Chapter Text
Maekar did not wait long before lunging at him.
They were submerged in darkness within one of the Red Keep's secret tunnels. The distant sound of rushing water mingled with the chirping of crickets; a cold breeze drifted through an ancient crevice, carrying the scent of damp metal.
The air was thick with heavy breathing, yet Baelor was enveloped by the scent of Maekar's honey pheromones, now tinged with a sharp acidity.
"What will you do now?" his brother asked. Rare were the moments Maekar had been this shaken: during his first heat in the middle of the training grounds, and the time he thought Baelor would lose the duel against Daemon Blackfyre.
Maekar's palms pressed against Baelor's chest, clutching his clothes with unmistakable plea and anxiety. When Baelor looked into those violet eyes—even in the gloom and the faint moonlight—their color usually brought peace to his heart. But seeing them filled with such sorrow made Baelor's heart stumble in bitterness.
"Our father was in a meeting with Lord Dandarwin!"
"I know that. What happened? Did you tell them?"
The words faltered in Baelor's throat as he took in his brother's state. He had failed him. He had been too weak to resist, too submissive in his role as the heir.
"Baelor!"
"..."
"Baelor, by the gods, answer me! What happened?"
"Maekar, I..."
In an instant, the grip on his tunic loosened. The movement left behind a sickening chill and a hollow void.
Maekar stepped back, whispering in a trembling voice, "The Seven Hells, Baelor. You didn't tell them!"
"Maekar, I need you to understand. This step is vital to strengthen the al—"
"Save your damn words for yourself!"
Maekar shouted, his voice echoing through the narrow corridor. The distant skittering of rats created an unsettling resonance. "Baelor, do you realize what you're doing?" Maekar paced the hall, rubbing his temples before turning back to him. "Do you agree, then? To the engagement... to Jena?"
"Maekar, I... I cannot defy my father's command!"
"So, you choose her over me?"
"Don't put words in my mouth, Maekar. I didn't—"
"You are choosing her over me!" A shove fueled by bitterness struck his chest.
Baelor had always loved how strong and harsh his brother's grip was, unlike other Omegas; he remembered the time Maekar broke his nose in the yard—the taste of blood on his lips had been intoxicating, and Aerys had called him 'submissive.' But now, the shove felt like an expulsion.
Another push came, forcing him back until his spine hit the damp wall, the smell of moisture flooding his senses.
Maekar's face was inches from his. "You are abandoning me for a damn chair!"
"Maekar..."
"What about all your promises? Your words? Were you lying to me? Did you just use me to get into my bed and take my innocence, only to go off, marry Jena, fuck her, and father her children?"
"Maekar, my heart wants no one but you!"
"What good is that?" Maekar let out a hollow laugh, raspy with the urge to cry.
He stepped back, pointing a finger at him.
In the depths of the shadows, Baelor saw his brother's eyes well up. His inner Alpha growled, demanding he go to the Omega, to comfort him, to hold him, to shield him.
"What good is it when you are this spineless? Letting Father manipulate you and choose your life for you... No, Baelor. You won't marry Jena while I suffer in my loneliness. I won't be the whore you visit in her bed by night, only to act with 'brotherly love' toward me by day."
He approached again, pressing his finger into Baelor's chest. Baelor opened his mouth to speak, but the words had dried up. He exhaled sharply as a tear escaped Maekar's cheek.
"I trusted you... I trusted that you would do something." Maekar pulled his hand back, covering his mouth. "But you, Baelor... you are a wretched bastard."
He retreated a few more steps. "I hope your marriage is riddled with misery and deprivation. I hope your heart never heals again!"
"Maekar!" Baelor tightened his grip on his own hand as he saw him turn to leave, but Maekar screamed at him :
"Leave me... leave me!"
When Baelor let go, Maekar rubbed his forearm as if he had been touched by something foul. "You are nothing but a brother to me now. Nothing, do you hear me? I never want to see your face again!"
With that, he vanished down the corridor, leaving behind a bitter trail of pheromones as a final, haunting memory.
The following day, after the Small Council had adjourned, his father kept him behind. Once the other members had departed, the King asked him:
"Have you spoken with Maekar?"
"I have."
"And what did he say?"
Baelor toyed with the rings on his fingers in a nervous twitch, his eyes drifting to the Hand of the King pin fastened to his shoulder. He answered with a faint sigh,
"He is angry."
"He will understand... I am doing this for all of you."
Baelor wanted to tell him he was lying—that his father cared for his realm at the expense of his family, just as King Jaehaerys I had done with his daughters. Baelor dared not imagine a reality where Maekar fled to the West like Saera, or died in a desperate attempt to escape like Viserra.
"Baelor!"
He looked at his father, unsure of how much time had passed while the King was calling his name. He hummed a response, "Yes, Father."
The King watched him with a profound gaze, seeming to scrutinize every inch of him, judging his worth. The stare made Baelor hesitate, fearing he was exposed; he did not want to appear weak, even if his weakness was glaringly obvious. Maekar was his undoing.
"You are angry with me."
"I would not dare."
"And resentful."
"I am performing my duty toward the realm."
"I have disappointed you."
"I am the Crown Prince. You know my best interests better than I do."
Daeron pursed his lips for a moment, letting out an exhausted sigh. He shifted his gaze toward the scrolls laid out on the massive council table.
"Jena is a good girl. She will love you, and she will fulfill her duty. She is intelligent, as your mother said, and she will learn how to be a future queen."
Baelor remained silent. In his mind's eye, he imagined another world—one where Maekar was his queen and dragons still soared. He saw them sitting side by side at the tourneys, riding their dragons together, venturing far beyond the Wall.
"You will do your duty by her."
"Yes, father."
Daeron sighed once more and said, "We shall dine together tonight. Send for Jena to attend... I want Maekar there as well. I want our family to gather and welcome her."
Baelor stared at his father. "I do not think that is a wise idea, Father... he needs time."
"I have given him plenty. He must accept it. I told him he could choose any Alpha he desired"—and, of course, he had forbidden the only Alpha Maekar truly wanted—"I have coddled him enough."
"He is high-strung."
"He will learn. If his mother will not do her part... I have no qualms about taking him from her."
That evening, Jena arrived at the family suite in Maegor's Holdfast. She wore a gown of violet cashmere—a color that reminded Baelor of his brother's angry eyes—with a white silk lining running down the center.
Her hair was long and wavy, a shade of red verging on orange, like a sunset, while freckles dusted her face, contrasting beautifully with her pale skin and hazel eyes. She greeted him with a shy smile and took his arm as they went to pay their respects to his parents.
Jena was the epitome of modesty, elegance, and grace. She bore a resemblance to his mother, Queen Myriah; perhaps that was why his father had chosen her as the future queen.
His mother had skillfully navigated the court despite the widespread disdain for Dorne—a hatred shared by his late grandfather, King Aegon. Jena would be like her: trained to be an Omega perfectly suited for politics and the wars of the court.
Yet, as Baelor led her to the dining table, he felt a hollow void within. He found himself longing for the untamed Omega—the stubborn one with the sharp tongue, the mocking smile, and the indifferent gaze.
The Omega he loved to master, just to see his eyes widen with pleasure and his defiant tongue falter into nothing but delighted moans. Baelor felt, deep down, that this was what truly suited him.
The family gathered around a massive table laden with an array of meats, fruits, and wine—roasted lamb, and bread glistening with melted butter. Aerys and Rhaegel arrived, joined by their aunt Daenerys. Everyone was present, save for the empty chair belonging to his younger brother.
His mother acted with practiced ease, conversing with Jena and inquiring about the rest of her family at Starfall, while the King's eyes remained fixed in a dark scowl on the vacant seat.
If his brothers noticed the tension, they chose to ignore it. Finally, the King could not endure it and asked gruffly, "Where is Maekar?"
"He is likely on his way, dear," their mother replied in her soothing, calm Omega voice, though her influence barely seemed to touch him.
"He is late!"
"Omegas are always late, what else is new?" the Queen teased, pouring her husband a cup of wine while giving him a look that commanded him to be calm.
They were not alone today; Jena was present, and the girl was sharp—even if she showed no reaction, she would discern what was happening.
This was her first dinner with them, and it was vital to leave a good impression. At the very least, they did not want the rest of the court to know just how fractured this family truly was.
Finally, the door creaked open, and Baelor could hear his father breathe a sigh of relief. But instead of Maekar, his handmaiden entered, her eyes fixed on the floor and her hands clasped before her. She stopped before the table, offered a low curtsy, and began:
"Your Majesties... the Prince has sent me. He offers his apologies for his absence; he feels a bit indisposed and cannot leave his bed."
Daeron stared at her in disbelief. Before he could speak, the Queen asked, "What happened? Is he alright? Have you summoned the Maester?"
"The Maester has seen him, Your Grace. He said it is a common cold and advised him not to leave his bed."
Daeron glared at the handmaiden, his scent thickening with fury. He looked as though he wanted her head on a spike alongside his son's. Myriah Martell's hand moved smoothly, gripping his, and when he looked at her, she met his gaze with a small, pleading smile.
At last, the King let out a faint sigh and bowed his head in reluctant defeat. "Very well. You may go."
The handmaiden curtsied and hurried out, leaving the atmosphere around the table heavy and charged. Even Rhaegel, who loved a good jest, ate his meal in silence, while Aerys opened his book and turned the pages as if his family's drama were quite enough for him. Daenerys sat beside Myriah, quiet and still.
Jena glanced at them briefly before leaning toward Baelor, bringing with her the scent of lavender and amber. She whispered, "Is everything alright, my Prince?"
"Yes," he replied with stiff courtesy, his eyes on his plate, his appetite entirely gone.
Jena watched him quietly for a moment, appearing more hesitant this time, before returning to her own meal.
The Queen observed the scene without a word, though her eyes held a lingering, watchful stillness.
Maekar did not appear the next day, nor the day after. He ignored his parents' summons and refused to see even his mother. When Baelor went to his chambers, the handmaiden appeared only to inform him that he was barred from entry.
By the end of the week, Baelor felt himself on the verge of madness. The strain was evident to everyone—the way he constantly hovered near his brother's wing, or how the first question he uttered at every family gathering was about Maekar's whereabouts.
On the afternoon of the seventh day, Maekar finally appeared in the Throne Room. King Daeron was holding court, hearing petitions from the common folk of King's Landing. Baelor sat alongside the Small Council advisors at the table beneath the Iron Throne, recording every word spoken.
Jena attended court that day as well. She stood on one of the balconies and smiled at him when their eyes met; Baelor could offer nothing but a weary smile in return. She looked striking in a turquoise-green gown, with a cashmere shawl draped over her auburn hair.
It was then that he noticed the newcomer. Maekar stood before them with a smile that suggested he had only just woken up. The quill snapped in Baelor's hand the moment he saw him. Maekar looked indifferent, shifting his gaze from Baelor to the rest of the assembly as if Baelor were a non-entity.
Baelor's inner Alpha seethed with frustration. He wanted to rise, seize the Omega, and show him his place—show him the consequences of distancing himself from his Alpha. Yet, all that fury remained trapped in his gaze and the scent that began to leak toward the other council members.
If Daeron noticed, he merely furrowed his brows and tried to focus on the commoner's petition. Maekar leaned toward his knight, Ser Gwayne, and whispered something. A minute later, the knight approached the council and announced:
"The Prince wishes to speak with the King."
"On what matter does he wish to speak?" the Grand Maester asked.
"He did not say."
The council members exchanged glances before all eyes turned to Baelor. Baelor was staring at his brother's face; Maekar met his gaze with a cunning smirk, twirling a lock of his hair.
What are you planning, brother?
"He may speak," Baelor said, never taking his eyes off Maekar's form.
The King looked grim as he heard the request. The Maester bowed before descending the steps of the Iron Throne.
Daeron squinted at Maekar for a few heartbeats before speaking with formal gravity: "It seems my youngest son has requested the floor." His tone was heavy, the voice of a man praying to avoid a public scandal.
Half the court was present, along with a crowd of smallfolk.
Maekar stepped into the open space before the throne and the council table.
"Your Majesty, thank you for granting me a moment." He looked around the room before returning his gaze to his father. "I know you are occupied with many matters, and many here are more deserving of this time than I."
"It is quite alright, my son," the King said calmly. "Tell me, what is your request?"
"It is not much." Maekar looked around again, as if addressing the crowd rather than the King. "As the King's youngest son, and as an Omega—a fact I am proud of—my family has showered me with love and indulgence, and for that, I am not sorry."
A few ripples of laughter and murmurs rose from the crowd. Maekar smiled and shifted his gaze to Baelor. It lasted only a second, but the gloating look made Baelor want to hurl the council table at his head. Maekar continued with feigned nonchalance:
"In light of that, my beloved father granted me an exception: the right to choose my own Alpha."
A dead silence fell over the Throne Room.
There had been many suitors since Maekar was presented as an Omega. Many dowries had been offered, many noble names mentioned by families seeking to draw closer to the throne. But Maekar had never answered any of them. He was a figure of immense fascination—the wild Omega who, unlike the other Omegas of the dynasty, had been given a newly built castle and privileges rarely afforded to his kind.
Now, amidst this tense silence, Maekar was at the peak of his triumph. "I wish to announce... that I have chosen my Alpha."
At the council table, Baelor lunged upward from his chair. He was on the verge of charging forward to carry Maekar out of the room—to take him anywhere, just to show him who his Alpha truly was.
Maekar looked at him with a challenge that seemed to say:
Try it, if you dare.
Then, Maekar turned his gaze to the crowd. From among them, a tall figure emerged—silken silver hair, violet eyes, and black armor. It was Daemon Blackfyre.
Baelor hadn't even noticed him during court sessions; he had never given him any importance. Daemon always lingered in the back, leaning against the walls. Despite the admiring glances others cast at his looks or strength, Baelor had seen him as nothing more than a minor nuisance.
Now, Daemon Blackfyre gave him a sideways smirk before bowing to the King and taking his place beside Maekar. Beside him... like a protective Alpha. A true Alpha, claiming something that did not belong to him.
"Father," Maekar spoke, his voice dripping with venom as he took Daemon's hand. "I hope you will permit me to marry my uncle Daemon and give us your blessing."
Whispers erupted like wildfire through the court. Baelor glared at his brother and uncle for a heartbeat before turning to his father. "Your Majesty!"
But his father did not look at him. His eyes remained fixed on Maekar's face. The King was frozen, and the scent in the Throne Room became a toxic blend of rage and hatred.
"Maekar... this matter... is not to be discussed in this place," the King said, clearly struggling to maintain his composure.
"I know, and I am sorry for that."
Maekar's tone was the picture of innocence as he cast a sidelong glance at Baelor.
"It is just that I do not wish to be left behind." He tilted his head instinctively, resting it on Daemon's shoulder.
"I want to move forward with my Alpha. The Alpha who chose me, and whom I have chosen."