Chapter Text
Maekar hastened through the Red Keep, uneasy amidst the press of bodies crowding the passageways, their sharp scents stingy to the nose of a youth in the full tide of coming of age. The eyes he met were keen and hungry, eager for a glimpse of the little omega prince. Except that there was nothing little left of Maekar; in his fourteenth spring he already stood taller and broader than a lot of the lords who sidled and craned their necks at him, hoping to steal a look at the young prince.
‘Is he fair as a song? Is his Valyrian face carved as though from marble, his skin pale and velvety as cream, his hair ringed and the color of beaten silver?’ Maekar knew well that such questions were whispered. He knew, too, that the answers would sorely disappoint them. He was no beauty — of that he was certain, and needed no man to tell him so. The Valyrian cast he had from his sire lent too little grace to his shape, which was sturdier than the slender form an omega was meant to bear. His hair, pale as moonlight, fell straight and lifeless upon his shoulders, as gaunt as near everything else about him. His wan skin was forever marred by the pox that had stricken him in childhood, and though Maekar had more than once tried to let the hairs on his face grow out, in hopes of hiding that misfortune, his mother would not suffer it.
‘You are far too young and fair to wear a beard! You would look an old man.’ His mother had insisted. Though the queen named him fair in that moment, he knew it for what it was: a mother’s kindness, a gentle and well-meant falsehood.
Yet Maekar cared for it all no longer, or so he had schooled his heart to believe. His life had been marked by mischance, and he had come to wear resignation about his shoulders like a cloak. Born the fourth son, oft forgotten and set aside, his parents’ notice drawn instead to his elder brothers, each with their own troubles and virtues that claimed the royal couple’s care and concern, whilst Maekar was made an afterthought.
He was also the only omega of his line and not even a good one at that. He was sullen, dour, ill-tempered, foul-mouthed, and coarse in manner. He had no gift for the finer, gentler arts; he preferred the freedom of a saddle, to drill with sword and mace, and to shut himself away for long hours in his solar, where silence ruled and none might trouble him. There, he was king.
It had not always been thus: when he was smaller, scarce more than a pup, Maekar could not understand why he was set apart from his brothers. He watched the elder princes be urged into the saddles and riding with heads held high like true-born lords, studying lance and sword, and how, in time, they were sometimes summoned by the King, their father, to stand in quiet and observant attendance at the Small Council. None of that was ever extended to Maekar.
His wish to run and roughhouse with the other boys was denied him, told time and again that such things were not fitting for an omega. Instead they pressed harps and sewing needles to his hands, and shut him away in chambers full of ladies and soft-spoken men, expecting that something delicate might be coaxed from his stout, clumsy fingers.
The little prince raged. Constantly loud in voice and temper, he would stomp his foot, wailing at the top of his lungs until his throat grew hoarse and his tears ran dry. Until his mother, worn through, would leave him to the maids. In such moments, only one person ever brought him comfort. It was always Baelor, his eldest brother, who gathered him up in his strong arms, never seeming to feel the growing weight and size of the youngest, and cradled him as though he were still a babe. The older lad would tease laughter from him with tickling fingers, until tears gave way to giggles. From the folds of his robes he would conjure, as if magic, little wooden swords, and to Maekar they seemed no less than true-forged blades.
Then the two of them would play for hours at being great knights of legend, or even the Conqueror himself, whatever their fantasy seemed fit, the young man casting aside his own duties to soothe his rotten brother’s sorrow.
‘You should not indulge him so. Do not coddle him when he cries! He must learn he can’t have every thing he wishes for. There are rules to follow!’ The queen would scold. Baelor would only answer with a contrite smile and a soft apology, and somehow that appeased their mother every time. Maekar came to believe there was naught Baelor could not set right with a smile.
But Maekar was a child no longer, wooden swords were but wooden swords and the enchantment of their make-believe withered away. He was near grown, and with each passing year their parents granted him fewer indulgences. Baelor, although his time now was more and more scarce, still spoke in his defence when needed. More, Maekar oft thought, than what he actually deserved.
It had been Baelor who won him leave to train in the yard alongside the squires and men-at-arms, arguing that an omega must needs know how to guard himself against the perils of the world and the cruelty of alphas. Maekar could not believe it when the plea prevailed, though like as not it was granted only because it was Baelor who asked it. Many a time he had begged for a sword of his own and been denied without heed.
Now, he handled blade and spear as well as any other young lad. Better, he believed in the privacy of his own thoughts. He kept a fierce, secret pride in his own prowess. He knew his strength; Baelor himself had named it so. Their master-at-arms — an ageing knight who showed too ready a favour to the royal bastards and too little warmth to the princes — had never once offered him praise, and Maekar saw the dislike plain in the old man’s eyes. He cared not. The man was no alpha of consequence, and his judgement was not worth the breath it rode upon.
Such is the case with most alphas, Maekar reflected as he made his way toward his chambers, catching the sour rank of those who brushed past him in the corridors, his sharpened senses offended by the assault. Once, perhaps, he might have envied them. By right of birth they seemed to possess all that he himself had long desired. But when his first heat descended upon him and remade his body beyond denial, he learned in the harshest fashion what manner of creatures many of them were: coarse, unruly, and ruled by their hunger rather than their honour. Only a handful he deemed worthy of esteem — men and women who matched, in his reckoning, the true measure of an alpha. His eldest brother was, beyond all doubt, one of them.
Though the King and Queen were both betas, their firstborn had entered the world marked with a singular scent and the tiniest fangs just breaking through his gums. It was only fitting. Breakspear, in all his perfection, could be nothing but an alpha — as were the finest commanders and kings from their house before them. The sons that followed, of lesser consequence in the order of inheritance, were born betas. Then fate cast its lot one final time, one last throw, and from the dornish queen’s womb came the omega.
A blessing, they called it. A cause for rejoicing, the court declared. Omegas are a gift, all proclaimed. The boy had oft wished instead to have been born a beta like the others; life would have been the gentler for it. But no; once it was clear he was not a girl, they finally named him Maekar and then quickly burdened his future full of expectations too great to someone like him to bear. So far, he had shattered every one of them. Baelor was a perfect alpha; Maekar was naught but an imitation of an omega.
And it was for the honour of the perfect brother and to the utter misfortune of the youngest one that all those lords and ladies had gathered that morning. It was Baelor’s name day, and the King had decreed a tourney; a modest one, at the celebrant’s own humble request. But when the Crown plays host, modesty seldom is present. Hundreds of courtiers swelled the ranks of those already in residence, all assembled to drink to the health of the heir apparent, the Red Keep close to bursting full of people.
Because of them, Maekar found himself once more confined to his chambers, compelled to cast off his plain tunic for one deemed more fitting, after a sharp rebuke from his mother. What fault was there in good, honest cotton? Surely she did not expect him to array himself in those dreadful, gaudy dornish silk doublets his aunt had seen fit to gift him. Poor Aunt Daenerys, Maekar thought. The other omega of their House… Yet she had found happiness in the marriage the King had arranged for her, and now passed her days basking beneath the sun and sipping milk sweetened with honey, or so he imagined.
He knew that such a fate would one day fall to him as well. Not marriage to a dornishman, the King had surely bound Dorne close enough with all those alliances already. But marriage all the same, to whomever it might be. Some lord of convenience, no doubt, one offering advantage to the throne. A coward, perhaps. A craven. Or some doddering old fool. Mayhaps even a beta spouse who would leave him forever shackled within his own flesh. Longing, never truly satisfied, never knowing the feeling of being joined to the kind of lover capable of making him whole.
But this haunted him most: the thought of being bartered like a broodmare to some wretch who would never grant him any respect. Love he did not expect — he knew that was too much to hope for. But respect… Was even that too much for him to ask?
Maekar finally settled on a black gibbon, this time adorned with some discreet embroidery. Certainly mother would have no complaints about this one. It was more than fit to watch a tourney in the evening.
Occasions such as these always set him on edge of a precipice. Too many people, too many watchful eyes, each ready with a measure and a verdict. He was no good with people. Maekar had no friends to speak of; the only company he kept was his brothers — and of Aerys and Rhaegel he saw less with every passing year. One buried himself among the books, always hidden in the castle’s great library, whilst the other somehow drifted further into his own cloudy thoughts, his words so scattered that no straight conversation could be held — and the Gods knew Maekar had never been a skilled conversationalist himself. Patience deserted him quickly.
Patience was Baelor’s virtue, and in overflowing measure. Yet Baelor had little time left for any of them now, burdened as he was with the duties of an heir. He would not even ride in the lists this time! It was deemed unseemly as the event was held in his honor. Maekar counted it near sinful, for none could match Baelor in a joust — however, the prince must spend the day in courtesies, making fair welcome to every lord and lady come to celebrate him.
And how they love the sound of their own voices, these people, Maekar thought, leaning upon the balcony rail in his chamber and looking down the yard, where his brother stood in pleasant conversation with Lord and Lady Marbrand — or those he took for Lord and Lady Marbrand, for he had little skill with heraldry and less still with faces. His brother was the opposite: he forgot no face and denied no petitioner a moment. All morning the young alpha had gone from one noble to the next with easy charm, trading pleasantries and smiles, each noble eager to claim a share of the name day prince’s notice. None sought Maekar’s attention. Any foolish or guileless enough to try was swiftly driven off by curt replies or a discourteous murmur and soon withdrew. But when it came to speaking their thoughts about him in his absence… Oh, then their tongues grew bold enough! That they all did with great enthusiasm.
That was when he decided he had had his fill of skulking in the shadows like some pervert, quitting his chamber and taking once more to the corridors, making for the yard where his mother and brothers awaited. He knew better than to hope for Baelor’s company — Maekar had been fortunate enough to share the morning meal beside him and that was about it. Afterwards, his brother was gone, appearing here and there and then vanishing again all about the castle. He hoped, at least, to sit beside Aerys and keep a companionable silence. They shared a certain tactless disposition, perhaps the sole thing they held in common.
But the gods did not see fit to grant him even so small a mercy, for the moment he stepped into the yard, his mother called his name.
“Maekar, come here a moment, will you? I would have you meet Ser Aladore of House Florent. He has been kind enough to bring several casks of fine Reach wine as a gift for your brother!” the Queen declared, beckoning him closer with an eager hand.
The first thing Maekar marked about this Florent knight was his scent: alpha. And not a pleasant one. The second thing was the prodigious size of his ears. Two ugly bulbous appendages hanging from the side of his head. The boy had half a mind to ask whether he had flown the wine casks in himself, airborne upon those great flapping wings.
“Good morrow, my lord,” Maekar muttered, making no effort to disguise how little he wished to be there and already feeling the searing weight of his mother’s glare upon him.
“My prince! It is a pleasure to make Your Grace’s acquaintance. Your lady mother was but just telling me how greatly you have grown, and now I see it with my own eyes. You will not recall it, of course, but I saw you when you were no more than a freshly born pup, when our good King and Queen paid visit to Brightwater. Do you remember?”
The man’s voice was nasal and grating, and Maekar had to master himself not to answer No, you babbling fool — how should I remember, if you yourself just said I was but a babe?
“No, my lord, I cannot say that I do. Yet I know we were there, for my father has recounted me tales of the visit.” Maekar forced himself to reply instead, his voice carrying no warmth, which proved insufficient to silence the Florent fool, who was already drawing breath to begin anew.
“Why, that visit I recall well enough! Maekar was but a babe, but I was already a lad of seven.”
It was Baelor who forestalled the lord, however — his scent reaching Maekar’s nostrils before his words reached his ears.
“How fare you, Ser Aladore?” The young alpha said in good humor, his customary smile upon his face as he stepped into the conversation with natural grace and took a light sip from his cup, his former conference already neatly concluded. Maekar was not expecting the intrusion but nevertheless was grateful for it, promptly making space for Baelor’s tall form to occupy.
“My prince! What a delight to see you again at last and to stand here in celebration of this tourney and the great man you have become!” Ser Aladore cried, his attention now fully turned to Baelor.
Maekar considered making his escape whilst he could, yet his belly knotted with longing at the prospect of standing near his brother a little longer, and he found he had not the strength to go.
“The pleasure is mine, good lord. And greater yet, I confess, is the delight of the gift you have brought me! Pray tell, what divine wine is this, my lord?” Baelor jested, ever knowing the proper thing to say, for as soon as he asked about the wine, the old coot started a joyous proud laugh. He knew well how to flatter such lords and bend them sweetly to his favour.
Aerys had once named it manipulation, and Maekar had answered that slight with a clout. It was unjust to call Baelor a schemer; Aerys was merely envious for he could form fellowship with nothing that was not bound in leather and ink. In truth, Maekar was no different than his bookish sibling and yes, he too envied Baelor, though he would never admit to it. But he refused to fault their older brother, choosing instead to look upon his manners with admiration.
Whilst Baelor, their mother, and the large-eared knight traded their hollow courtesies, Maekar allowed his mind to drift from the talk, remaining there in body only, as their voices blurred into a dull murmur behind his thoughts. Instead, absentmindedly he watched his brother: the way the light caught in his mismatched eyes, the way the morning’s sun had already burnished his skin a shade darker. They were so unlike, the two of them — Baelor all warmth and easy grace, Maekar all cold pallor.
At length the elder seemed to feel the steady weight of violet eyes upon him, and now and again, in the midst of a sentence, his gaze turned briefly back toward Maekar. There was nothing uneasy in it, nothing laden with meaning. Merely natural notice. Yet each time those eyes found him, one blue one dark, Maekar looked away at once, unbidden.
It was only when King Daeron came into the yard, flanked by several lords of rank, that the Florent knight at last released them, veering away to trail after the royal couple and the noble host that followed in their wake. Thus Baelor and Maekar were left alone at last. By then Maekar had wholly lost the thread of the conversation, yet his senses sharpened anew when he found himself in the company of one worth speaking to.
“Brother, you changed your tunic. I liked the other one, it became you just fine.” the alpha said first. He too was donned in simple clothing.
“Aye, so did I, but our mother judged it too plain for the occasion.” Maekar rolled his eyes, hiding a sudden flush of embarrassment at learning Baelor had marked something so trivial as his choice of garb. Was there anything that ever slipped past him?
“Then the blame is mine, I suppose. Had she asked me, I would have said it was more than fit for my name day. Ought not my judgement weigh most, given the occasion?” Baelor teased, stepping closer and raising his cup for another measured sip. The taste seemed to please him.
“I’ll tell you, old Florent’s wine is truly a fine harvest. At least for that he deserves praise. Have you tasted it?” he said, holding the half-emptied cup to Maekar’s lips as if it was the most natural occurrence between two grown men.
Maekar was parched: the day ran hot, the sun was unkind to his pale skin and sweat had begun to gather under his arms even in the freshly changed doublet. He hated it; he was almost certain the heat always made his scent stronger and more noticeable. Even so, he hesitated to touch his lips to the rim of that cup, for Baelor offered the drink from his own hand, as one might feed a fledgling or a child. There was no knowing who might be watching; Maekar did not care to look a fool and liked it less still when Baelor risked seeming one for his sake.
But he must be quite the fool, for he rested his mouth lightly upon the cup’s edge and let Baelor tilt it, guiding the pour with steady care until Maekar drew back and swallowed. “It is good. But it is no dornish crop. It does not compare, not even close.” he declared, certain, as the rich taste filled his senses. He was no great lover of wine like his brother or his father, yet he knew his preference.
“Oh, that is true enough. Still, it is good wine — finer than most. So fine I’m afraid I have had more than I should already. Would you have more? I can call for the boy,” Baelor offered, already motioning a servant over with a slender hand.
“I can ask for my own wine, Others take you…” Maekar muttered, but Baelor paid him no heed, busy instructing that another skin be brought for his brother and sending the servant boy to the cellar with a gentle order.
Maekar put a great effort into acting like he despised it when the eldest did that — and he did it a lot. He knew he was supposed to feel a useless dolt, with the way Baelor fussed over him like he was some witless maiden.
Forgive me, brother. Alpha instincts, Baelor had justified once, after Maekar had snapped at him for this kind of behavior. But a small smile betrayed the fact he carried not an ounce of regret.
The trouble was that if Baelor had his instincts, then Maekar had his own to answer to as well — and he laid the blame there whenever he allowed such treatment. For all his grumbling and inward protests, some deeper part of him took comfort in being so attended. In being tended to so dutifully, in being treated as though he were worth the care, as though he mattered. They used to call him a spoiled child. Perhaps he was still one and there was where blame truly laid. But how could he put a stop to this when Baelor always seemed to know precisely what Maekar required, what he wanted, sooner than Maekar knew it himself?
So he drank the wine his brother gave him until colour rose to his cheeks. And when Baelor urged him into the shade, lest the heat, that was too fierce, burned his delicate skin, the omega obeyed without complaint. And when Baelor was called away again to his duties and left with an apologetic look, Maekar stayed where he was, waiting for his brother’s return with both hope and resignation, Baelor’s forgotten cup now in his hands. The serving boy brought a new one, but for some reason Baelor used his own to serve it.