas who are strong and fertile—it is as simple as that. Tomorrow at first light some knight might ride here in search of service and seduce him, or a lord of good standing might claim him and carry him off. And then I am to be lost. Mother, I have always known this could transpire. Yet I tell you: name me selfish, name me mad, but I am not willing to let any of it happen while I still draw breath.”

The queen looked faintly affronted at being corrected and seemed ready to retort, but Baelor did not give her the chance:

“I want him for far more than that, far more than desire. I want him for who he is. I, who loves him more than any ever could, for I have loved him since the day he was born.”

He needed to set a final stone in place. Whether his mother accepted it or not was, unfortunately, her decision to bear. Should the council decide in his favor, she would have no choice but to learn to live in this new picture. “I understand your fears, and I confess that in some measure they are mine as well. But mother, you must trust me when I say I will never allow Maekar to be humiliated. In fact, have I ever allowed it?”

It was a genuine question, yet she did not answer—and Baelor took her silence for what it was. They both knew he had never permitted anyone to make a mockery of his brother in his presence.

“Maekar is still learning the ways of life, still coming to understand the man he is. If the gods are kind, many years shall pass before I am called to take the throne. By then, he will be more than a man grown. Will have given me heirs, if it lies within my power. Motherhood changes a person. And with me to guide him, he will be as worthy a queen as any who has ever worn the crown. And we shall rule together, side by side. As for enemies… I cannot command every wagging tongue in the realm, nor do I intend to—but I would never leave my brother to the lions. He will be taken care of. Do you see now how it will unfold, mother? Maekar shall be a good queen, for I shall be his king.”

And with that, there was little left for her to say.

Baelor rose and stepped closer to the mother he loved so dearly, gathering her soft hands in his own— those same hands that had so often soothed him in childhood, striving to keep pace with a boy who had needed far more warmth, more touch, than the beta son she had expected to bear. Now they felt small within his grasp.

“Mother, forgive me for speaking so harshly.” Baelor truly repented it; never before had he been so blunt with her. “But you must understand that there is no turning me from this path. And I want, more than I could put into words, your blessing.”

Myriah studied him. Her gloom had softened then. Baelor wondered if she saw something of herself in the face everyone said they shared. 

At last, she sighed and clasped his hands in return. “I cannot promise you that, Baelor… Not yet. My fear for your brother is too great. For you as well, should he turn from you. But I see there is nothing I may do to alter this—it is too late. So, as for my blessing… I do not know if I can give it. Not yet.”

“All is well, mother,” he lied. “I know you to want what is best for each of us.” 

Baelor left the queen’s chambers without even once mentioning her horrid hypocrisy. 

                                                                    ··········•··········••··········•··········•

The conversation with his mother had unsettled him so deeply that Baelor found himself kneeling in the Great Sept.

The marbled white dome arched endlessly above, so high it made his head swim. The smell of incense clung thick to the air, near suffocating to his sensitive nose, and Baelor was reminded why he so seldom set foot in this place. There was also the simple matter that he was not, by nature, a devout man. As a boy, when he had been made to obey his mother and the septons charged with instructing him and his brothers, he had learned the proper prayers and what each of the Seven was meant to embody. Now, he had not even remembered to bring a candle.

Even so, he found himself on his knees before the Crone, after Ser Gwayne had escorted him to the sept. It had seemed the most fitting choice at that moment. He felt in dire need of wisdom.

The guard waited beyond the doors, and in truth Baelor would have preferred to come alone, yet he knew refusing the escort would cause more harm than good. Though he shared a name with the sept, he felt no kinship with the place. I must be truly desperate to come here, he thought wryly.

The other Baelor—the one the sept was raised to honor—had been a man of unshakable devotion. A king said to forgive even his bitterest foe, who coveted nothing, who renounced the pleasures of the flesh in the name of virtue and justice. A holy man. Baelor The Blessed, they called him.

Baelor himself bore little likeness to such a figure. With the exception of the name, of course. He was to be Baelor Targaryen, Second of his Name. 

He knew well that selfishness guided him. He desired his brother above reasoning and would not accept refusal as an answer. The intensity of his own yearning frightened him.

Perhaps they will call him Baelor The Damned. 

He had never wished to bring sorrow upon his parents, never meant to place Maekar in so fraught a position—so why did he persist in it still?

In the name of love?

Love is the death of all duty and all honor, his father had once told him. Only now did Baelor begin to understand the truth of it.

He wished things might be simpler—but wishing was a futile thing, and changed nothing. He would never be anything, any other man than what he was.

Grant me wisdom, O Crone. Reveal the dark road before me. If you are truly listening, then give me answers, he prayed.

The statue did not answer, of course.

It was thus that Daeron found him: praying to a make believe old woman with all the fervor he possessed, as though if she failed to grant him guidance he might rise that very instant, hunt his brother down  and carry him off to the farthest corner of the world with a bite still dripping blood from his neck.

“It is rare to find you here…”

Baelor had heard the approaching footsteps, yet without a familiar scent, he had not known who it was until the man knelt at his side and spoke.

He opened his eyes and looked at his father in surprise. “How did you know I was here?”

“I looked for you. Ser Rolland told me he saw you being escorted here by Ser Gwayne,” the king explained in a hushed voice. That was a place for whispers.

“I see…” Baelor replied, without much feeling.

“You spoke with your mother, I presume.”

For a fleeting instant, Baelor thought he had heard the King ask whether he had spoken with the Mother, and wondered if that might not have been wise as well. Then he realized his father meant his own mother, the one made of flesh and bone.

“Yes. But it was not a good conversation,” Baelor admitted.

“I can imagine…” Daeron sighed softly. “Your mother is rather stubborn. Do not tell her I said that.”

A faint smile tugged at Baelor’s mouth. He wondered whether he and Maekar might one day share the easy confidence their parents shared between the two of them.

“But you must understand, Baelor…” the King went on. “Your mother loves you—all of you—more than anything in this world. Give her time. She will come to accept it. I know she will.”

Baelor was about to argue that he was no longer certain of that when his father’s words truly settled upon him.

“She will accept…?” he repeated, his heart beginning to thunder in his chest. “You mean—”

“Yes, Baelor. She will have to.” Daeron smiled, though the same strain of melancholy from that morning lingered in his expression. “I spoke before the council not long ago.”

“And…?”

Even if the sept had not demanded quiet voices, Baelor could not have spoken louder; his throat had drawn tight, his pulse roaring in his ears.

“Well, there were those who opposed it, as we knew there would be. But in the end…” Daeron gave a small shrug. “I am still the King.”

Baelor understood what that had cost him. His father took no pleasure in asserting his will so bluntly before the council. Yet he had done so. For him. For Maekar.

For a fleeting instant, he thought he might weep. He squeezed his eyes shut, offering silent thanks for whatever hand had seen fit to grant him this mercy, to whatever power had chosen, this once, to favor him.

“Thank you, father,” he managed at last, the words barely coming out.

“Do not thank me, my son. You carry a great responsibility now. The responsibility of shaping your brother into the finest wife he can be. And in time, when I am no longer here, into a queen. And above all… Of making him happy. All that you must tell him yourself, of course. Do not expect me to do it for you. That is your duty now.”

The king’s tone was gentle, but there was no mistaking the inflexibility beneath it.

Baelor nodded with fervour, still unable to trust his voice. I did it, was all he could think. I truly did it.

Everything had happened so swiftly. Only yesterday Maekar had been merely his beloved younger brother—now he was his betrothed.

“I shall leave you to your prayers, my son. Do not forget to give thanks. And when you go to speak with your brother… Be patient. I know patience comes naturally to you, but Maekar has a gift for testing any man’s temper when he is roused. Remember this: for a woman, or for an omega, marriage is no small change. The duties, the children… Such things awaken fear. Be gentle. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father. I know. I give you my word, I shall be patient,” the prince replied, offering a steadying hand as Daeron rose to his feet.

With the king standing and Baelor still upon his knees, it was the first time in many years that Daeron seemed to tower over his son. Baelor found himself having to lift his gaze up to meet his father’s eyes, just as he had done as a little boy.

But if there had been any remnants of his boyhood left in him, they might as well have died in that very instant.

No more words were exchanged, and the King departed.

Baelor remained there a while longer, alone beneath the towering dome, reflecting on what he had set into motion. He searched within himself for some trace of regret but found none. What that revealed about him, he could not say; perhaps that he was, indeed, a selfish man.

Yet if the Gods had truly permitted this union, did that not mean his love was pure enough to outweigh his selfishness?

When Ser Gwayne escorted him back to the castle, he asked Baelor no questions. They were both alphas, and Baelor knew the other man could likely sense the shift in his scent. He was one man when he had entered that sept, but he came out a different one. They were on good terms—he might even have called the knight a friend—yet he could not share the news with anyone before speaking to Maekar.

Tomorrow, he decided as he reached his quarters. Night was already beginning to fall, and he needed time to think through everything that had transpired.

With a flicker of wry amusement, he realized he was afraid of his brother. Afraid of his reaction, of being rejected. What a curious sensation. Baelor almost relished in it. He, afraid of Maekar. Maekar, who would accept an apple bitten to the core if it were Baelor who offered it.

He was so thoroughly love-struck that even the thought of being refused filled him with longing. It was the image it painted: he pictured his brother flushed in anger, that thick neck darkening with color until it reached his cheeks, eyes narrowing to slits, his scent turning sour in his ire.

What would Maekar taste like when he was that angry? If Baelor pressed his mouth to his neck, would he find that same bitter sweetness there, clinging to his skin? Would he feel the tremor beneath his pulse, the furious life Maekar was so full of?

Maekar would come to accept him. Baelor would see to it, would win him over day by day, if needed be. Patiently, steadily. He already knew Maekar wanted him; he could feel it in the way his brother’s body answered to his presence, even if the younger did not yet fully grasp what stirred within him. Maekar fancied himself clever, a slick lad—but in truth he was still green in many ways. Just a little pup.

Baelor would teach him. Had he not always been the one to guide him before? This would be no different.

Lying upon his bed, the heir to the throne smiled faintly to himself, imagining his brother yielding to him little by little—opening, softening, becoming pliant beneath his steady devotion. Maekar still knew how to be gentle; he had not yet lost that gift, as so many boys did when they grew into men. Yet it had sadly become harder and harder to glimpse that sweetness.

Baelor longed to draw it back out from where it lay buried, to reclaim the softness of their shared childhood. But only for himself, of course. Let the rest of the world believe Maekar forged of steel. Baelor could shoulder whatever wreckage his brother left in his wake.

He caught himself imagining the day of their wedding. It could not be long now; with the betrothal decided, it was merely a matter of preparations and proclamation. It would be a grand affair, no doubt. Maekar would complain about every moment of it, would swear that he hated to be put in the middle of a spectacle—but Baelor liked to think that, somewhere beneath the scowl, he would be pleased.

Perhaps he might even smile. 

Perhaps he would allow himself a dance with Aerys, and with sweet Rhaegel as well, who so dearly loved to dance. 

With luck, he would remember to bow his head in face of the many well-wishes of the many lords and ladies present, likely leaving Baelor to do most of the speaking, yet making the proper effort to meet courtesy with courtesy, as duty demanded.

No one but Baelor seemed to notice it, yet Maekar had been trying of late. He wanted to be good, wanted to measure up in ways he would never confess aloud, and none gave him commendation for it. It was sad.

It would please him to see the realm gathered in celebration of Maekar on their wedding day. Baelor believed that beneath all the grumbling and sharp remarks, his brother would be glad of it as well. To be honored openly as an omega for the first time since his birth. There was cruelty in him being denied that recognition, for omegas were blessings, meant to be cherished simply for drawing breath.

And Maekar… Maekar deserved it more than any of them. He was the finest of them all. Beautiful, strong, capable. So very brave.

Baelor loved him with his whole heart, and he knew he would love him all the more when they stood before the altar, in that same sept where he had knelt in prayer before and had asked for this very moment to happen. 

The eyes of the entire realm would be upon them, all offering their blessings. It would be a ceremony so beautiful, so splendid, that no one would dare whisper of their shared blood. In the days and years that followed, they would speak only of how wondrous the day had been—a celebration of a love so pure it silenced all doubt about their union.

Baelor grabbed at his hardened cock, taking it out his breeches. He stroked it lazily, fisting tighter around the head the way he imagined Maekar’s virgin cunt would seat him. He had enough of pretending, though. His hands surely would never measure to the real thing, the real feel of being inside the wet heat of his welcoming omega.

Maekar would welcome him, he had too; otherwise, why would he sometimes wetten when Baelor got too close? Baelor had smelled it; the scent of his eagerness. It was enough to make him dizzy, near stupid, enough to make him need leave the room lest something disastrous happen. Maekar had no idea he could tell, surely. The boy was oblivious to what he provoked, oblivious to what Baelor would do to him given the chance. 

I would not have to wait long now, he thought, almost drooling like a rabid dog, as he pictured Maekar, resplendent in his bridal garb. Wearing Baelor’s cloak, embroidered with his own personal coat of arms.

It took great effort not to deflower Maekar before the proper time, but he would not sullen his brother’s honor. Still, he often fantasized about leaving his own chambers and creeping into Maekar’s, in the dark of night when none could notice anything was askew. 

Baelor’s dick jumped at the well-known vision. Maekar was too tiny to take cock before but he had matured enough, he would not be hurt if Baelor took his liberties with him, for his body had grown big and sturdy. 

Baelor would not harm him, he could be patient and delicate at first; until Maekar’s inside grew accustomed to the size of him, until he fit Baelor like a glove, until he was well trained enough so that Baelor could unleash the disgraceful beast he kept inside himself as he brother took his cock over and over again. “Maekar…” he moaned to none, alone in his large bed, feeling the ghost of his brother’s touch.

He was so close. 

Everything was too close— the wedding, his release, Maekar. If Baelor concentrated long enough he could taste him in the air, his scent seeming to always permeate everywhere in that damn castle, haunting Baelor every moment of the day, plaguing his thoughts and his sanity.

Baelor did not have a lot of experience, only had bedded an omega down once, right when he had his first rut and was taken to a pleasure house in the outskirts of the city. It had been enjoyable enough, but the whole indignity inherently laced to the situation made him opt to spend his ruts alone in the coming seasons. He barely remembered that omega’s face. He was pretty, Baelor supposed. He never cared much for pretty things.

His interest for omegas had been close to null until Maekar had presented and suddenly Baelor understood all the appeal. All the rowdy ale-fulled of the inn tables talk made sense, everything every other alpha had told him. Mating was more than a want, it was a need. And it took him a whiff of Maekar’s freshly presented scent to understand it. 

The vision changed and this time Maekar was not startled but responsive, was already waiting for him, a shy smile to his lips as he spread toned pale legs, his flushed cunt beckoning Baelor in, ready to take him, all of him, his cock, his knot, his bite, his seed, and again and again and again till he was fat with their pup.

Baelor came with a strained grunt that turned into a whine, his seed shooting up all the way to his chest. “Fuck,” he grumbled, out of breath.

He quickly found the nearest rag and cleaned himself, hating the feel of his own come crusting to his skin. 

Tomorrow, he thought again. I will tell Maekar tomorrow. 

Only then he finally fell into a deep sleep.