Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The apartment no longer felt real.

It felt feverish.

Too hot. Too small. Too loud despite the silence pressing against the walls.

Aerion couldn’t sleep — not after the convenience store, not after hearing Duncan’s voice bleeding faintly through someone else’s phone like a ghost reopening every wound inside him. His body hadn’t stopped reacting since then. Maybe it had started hours ago, maybe even that morning, like the doctors later claimed, but sometime during the night, everything inside him had shifted into something terrifyingly irreversible.

Thirty-five weeks.

He shouldn’t have felt like this yet. The pain had become something monstrous. At first, he’d tried pretending it was just another wave of false labor, another miserable symptom to survive until morning. He’d walked circles around the apartment barefoot and sweating, one hand constantly braced beneath the unbearable weight of his stomach while the other grabbed furniture whenever pressure split violently through his pelvis. The huge plastic birthing ball sat abandoned near the couch after nearly an hour of useless bouncing that had done absolutely nothing except make his lower back feel like it was being pried apart bone by bone.

Nothing helped. Nothing fucking helped. His stomach stayed painfully tight even between contractions now, stretched so hard it almost looked unnatural beneath the oversized shirt clinging damply to his skin. Every few minutes, another contraction seized him deeper than the last, wrapping around his abdomen and dragging downward with enough force to make his knees weaken, and he was wet. That part terrified him more than he wanted to admit. He’d changed clothes twice already. Sweat soaked the collar of his shirt and dampened the silver strands stuck to the back of his neck, while lower down, his underwear kept feeling humid in a way he couldn’t fully explain anymore. Milk had leaked through the fabric over his chest earlier, too, pale stains spreading across cotton while another contraction bent him halfway over the bathroom sink hard enough to leave him trembling afterward.

Everything about his body felt wrong.

Too full. Too swollen. Too sensitive. The twins moved constantly inside him now, but even that felt different tonight. Restless. Claustrophobic. Panicked. Aerion breathed shakily through his nose while another contraction tightened across his stomach. His hand slammed against the nursery doorway hard enough to steady himself before he stumbled completely. The pain climbed through his spine and buried itself low in his pelvis with horrifying pressure.

Fuck—He grabbed the edge of one crib automatically. The contraction peaked so violently that his vision blurred white around the edges.

For several horrible seconds, he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe. His stomach turned rock hard beneath the thin fabric stretched over it, every muscle inside him tightening until it felt like his body was trying to split itself open from the inside out. Something low in his abdomen dragged downward heavily enough to make fear crawl cold through his throat.

This wasn’t Braxton Hicks anymore.

He knew that now.

A broken sound escaped him before he bit it back immediately, forehead lowering against the crib rail while he forced himself to inhale slowly through clenched teeth.

In.

Out.

Another painful shift rolled inside him. Seara shoved sharply beneath his ribs while lower down, Maegor pressed heavily against his pelvis with slow, crushing force that made Aerion feel like his hips were being peeled apart centimeter by centimeter.

“Oh, fuck you both,” he whispered hoarsely, eyes squeezing shut. “Seriously…”

But his trembling hand still rubbed instinctively across the underside of his stomach afterward. He pushed himself upright again eventually. Barely. The apartment blurred around him as he kept walking because stopping somehow felt worse. If he stayed still too long, the pressure became unbearable, heavy enough to make him panic. So he kept moving slowly through the dark apartment while contractions came closer together, his breathing growing rougher each time another one seized his body hard enough to force him against walls or countertops.

His mind wouldn’t stop spiraling either.

Duncan.

Duncan is only one phone call away.

Duncan, somewhere out there, was completely unaware that his omega was alone and already in labor.

The realization hurt almost as much as the contractions. Because this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Duncan should’ve been here. He should’ve been the one grabbing the hospital bags near the nursery door. The one forcing Aerion into the car while telling him everything would be okay. The one holding his hand through contractions instead of cold furniture digging into his palms, while he tried not to cry alone inside the apartment. Another contraction hit before the thought could fully settle. This one dropped him forward against the kitchen counter so suddenly the breath punched straight from his lungs.

Pain tore through him.

Deep.

Violent.

Aerion folded over the marble countertop with a strangled gasp, both hands gripping the edge hard enough for his knuckles to pale while his stomach clenched brutally beneath him. Something inside him descended with sickening pressure, enough to make panic claw violently up his throat.

“Oh my God—”

His hips shook. The pain didn’t stay only in his stomach anymore. It spread lower, pressure crushing through his pelvis while his body strained around something huge and impossible deep inside him. Tears burned suddenly behind his eyes. He hated that. Hated how vulnerable this felt. Another pulse of pain dragged through his lower back, and he pressed his forehead harder against the counter, breathing raggedly through his mouth now because the contractions no longer allowed clean breaths between them.

He could smell himself, too.

Sweat.

Milk.

Omega pheromones are thickening in the apartment air.

Fear.

His own body betraying him piece by piece, and underneath all of it, instinct kept screaming the same thing over and over until it became unbearable. Need alpha. Need Duncan. Aerion swallowed hard against the tears, finally slipping loose.

“Idiot…” he whispered shakily, though he didn’t even know if he meant Duncan or himself anymore.

Another contraction crashed through him before he could recover fully, harder enough this time that a small broken sound escaped his throat involuntarily. His body folded tighter over the counter while pressure spread hot and unbearable between his legs. He couldn’t do this alone. Fuck pride.

Fuck everything else, and with trembling fingers, he grabbed his phone from the counter. Daeron.

Please answer.

The ringing barely lasted long before the call connected.

“Aerion?”

His voice cracked immediately. “I—I think something’s wrong.”

Silence.

Then movement. Fast movement. “What happened?”

Another contraction hit before Aerion could answer properly, and suddenly all coherent thought disappeared beneath pain. He doubled harder over the counter with a breathless curse, gripping the phone so tightly his hand cramped.

“Oh, fuck—”

“Aerion.”

“It hurts,” he gasped. “It fucking hurts.”

Daeron swore instantly on the other end.

“I’m coming right now. Don’t move.”

“I literally can’t.”

After that, everything dissolved into noise. Daeron arrived almost violently through the apartment door. Hospital bags. Sweat. Pain. The humiliating helplessness of needing help just to walk downstairs because another contraction locked Aerion’s legs halfway to the elevator hard enough that he nearly collapsed against the wall. Then the hospital. Bright lights.

Wheelchairs.

Paperwork.

Voices speaking too fast.

Pain is swallowing everything, and by the time they got him upstairs, Aerion was shaking hard enough that even changing into the hospital gown felt exhausting. The fabric barely closed over the enormous curve of his stomach while nurses attached monitors across his abdomen, cold gel sliding over overheated skin before another contraction made his entire body tense violently beneath their hands.

“We’re going to examine you now, sweetheart.”

He hated how kind they sounded. Hated how exposed he felt. Hated the pressure. The hands. The pain.

And then: “You’re already seven centimeters.”

Aerion blinked dazedly through sweat-damp lashes. “What?”

“You’ve been in labor for a while.”

The words were barely processed.

Morning.

The store.

The contractions.

God.

He had been in labor the entire fucking day.

Now he lay half-reclined against the hospital bed with the epidural finally running through his spine, though the relief wasn’t complete. Not even close. His legs still trembled uncontrollably beneath the thin blanket while contractions continued tightening his stomach into painful stone every few minutes. The room smelled like disinfectant and cold sweat. Monitors beeped endlessly around him. Somewhere nearby, nurses continued talking quietly while machines tracked the twins’ heartbeats in rapid overlapping rhythms that blended inside his head until he couldn’t separate one sound from another anymore.

Aerion gripped the bedrail tightly. Too tightly. Because panic kept climbing higher each time another contraction crushed through his body. He needed Duncan. The realization felt humiliating now.

Raw.

He hadn’t been this afraid since his mother died. Tears gathered again despite how desperately he tried holding them back. His chest tightened painfully while another contraction rolled through him, the pressure low in his pelvis so intense it still hurt even through the epidural. Inside him, the twins reacted immediately. Seara shifted high beneath his ribs with frantic little movements that scraped painfully along the inside of his abdomen while lower down, Maegor rotated heavily against his cervix, pressure deep enough to make Aerion gasp sharply through his teeth.

The monitors sped up briefly.

Beep Beep Beep.

Beep Beep Beep.

“Your pressure’s stable for now,” one beta nurse explained gently while adjusting something on the monitor beside him. “And the babies are still tolerating labor well.”

For now.

Aerion hated those words instantly. Because nothing felt okay. Seara was too small. Too small. They’d spent weeks reassuring him about the weight difference, explaining how twins often developed unevenly, how placentas distributed nutrients differently, how medicine had advanced enough that thirty-five-week twins usually did beautifully.

Usually.

Usually didn’t mean guaranteed. Another contraction hit. This one nearly split him in half. Even with the epidural, pain still carved brutally through him — not sharp anymore but deep, crushing, primal. Pressure stretched him from the inside out while his body strained around the unbearable weight descending lower and lower. This wasn’t pain like anything else.

No birthing class had prepared him for this part. For the horrifying pressure. For the way his body no longer belonged entirely to him. For the helpless instinct screaming for his alpha while contractions wrung broken sounds from his throat despite every attempt to stay composed.

“Breathe, Aerion,” the nurse murmured again. “That’s it. Good.”

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered weakly against the sweat-soaked pillow. “Seriously…”

His silver hair clung damply against his forehead and neck. The hospital gown had fallen open slightly over the huge, tense curve of his stomach, every contraction visibly hardening it beneath the monitors strapped around him. Time no longer existed. Only pain. Pressure. Fear and loneliness. Somewhere down the hall, another omega cried out while an alpha soothed them softly between contractions, low murmured reassurances slipping faintly through the walls. The sound almost destroyed him. Because Duncan should’ve been here. Duncan should’ve been holding his hand instead of this cold fucking bedrail. Daeron reappeared beside the bed a little while later, carrying a cup filled with crushed ice, looking pale beneath the fluorescent hospital lights. His hoodie was still half-zipped from throwing it on in a panic earlier.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he said too quickly. “I told the family. Aegon’s mad because apparently he wanted to make a TikTok trend out of becoming an uncle.” He handed over the ice cup carefully. “Also, seriously, don’t ever make me drive like that again. I think I spiritually died twice.”

Aerion let out a broken laugh that dissolved immediately when another contraction clenched violently through his abdomen. He grabbed some ice with shaking fingers. The cold barely helped. “I don’t care about Aegon right now,” he breathed unevenly. “I literally feel like I’m being torn apart.”

Daeron stepped closer immediately when he saw his hands trembling harder, and then Aerion cracked. Another contraction hit hard enough that he shoved the ice back toward Daeron blindly before both hands returned instinctively to his stomach despite the monitors still strapped across him. His voice came out rough.

“If something happens…” He swallowed hard against the panic closing around his throat. “Call Duncan.” Another painful breath. “You need to call him if something happens to the babies or me.”

Daeron blinked twice at his brother’s words. For a second, he just stood there beneath the fluorescent hospital lights, staring at Aerion like he didn’t fully recognize him anymore, because Aerion rarely asked for things. Not seriously. Not like this. Aerion swallowed hard while fear became painfully visible inside his violet eyes, stripped raw by exhaustion and labor and whatever instinct had finally broken open inside him tonight.

“You have to do it,” he whispered unevenly, breath catching halfway through another contraction already building beneath his skin. “It’s probably the first fucking favor I’ve ever asked from you, idiot.”

“Aerion…”

“Promise me.” His voice sharpened despite the pain twisting across his face. “I’m literally giving birth in a few hours, I’m at the worst moment of my life, and soon strangers are gonna start touching me in ways I’m definitely gonna hate, so just—” His breathing hitched violently. “Promise me.”

The contraction interrupted him completely after that. A muffled cry tore out of his throat before he could swallow it down, his entire body locking as the monitor beside the bed accelerated into frantic rhythmic beeping. Pain crushed through his pelvis with such force that it genuinely felt like the bones there were separating millimeter by millimeter. Daeron grabbed his arm immediately.

“Hey, hey—okay.” He nodded quickly, voice rougher now. “Fine. I promise, idiot. If anything happens, I’ll call him.”

Aerion squeezed his eyes shut hard. Another brutal movement rolled deep inside him right afterward — Maegor kicking sharply downward again, forcing his weight lower into the birth canal with terrifying determination. It felt almost intentional now, like the baby was actively trying to force his way out. Aerion’s back arched helplessly off the bed.

“Oh, fuck…”

“If something happens to me…” His words came uneven and breathless between contractions. “I don’t want them growing up without either parent.”

More movement. More pressure. The twins shifted heavily enough beneath his stretched skin that for one awful second Aerion genuinely thought his body might split apart. Daeron went silent beside him. Because honestly? That was the worst part. Not the blood pressure monitors. Not the labor. Not even watching his younger brother shaking in pain beneath hospital blankets. It was hearing him ask for Duncan.

Still.

After everything. Daeron didn’t fully hate Duncan — maybe part of him never really could after seeing what Aerion had been like during those first months together — but hearing his brother call for that alpha even now did something uncomfortable to his chest, because Aerion was terrified, and somehow Duncan’s absence had become its own kind of wound inside this room.

“I already told you,” Daeron said finally, quieter now but much more serious. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you.” He tightened his grip briefly around Aerion’s arm. “We talked about this last week, remember? You and those babies are getting out of here alive.” A weak attempt at humor crossed his face. 

Aerion let out something halfway between a laugh and a pained breath. After that, they barely spoke much. Daeron promised he’d update the family and said everything would be ready at the apartment. Said none of this would matter once the twins were finally here, but Aerion stopped hearing most of it. The pain was becoming too big now. Too consuming. It swallowed thoughts whole. Time blurred completely after that. At some point, Daeron left the room briefly after promising again that everything would be okay, but Aerion barely registered it. The contractions kept coming harder and closer together until they no longer felt separate from each other.

Then, hours later, something inside him changed completely.

A purely animal pain ripped through him so violently that it erased coherent thought. Aerion cried out immediately, the sound rough and shocked as his entire body seized against the hospital bed. A massive involuntary spasm rolled through his uterus hard enough to force the full weight of one baby directly downward.

“Oh my God—”

“Ten centimeters,” someone said quickly nearby.

The words are barely processed. Another contraction crashed into him before he could think. A deep tearing sensation spread low through his body — pressure so enormous and primal that his legs opened automatically on instinct, trembling violently despite the epidural still running through his spine. This wasn’t how births were supposed to feel.

Not while his chest physically hurt from missing someone who had left months ago without looking back.

“Fuck—fuck—”

One of the nurses checked the monitor quickly before glancing between Aerion’s spread thighs. Humiliation flickered weakly through him somewhere beneath the pain. There was something deeply awful about being exposed like this, about strangers touching him and looking between his legs while his body opened helplessly under bright hospital lights. But the contractions drowned almost everything else now.

Dignity stopped mattering after a certain level of pain. Dr. Evans stepped closer to the bed while more nurses moved around the room adjusting instruments and monitors.

“Aerion, listen to me.” Her voice stayed calm, grounding. “Both babies are coming down beautifully. Maegor’s completely crowned already.” A small, encouraging smile crossed her face. “Your body’s ready to push.”

Everything moved too fast after that. More people entered the room. More lights. Metal instruments.Voices speaking over one another. And underneath all of it, terror finally settled fully into Aerion’s chest because now he understood there was no turning back. No stopping. No escape from this. For one horrible second, his mind spiraled again toward Duncan.

Duncan should’ve been holding his hand. Duncan should’ve been here. But then another contraction crushed through him, and something inside Aerion hardened stubbornly despite the fear clawing up his throat.

No.

He could do this. He didn’t need an alpha beside him. He’d survive this himself, and afterward, he’d have Seara and Maegor; that thought became the only thing anchoring him. The pain changed completely once pushing started; it wasn’t contractions anymore. It was pressure. Violent, unbearable pressure stretched him open around something impossibly huge. He could feel his body straining in horrifying detail now — every inch of muscle and tissue pulled beyond anything he’d ever imagined possible while Maegor descended lower and lower.

The burning became savage. Liquid fire spreads through his nerves.

“I need you to push with the contraction, Aerion,” Dr. Evans instructed steadily. “Deep breath, hold it, then push downward.” The room blurred around him.

Voices.

Gloves snapping.

Metal trays are shifting. But he still felt completely alone inside the noise. Cold sweat slid down his neck while another contraction hit hard enough to make his vision shake. His uterus tightened with brutal force, compressing downward like some giant hydraulic press inside his abdomen.

Then: “Now, Aerion—push as hard as you can,” Aerion screamed. The sound ripped straight out of him, raw and wrecked, filling the private room while every muscle in his body strained violently at once. He pushed with everything left inside him, trembling so hard his hips physically shook beneath the sheets.

Pressure.

Burning.

Stretching.

The baby’s head advanced slowly enough that he felt every second of it — skin pulling impossibly tight around the infamous ring of fire the classes had tried explaining to him so clinically. No class had described it correctly. Nothing could. It burned so viciously that he nearly blacked out. For one terrifying second, his hearing disappeared entirely beneath pain while his stomach hardened into brutal stone above the contractions, stretched so tightly it looked almost unreal beneath the monitors.

“You’re doing amazing, Aerion!” Dr. Evans encouraged. “Don’t stop pushing—keep going!”

Aerion shook his head, completely spent; everything ached. "I can't... fuck. I'm splitting apart," he howled, hot tears finally blurring his vision. He didn't know when a nurse stepped right beside him to whisper words of encouragement, nor could he comprehend how he was surviving the tremendous pressure of his baby's skull forcing its way, centimeter by centimeter, through his flesh. He didn't even register the next scream ripping from his throat, or the exact moment his strength gave out entirely.

“Yes, you can. Again. The head’s almost out.”

Someone squeezed his shoulder. Another nurse kept talking softly near his ear. But all Aerion could feel was the overwhelming pressure of Maegor forcing his way through his body centimeter by centimeter. Another scream escaped him. Then another push. Aerion arched forward with a strangled cry, fists clenched so tightly around the hospital sheets that his knuckles turned white. He felt the final brutal stretch sharp, burning, enormous —and suddenly everything gave way. A violent rush of pressure tore free from his body all at once as Maegor’s head finally slipped out, followed almost immediately by his shoulders and the rest of him in one slick, overwhelming rush of warmth and fluid.

The weight inside Aerion changed instantly.

And then—

A cry.

Strong.

Loud.

Alive.

The sound filled the room so suddenly that Aerion physically broke apart around it.

His baby. His son. A shattered sound escaped his chest while he collapsed back against the pillow, completely exhausted, tears spilling freely down his face now as his lungs struggled desperately for air.

“It’s a big boy,” someone laughed softly nearby, genuinely surprised. “God, look at him.”

A boy.

For a brief, fleeting moment, the midwife placed the baby on his bare chest. He was covered in blood and vernix caseosa—warm and heavy. He cried fiercely, as if angry to have been awakened, kicking his tiny legs against Aerion's breastbone while Aerion could barely wrap his trembling hands around him. He was enormous—he was beautiful. He had dark blonde hair with a faint Targaryen silver-white streak. He had Dunk's hair mixed with a bit of Targaryen. He was perfect. His perfect baby, with a button nose and the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Tiny furious face. Completely alive.

Aerion let out a broken sob the second he felt the warmth of his son against his skin.

"Hello, my dragon. You're about to meet your sister, okay? Just wait a minute." Without a second thought, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead despite everything.

But the truce lasted only a few seconds. Inside his womb, the space Maegor had left caused a sudden, violent shift. Seara, left without the support of her brother, abruptly turned sideways. Aerion let out a shriek of pure agony as a violent spasm racked his body; the baby had become transverse. He could actually feel the baby's tiny limbs thrashing haphazardly against the walls of his uterus, which was beginning to contract in a chaotic, dysfunctional pattern. He could hear voices. He could feel everything.

The voices around him lost their calm demeanor. The monitor began to beep frantically. Rapid movements. The painful pressure returned, but this time it was erratic and stabbing.

“Well, we need to move quickly,” one of the nurses said under her breath. “She’s transverse again. If the cord gets compressed—”

“Her heart rate’s dropping slowly.”

Aerion’s head jerked upward immediately. Pure panic flooded his bloodstream so fast it made him dizzy. His body still trembled violently from Maegor’s delivery, blood warm beneath him, muscles shredded and exhausted, while his son was barely being lifted from his chest — and suddenly none of that mattered anymore.

“What?” His voice cracked apart instantly. “What’s happening? What’s happening to my baby?” He tried instinctively to hold onto Maegor tighter, but careful hands were already lifting the newborn from his arms. “Wait—Maegor—what’s happening?!” Nobody answered immediately. And somehow that silence terrified him more than anything else.

Fear crashed back into him whole. “What’s wrong with my babies?” Aerion shouted, breathing turning ragged. “Why are you taking him?”

Dr. Evans returned to his side, her face tense and grave. "Aerion... listen to me carefully. Seara has turned sideways, and her heart rate is plummeting. She cannot come out through the birth canal in this position, or she might suffocate. We need to act. I know you had a birth plan, but we have to change everything. We are going to try to reposition her from the outside, or we need to go down to the operating room immediately. Aerion, look at me... It's complicated, yes... but this happens with twin deliveries."

But Aerion wasn't listening because he was having a full-blown panic attack. His slow, controlled breathing had turned into rapid gasps. The doctor was pressing down on his abdomen with horrific force, attempting to manually rotate the baby from the outside. The pain was unbearable; Aerion arched his back and screamed, feeling his internal organs being shoved up against his ribs.

"No!" he pleaded—or rather, screamed—his voice entirely broken. "Just get her out, now!"

Maegor.

Maegor... he hadn't even been able to hold Maegor properly in his arms, to hold onto his warmth, to memorize his newborn scent, or to feel him against his chest. They had already placed him in a warming bassinet off to the side. Was this some kind of punishment for his past? He was an omega; omegas were built for this. Their bodies were made for this... why couldn't he handle it?

That was when they wheeled him out into the hallway. Everything was happening too fast, even with the wires, even with everything, even with the agonizing ache in his body and his still-swollen abdomen. And then, he spotted Daeron.

“Daeron!”

The scream tore violently out of him the second he spotted his brother near the hallway wall.

Daeron looked up from his phone so fast he nearly dropped it. The second he saw the blood-stained sheets and the sheer chaos surrounding the moving hospital bed, all color drained from his face. For the first time that night, Daeron truly saw him. Not sarcastic, Aerion. Not angry, Aerion. Not stubborn Aerion pretending he could survive everything alone. He saw sweat pouring down his brother’s face, silver hair plastered wetly against his forehead, his lower lip split bloody from how hard he’d bitten through contractions. He saw terror so raw it physically twisted something deep inside his chest. And he knew immediately this moment would haunt him forever.

“Something’s wrong with Seara,” Aerion gasped desperately before the bed even stopped moving. “Daeron, something’s wrong—they said she’s not moving right, something happened with the cord—”

Daeron nodded, absorbing the terrifying information. "Hey, look at me... look at me, idiot. Keep breathing," Daeron ordered, his voice raised, almost shouting to snap him out of it. "Aerion, I'm not joking, look at me."

But Aerion was slipping into shock. His body felt like it was falling into a bottomless pit. The blood loss from the natural birth, combined with the sudden panic, was making him delirious. He hadn't felt a terror this profound since his mother died, and he couldn't even grasp what was happening to his life. “I barely got to hold him,” Aerion whispered suddenly, voice broken and uneven. “Maegor… I barely held him.” His teeth chattered violently now from the adrenaline flooding his system. “And Seara—Daeron, she’s so small.”

“They’re gonna help her.”

“They’re taking me into surgery.”

Daeron swallowed hard enough that it hurt. For one terrible second, he looked just as frightened as Aerion felt while the hospital staff pushed the bed toward the double operating room doors. But he forced himself to stay steady anyway. “They’re gonna fix this,” he said firmly, though fear still leaked through the edges of his voice. “You hear me? You’re the strongest person I know, Aerion. You and both babies are getting through this.” He squeezed the bedrail once. “I’ll stay here. I’ll call everyone.”

Aerion wanted to answer. Wanted to say something. Anything. But suddenly, he didn’t want Duncan anymore.

Not in that moment. He wanted his mother. Wanted her beside him, telling him everything would be okay, like she used to when thunderstorms woke him as a child. Instead, there was only cold. A horrible coldness spread through his stomach because Seara had stopped moving as much inside him. That terrified him most of all. It felt like something was eating him alive from the inside out.

As the operating room doors swung shut and his brother was rushed inside, Daeron was left standing in the hallway, entirely alone. With trembling hands, he pulled out the phone. His shirt was stained with Aerion’s blood, and he looked as pale as a ghost... Shit, shit. What the fuck had just happened?

He took Aerion’s phone—which his brother had handed him earlier—entered the passcode, and bypassed the restrictions to access the contacts. With clumsy, frantic fingers, he dialed the number.

He called once. The long, gray dial tone echoed through the silent hallway. Nothing. He called more than eight times. Still nothing. By the eighth call, Daeron’s chest was burning with fury. Then, finally, on the ninth attempt, someone answered. And the contrast made something vicious twist inside him immediately. Loud music blasted through the speaker. Heavy bass distorted the microphone while drunken laughter and shouting echoed somewhere in the background.

A party. Of course. “Duncan?” Daeron snapped instantly, practically yelling into the phone without caring who stared at him in the hallway. “Duncan, get on the fucking phone now—” But it wasn’t Duncan who answered. Instead, some young, unfamiliar voice laughed drunkenly on the other end.

“Uh… dude, he’s busy right now. Leave a message.”

Something icy and visceral climbed violently through Daeron’s chest. Pure hatred.

“Put him on the phone right now,” he hissed. “Tell him Aerion Targaryen needs him in London immediately. Tell him he needs to get on a fucking plane right now.”

But on the other end, there was only the sound of glasses clinking and more background laughter. Then, the careless, disinterested voice muttered, "Sorry, mate. He’s celebrating something with some friends. He can't talk right now. Call tomorrow, or he'll call tomorrow if it's important." The line disconnected. Daeron stood frozen in the empty hospital hallway, staring at the glowing phone screen while nausea crawled hot into his throat. Slowly, silently, he deleted every missed call he’d made to Duncan from Aerion’s phone. Then he blocked the number. And somewhere deep down, Daeron realized he would probably hate Duncan for the rest of his life.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the double doors, Aerion was already lying on the operating table. The surgical lights above him were blinding. Large white circles burned directly into his eyes, no matter how many times he blinked. Everything smelled wrong in here, too — metal, iodine, antiseptic, something sharp and chemical lodged permanently in the back of his throat.

Cold.

The room felt freezing compared to the suffocating heat of labor. Another dose of anesthetic had already been pushed aggressively through the epidural catheter to speed everything up. His body still registered too much sensation otherwise. Not pain exactly, not sharp cutting pain, but horrifying pressure deep inside his abdomen while the surgeons worked quickly beneath the blue sterile drape stretched across his chest. His arms were extended outward against padded supports, restrained loosely in place to keep him still. The heart monitor beside him emitted uneven mechanical beeps that blended horribly with the weaker rhythm coming from Seara’s monitor somewhere nearby. Aerion stared upward numbly.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He should’ve had both babies beside him already. Maegor warm against his chest. Seara wrapped carefully beside him. He had planned this entire birth down to the smallest detail — natural delivery, skin-to-skin contact, immediate bonding, everything arranged perfectly inside his head for months. So why had everything collapsed apart? A terrible thought kept circling through the panic, fogging his brain.

Was it because he didn’t have an alpha beside him? Some stupid omega blogs online always repeat things like that. That labor was easier with an alpha present. Their pheromones helped. Their scent stabilized the omega nervous system. But no. No. Aerion tried focusing instead on the sensations inside his body. The surgeons moved quickly beneath the curtain while unbearable pain spread through his abdomen. Not cutting — the medication numbed that part — but violent internal tugging, hands moving inside his open body while muscle and tissue were physically separated. He could feel his skeleton shaking from it.

“Is she okay?” Aerion asked immediately, words slurring slightly from the medication, while his violet eyes stayed fixed desperately toward the curtain. “What’s happening to my baby? Why isn’t she crying?”

“Everything’s okay, Aerion. Just breathe.” A beta nurse wiped sweat carefully from his forehead. “We’re almost there.”

He could hear the clinking of metallic instruments, rapid voices, and commands barked back and forth in technical jargon. There was frantic movement behind the blue drape blocking his view.

And then—A final horrible pressure yanked downward through the center of his torso hard enough to steal the air from his lungs completely. Aerion gasped sharply. Then he heard it.

A cry.

Tiny. Weak. Higher and softer than Maegor’s furious screaming earlier — almost kitten-like — but unmistakably alive. The sound shattered something inside him instantly.

Seara. His baby girl. Tears spilled sideways into his hair before he even realized he was crying again.

“She’s a beautiful little girl,” Dr. Evans announced somewhere beyond the curtain, exhaustion and relief threaded together in her voice. “Small, but stubborn. She’s got fight in her.”

But the dread remained. No one brought his baby to him. No nurse walked around the blue curtain to show her to him, the way he had seen in those heartwarming online videos. Instead, the neonatological team moved in the opposite direction, rushing her to the resuscitation table with a speed that made his blood run cold. The panic returned, worse than before, tearing through the haze of the anesthesia as if all his senses had suddenly snapped awake. His heart began to hammer violently.

"Why aren't you bringing her over?" Aerion demanded, trying to sit up, but his muscles refused to cooperate. "What's wrong? Why won't you let me see my baby? What is happening to my baby?!"

The nurses continued to move rapidly around the incubator. The sound of an oxygen mask being adjusted hummed in the background, accompanied by the low murmurs of the doctors. Finally, a beta nurse with a gentle voice stepped close, speaking softly to soothe him. "It's alright, Mom. She's just very small, and her lungs need a little extra support to expand. She's going straight to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit so they can keep a close eye on her, okay? She is safe. She's going to be with her brother. They won't be alone."

Aerion wanted to weep. He had cried through this entire labor—tears of sheer agony and terror, not of happiness. She was too small. Thirty-five weeks, and his placenta hadn't done its job in the end. Aerion understood that immediately, a crushing weight of guilt settled over him. Was he really doing that badly as an omega and a mother? He hadn't even been able to see her face—just a glimpse of a blanket before they wheeled her away in that plastic capsule. He didn't even know if she looked like him or like Duncan.

Everything began to feel distant after that. The cocktail of drugs combined with the absolute exhaustion of pushing for hours, enduring a natural labor followed immediately by an emergency C-section, was taking its final toll on his body. The doctors' voices began to sound as if they were fading down a long tunnel. The bright overhead lights blurred into concentric halos. He could still feel the heavy pressure inside his body as they stitched him back up, layer by layer—uterus, muscle, and skin—but nothing mattered anymore. His mind was shutting down. The general sedation was finally taking full effect, washing over his aching body, his suffering, and his torment. He didn't even have the strength to fight it.

The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness entirely and sliding into the void was the soft voice of the nurse leaning down to whisper in his ear:

"Your babies are alive, Aerion. Both of them are alive. Maegor is strong, and Seara is fighting. Go to sleep now."

And Aerion clung to that thread of a voice, to the absolute certainty that both of his children were breathing in the same world as him, before he disappeared completely into the dark.

Around ten hours later, the world around him still felt strange.

Slower.

As if everything had been covered beneath layers of exhaustion, medication, and something heavier he couldn’t quite name. The private room remained quiet except for the soft beeping of the monitor beside the bed and the tiny sounds Maegor made while sleeping against Aerion’s chest. Outside, the sun still shone over London, while the room’s warm lighting barely softened the exhaustion clinging to the white hospital walls. Aerion is still hurt everywhere possible. The C-section pulled horribly every time he breathed too deeply, and beneath that pain still lived the echo of labor itself—a heavy, burning pressure between his legs that forced him to move with extreme care even while lying down. He honestly didn’t know how he was supposed to survive once they discharged him. He had wanted a natural delivery because healing was supposed to be easier.

Now?

Fuck. Yeah. He was completely screwed. His body felt ruined and strangely hollow in certain places, but—Maegor and Seara were okay. They had survived. Both of them were warm in their own ways. Seara—with all the pain attached to his heart and soul—was still in the NICU, but everyone kept telling him she was okay, that the tests looked good, and the same applied to Maegor. Both of them were okay. Even if he still couldn’t hold both of his babies in his arms. Seara needed to remain in the NICU for a while longer, and Aerion had forced himself not to cry while Daeron pushed him in a wheelchair to visit her earlier. Daeron had looked angrier than usual. But he never said anything.

He had two healthy babies. In their own way.

Aerion lowered his gaze. Maegor was in his arms. Huge. Heavy. His babies, not from him, his babies forever. Seara and Maegor were his forever. Both carried his surname. Both were legally registered. His babies. The worst part was that despite the hormonal disaster destroying him from the inside, he couldn’t allow himself to cry. Because if he started crying, it would become worse. He needed to stay strong. For Seara. For his little girl fighting inside the NICU. For the baby currently sleeping against his chest. That baby slept deeply, wrapped in a pale blue hospital blanket, one cheek squished against Aerion’s arm, mouth slightly open as he breathed slowly, completely unaware of the chaos his arrival had caused. Seara and Maegor were the most beautiful things Aerion had ever seen, and Aerion had seen too much, but his babies—his babies were the most beautiful things in the world. Seara could be surrounded by wires and machines, but all Aerion had seen earlier was his princess. And now Maegor, resting against him, felt the same. His fingers gently stroked the baby’s tiny back almost automatically. He still couldn’t stop touching him for too long. As if he constantly needed to check that he was truly there. As if touching Maegor also somehow meant touching Seara.

As if maybe then he could finally breathe.

Valarr sat near the window, staring at the baby with a completely lovestruck expression. Aerion had actually been surprised earlier when Valarr and Kiera showed up carrying flowers and balloons after he returned from visiting Seara. A surprise because he had never told them. Apparently, Daeron had announced everything for him.

“He’s a beautiful baby,” Valarr murmured for the fifth time within the past hour. “I think you finally managed to do something right, Aerion. You did well.”

Aerion rolled his eyes. He was irritated. Exhausted. But seeing Valarr and Kiera after spending so much time hiding from everyone still felt strange. When he imagined postpartum recovery, he had expected many things. He never expected one baby in the NICU while his cousin and his cousin’s girlfriend stood inside the room, surrounded by balloons.

“He looks like a doll,” Kiera added while holding Valarr’s hand. “He’s really beautiful, Aerion.”

Daeron laughed quietly from the corner. “He’s using cuteness as deception. He’s judgmental. When I visited him while you were sleeping, he kept staring at me.”

“He got that from Aerion,” Kiera giggled. “Two judgmental people.”

“Seriously? Especially coming from you, Kiera,” Aerion muttered automatically, though without much energy. “He’s only a few hours old. He’s upset because his sister isn’t here.”

Kiera laughed.gf

There were so many things inside the room that everything still felt unreal. Especially considering so few people knew. It looked like someone had robbed an entire flower and gift store. There was even a massive stuffed dragon Aegon had sent, complete with a plastic crown on top, because he still couldn’t leave university and desperately wanted to meet his nieces and nephews. Aegon. Aemon. Daella. Rhae. Everyone wanted to meet Seara and Maegor as soon as possible. It all felt slightly ridiculous considering less than twenty-four hours earlier, Aerion had been standing there after his water broke, convinced something terrible was about to happen.

Kiera and Valarr were both standing now, staring at Maegor again.

“I seriously can’t believe you didn’t tell us sooner,” Kiera accused dramatically. “When Daeron called, Valarr literally fell out of bed because he thought you crashed your car or something.”

Valarr nodded. “Then he says: no—he gave birth.”

“Valarr genuinely thought we were being filmed for one of those Ashton Kutcher prank shows. You should’ve had a baby shower. Decorations. Cupcakes. Everything.” Kiera said with a smile on her face. 

“I didn’t want baby showers,” Aerion answered immediately. Instead of admitting, I was too depressed. “I prefer gifts now. Diapers always help.”

“That’s not the point,” Kiera replied. “We could’ve done something. You should’ve told us.”

“I was slightly busy going into labor,” Aerion muttered. “The last few weeks were war. You can organize Seara and Maegor’s first birthday instead.”

Valarr laughed. Honestly—laughing felt weird. After all of this. After pain. After something horrible. After surviving something lonely and nothing like those support-filled videos online. How many omegas were living this exact reality? Fuck. Aerion realized he was another statistic, and the fear still sat heavily inside his chest every time he thought about Seara. Everyone kept saying she was okay. That she was strong. That she was a fighter. Then why couldn’t he hold both babies? Why did his arms still feel wrong? Empty. His eyes dropped again toward Maegor. Still sleeping peacefully. So calm it seemed impossible this same baby had screamed so loudly hours earlier.

Aerion was already discovering Maegor’s personality. He liked watching everything. He liked attention. “The nurse said Seara is stable again,” Daeron said softly, immediately noticing the shift in Aerion’s expression. “And she’s breathing much better.”

“A true Targaryen.” Aerion swallowed. Even words like that couldn’t comfort him. He wanted his other baby.

“But she’s still in the NICU,” he whispered. “She should be here bothering her brother; they should both be beside me.”

Nobody answered immediately. A brief silence settled. Daeron had already explained enough to Valarr and Kiera. Explained how fragile Aerion currently was. A bomb waiting to explode. And apparently, the only thing keeping him together right now was Maegor. Aerion hated that his baby was inside an incubator. The feeling physically hurt in ways he couldn’t explain. Worse than labor. Worse than surgery. And guilt crushed his chest every time he thought about it for too long.

“She’s strong,” Valarr finally murmured. “That part’s obvious. Daeron explained everything.”

She literally almost killed everyone arriving like that,” Daeron added. “So yeah. Pretty strong. She almost killed me, too, when I visited. She was screaming like someone owed her money.”

Aerion let out a broken snort. “That’s not funny.”

“A little,” Daeron admitted. “She’s loud. I introduced myself as her uncle. She still kept screaming. Poor Maegor. He’ll grow up with two loud people.”

Aerion weakly lifted his middle finger. “Stop saying stupid things.”

“How was labor?” Valarr asked. “You used to punch us during games and somehow still found energy to survive this. Oh—and Matarys says he’s excited and wants baby pictures.”

Aerion looked up.

Daeron immediately interrupted. “It was horrible. I wasn’t inside, but I saw horrible things. People screaming. Blood. I don’t want children.”

Kiera stared. “You’re an alpha. You video called us from the hallway.”

Aerion stayed quiet. Too busy staring at Maegor. Clean now. Dressed. Looking so much like Duncan. The tiny white outfit Aerion had packed for his first day—a little dinosaur in the center—looked ridiculously adorable. Gods. He had packed another one. For Seara. Seara, who wasn’t here. Fuck. He knew he would cry soon. Crying in front of everyone sounded unbearable.

“They rushed him past me, covered in blood, okay? It was traumatic!”

“You were also covered in blood when you called us, idiot,” Valarr answered. “I thought someone died.”

Daeron paused. “Well… Yeah.”

For the first time in hours, warmth returned to the room. Aerion adjusted Maegor against his chest when the baby made a tiny sleepy noise and moved slightly, searching for warmth. Immediately, everyone stopped talking. Hypnotized. Because he truly was the cutest baby they had ever seen. Round cheeks. Dark blond hair. One white streak. Peak Targaryen genetics.

Kiera finally said the sentence nobody had mentioned. “He has Duncan’s nose, Aerion.”

Silence. Aerion’s jaw tightened immediately. Yeah. He did. And that hurt more than he wanted to admit. Maegor looked like Duncan. Seara looked like him. Duncan would probably be here right now. Excited. Watching Seara through the NICU glass.

Daeron, attempting to be a good brother, interrupted before the atmosphere changed. “Aegon wants photos.” He lifted his phone, showing the sibling group chat. “Everyone wants photos. They said whenever you’re ready. They want to meet both babies. Oh—and Aegon asked if he should reserve Instagram usernames.”

Aerion rolled his eyes. “I’m blocking all of you.”

“You can’t block your entire family.”

“I can try.”

“I’m still extremely high on whatever happened ten hours ago. But trust me. When the euphoria ends? I’m becoming everyone’s problem.”

Valarr smiled while continuing to stare at Maegor. Almost like the idea of babies themselves had started entering his brain. “Everyone’s excited. Kiera and I are excited, too. I think we bought half a baby store.”

Aerion slowly lowered his gaze toward his son again. The baby remained asleep against him, warm, heavy, and real, and for the first time since labor started, the fear loosened its grip around his throat. Just for a few seconds. Seara was still fighting. Maegor was here. His babies would be okay. The three of them would be okay. Eventually, Kiera, Valarr, and Daeron left for a while. Daeron, Valarr, and Kiera hadn't actually wanted to leave. A nurse had practically forced them out after noticing Aerion could barely keep his eyes open between exhaustion and pain medication. Even hours later, labor still felt like something his body hadn't fully survived. It had felt like running eight New York marathons back-to-back while somebody slowly pulled him apart from the inside.

Absolutely horrible.

They promised they'd come back after stopping by the neonatal to see Seara. Kiera had even adjusted the balloons before leaving, carefully moving them away from the monitors as if that somehow mattered. As if placement could fix anything. Despite Valarr's increasingly dramatic protests, he'd also promised something else. Anything. Anytime. For all three of them. "We're not going anywhere," he'd said.

Now the room had fallen quiet. The kind of silence that felt heavy. Only the low rhythm of the heart monitor remained, mixed with the small wet noises Maegor made while feeding against Aerion’s chest. A nurse had helped position him earlier, but there hadn't been many problems after that. Maegor latched easily. Aerion somehow managed to. As if this part had always belonged to them. Aerion now sat propped upright between what felt like fifty hospital pillows, still too weak to move much on his own. He had gone through two kinds of labor in less than twenty-four hours.

Honestly? He deserved a medal. And probably a bottle of wine. Maybe several. But right now, he could barely think about that. Because all he could do was watch Maegor. And miss Seara. Seara, who still wasn't here. Seara, who wouldn't feed from him yet. They had explained everything. Later, he could pump. They could bottle-feed her. There were options. Aerion didn't want options. He had a plan. A stupid, carefully built plan. And now pieces of it kept falling apart. He forced himself not to get upset. Mostly because he lowered his gaze again. Maegor had one tiny hand resting against Aerion’s chest while drinking with absurd concentration, faintly frowning every time he swallowed. The sounds were soft. Tiny. Almost ridiculous considering how enormous he looked for a thirty-five-week baby.

Aerion let out a tired laugh through his nose. "Gods..." he murmured hoarsely. "I think you eat as if you've never seen food before."

His fingers lightly brushed the baby’s hair. "You know? You and your sister constantly demanded food." He smiled weakly. "You eat, sleep, poop, and now you're eating again. Like a king."

Maegor didn't even open his eyes. He simply continued drinking stubbornly. Completely settled against Aerion as he'd already decided this was where he belonged. Something tightened painfully inside Aerion’s chest. Because Seara should be here too. Seara should also be feeding. The three of them should be having this moment together. Very carefully, Aerion slid his fingers along the baby's tiny back, feeling warmth through the thin hospital blanket. Maegor smelled like a newborn. Warm milk. Clean skin. Something sweet Aerion still couldn't identify.

Whatever it was, it had already become addictive. He wanted to keep breathing it in forever, but Seara remained there. Inside his head. He hadn't properly held her. Had barely seen her. Just a small blanket. An incubator moving away. And that was it. She had been so much smaller than her brother. They kept telling him that it sometimes happened. That sometimes twins were different.

The guilt stayed anyway.

Aerion swallowed. "Hey..." His voice came out quieter now. He looked back down at Maegor. "We're going to be okay, right?" He swallowed again. "All three of us."  His thumb gently stroked the tiny hand pressed against his chest. "I know you were upset because your sister wasn't here. But we'll all be together soon."

Maegor made a sleepy little noise against him. Aerion smiled faintly. "No one's ever separating us." He carefully adjusted the blond head beneath his chin. "You'll always stay with me. When your sister gets here, we're going to do lots of things together." The word sister still twisted something painfully sensitive inside him. Seara was small. Attached to machines. Would Duncan be worried, too? Gods. That idiot probably would've cried harder than him. Knowing Duncan, he would've wanted to record everything. The labor. The chaos. Everything.

"For a few days it'll just be us," Aerion continued quietly. "But she's coming back soon." His fingers kept moving slowly across Maegor's back. "Your sister is strong. Much stronger than she looks." He kissed the baby's forehead softly. "You're my little dragon. And she's my little flame. Okay?" Carefully, he took one of Maegor’s tiny hands between his fingers and pressed a gentle kiss against the soft knuckles while the baby kept eating like nothing in the world existed besides milk. "Although right now you're enormous." Aerion laughed quietly. "Maybe this is the exhausted part of my brain talking, but I genuinely don't understand how you came out of my body." He closed his eyes briefly. "A medal. I deserve good birthday presents forever."

Silence returned. A peaceful one this time. His baby was beautiful. Painfully beautiful. A perfect mixture of him and Duncan. But mostly—Duncan. That baby was Duncan all over again.

"You know..." Aerion whispered after a while, as if Maegor could understand. "Your sister looks like me." He smiled weakly. "Too much. She's basically my copy." He adjusted the blanket slightly. "She doesn't have platinum hair. More blond. Maybe light brown." He paused. "One day you'll learn colors." His throat tightened. "But when I saw her..." His voice softened. "Just for a second..." He swallowed slowly. "It felt like looking at myself."

His chest physically hurt saying it out loud. Everything hurt when it came to Seara. He missed his baby so much that he felt slightly insane. But he had to stay together. Because right now it was only him. And Maegor needed him. "But you..." Aerion looked back down. "You're exactly like Duncan." He touched Maegor's tiny nose carefully. His nose. His brows. His eyelashes. A small laugh escaped him.

"What are we supposed to do when you meet him someday?" He paused. "I know that might take decades." Another pause. "Maybe someday I'll show both of you pictures."

His fingers tightened slightly around the blanket. "But for now..." He looked down again. "You're mine. Both of you. And nobody else's."

Saying Duncan's name still hurt. Especially because he'd thought about him constantly since labor started. Duncan would never know.

Would never know Maegor had arrived huge and furious, screaming like he personally wanted ownership of the world. Would never know Seara was fighting in NICU. Would never know people were already calling her a warrior. Would never know anything. And somehow—Aerion still missed him in the stupidest possible way.

"For a little while it'll just be you and me, my dragon," Aerion murmured. "Well." He smiled tiredly. "Until your sister leaves NICU and starts ordering everyone around. Because honestly? I think she's going to have a terrifying personality."

He lightly rubbed Maegor’s shoulder. "She kicked the most. Moved constantly." Maegor shifted slightly against him. The small movement looked like satisfaction after eating. Aerion smiled properly this time. "Yeah. It'll be difficult. But we'll all be together." He slowly brushed his thumb across Maegor’s warm cheek. "It'll be chaos. Then you'll meet more people. Who knows? Maybe even Maekar has a heart now."

His throat tightened again. Family. His father. Everything. Those topics still hurt. But he refuses to break now. Especially now. Aerion slowly rested his head back against the mountain of pillows again, exhausted down to his bones, while Maegor finally released an enormous yawn directly against his chest. Aerion wouldn't lie. He was already trying to prepare himself for the chaos waiting ahead. A chaos he had chosen himself. Despite everything. And maybe—maybe he would choose it again.

THE CHAOS BEGINS THREE DAYS LATER, when he is discharged with Maegor in his arms. It is a kind of chaos Aerion couldn't have imagined even in his worst moments. Chaos because they tell him Seara still needs time in the NICU—her lungs, her weight, things they promise are improving every day, things they repeat with reassuring smiles that somehow never feel reassuring enough. Aerion spent months imagining himself walking out carrying two babies. Instead, he leaves with only one. Half of his heart remains behind glass walls and plastic incubators, and every time he looks down at Maegor sleeping against his chest, all he can think is that Seara should be there too.

The drive back to the apartment is chaos, too. Daeron drives. Aegon sits shotgun. Aerion sits in the back with Maegor secured beside him, one hand permanently hovering near the carrier as if the baby might somehow disappear.

“Slow down.”

Daeron exhales, catching his eye in the rearview mirror. “I'm literally going under the speed limit.”

“Watch that turn.”

“Aerion—”

“There’s a baby back here.”

Neither of them argues after that. Aerion would never admit it aloud, but it is easily the most terrifying car ride of his entire life. Because someone depends entirely on him now.

The worst part isn't the drive. It's arriving. Walking into the apartment carrying a baby already feels strange. Walking in without Seara feels unbearable. The apartment looks exactly like people imagine new parenthood should look. Flowers. Stuffed animals. Gift bags. Baby blankets are folded on furniture. The fridge is overflowing with food because, apparently, everyone assumes he'll survive exclusively on takeout, which, honestly, isn't inaccurate considering his complete lack of culinary abilities. Valarr and Kiera had apparently spent most of their hospital stay preparing everything. Organizing. Cleaning. Buying. There are more baby supplies than Aerion even knew existed.

A card rests near the kitchen.

If you need a night nanny, just say the word. Little gift for Seara and Maegor. — V.T. & K.T.

Aerion reads it twice. Says nothing.

The silence inside the apartment presses against him harder than expected. Maybe because Duncan isn't here. Maybe because loneliness suddenly has physical weight. Or maybe because everywhere he looks, there are two of everything. Two cribs. Two changing stations. Two blankets folded together. Two tiny robes hanging beside each other. Everything is prepared for the twins. Only one baby is using any of it. Because Seara is miles away, sleeping beneath wires instead of in her crib. Aerion doesn't cry. He pushes it down. Pushes everything down. There isn't time. He vaguely remembers how babies work. Four younger siblings had at least left him with basic survival skills. But this is different. There are no servants. No household staff. No, simply walking into another room and delegating everything. Money is tighter now. His body hurts. And frankly, he barely tolerates Daeron and Aegon invading his space already. Allowing even more people in would only puncture whatever tiny newborn bubble he still has left.

Maegor keeps him permanently moving. Eat. Sleep. Diaper. Repeat.

The first diaper change takes twenty-three minutes and two tutorials.

“You know,” Daeron says from the doorway, arms crossed, “We changed Aegon and Daella's diapers all the time. Can't believe you're struggling this much.”

Aerion responds by showing him his middle finger without even looking up. Who exactly did this idiot think he was? Aerion could probably count on one hand how many diapers Daeron had actually changed. Still, eventually, he realizes something. Maegor is absurdly easy. He cries only when something is genuinely wrong. He eats. Sleeps. Looks around quietly. Exists with that strange, peaceful seriousness babies sometimes have.

Maybe that's good. Right? Especially when everyone keeps demanding pictures. Videos. Updates. Aerion Targaryen never gets his newborn bubble. He tries. God, he tries. But the next morning, life simply continues. Every time he dresses Maegor, he opens drawers full of matching outfits. Twin outfits. Twin socks. Twin hats. The fantasy of it's just the three of us learning from each other never exists. Because it's never just them. It's Aerion. It's Maegor. And it's an incubator miles away.

Every feeding becomes another reminder. Feed Maegor. Pump. Label milk. Store milk. Prepare milk for Seara. Repeat.

Even quiet babies still need things. Aerion doesn't even have enough energy to think about postpartum depression. At night, he nurses half-asleep. Sometimes bottle feeds. Sometimes pumps. Sometimes wakes up unable to remember if he already did either. He sleeps with Maegor beside him while grief quietly fills the empty spaces. Because Seara isn't here. Because Duncan isn't here. His incision aches constantly. Walking hurts. Sitting hurts. Standing hurts. Laughing somehow hurts. Even thinking feels painful some days.

A nurse had warned him. *Don't look down yet. Your body went through a war.*

War feels accurate. The only advantage of being an Omega is healing faster. Unfortunately, faster still isn't fast. The worst part? He's never actually alone. He rejected the night nanny. For now. But apparently, nobody trusts him to exist by himself. Kiera appears constantly. His sisters visit. Aegon practically moves in. Even Aemon keeps messaging that he'll send anything Aerion needs.

Rhae and Aegon, unfortunately, become extremely invested in Maegor.

“I can hold him while he eats.”

Aerion looks skeptical.

Aegon rolls his eyes. “Come on. I know how bottles work. I watched tutorials. And Daeron taught me.”

“That makes me trust you less.”

Still, he carefully transfers Maegor. His fingers linger. Longer than necessary. Because stepping away feels wrong. Everything feels wrong now.

Sometimes Aerion simply wants privacy. To bleed privately. Complain privately. Cry privately. But then he looks around—Aegon, Daeron, his sisters, Valarr—and suddenly the moment disappears. Recovery continues miserably. The hospital had also informed him that no sex for weeks. Not that it matters. With whom exactly? The only man he wants is in another country. At this point, after surviving pregnancy and surgery, Aerion decides luxury hotels should probably become medically necessary, but none of that is actually the hardest part. The hardest part is leaving Maegor behind when visiting Seara. Because guilt appears instantly. Violently.

“You have to feed him every two hours,” Aerion says, grabbing the diaper bag. His back aches. His incision pulls. He barely sleeps five hours daily. Still, he keeps moving. “I'll be with Seara. His milk is labeled. More's in the freezer. Do you understand?”

Daeron nods. Maegor sleeps against his shoulder, wearing an oversized Winnie the Pooh outfit. “We're basically best friends now.”

Aerion stares.

“We've known each other for...” Daeron pauses. “...days.”

“Shut up.”

“I'm clearly his favorite uncle.”

“You aren't even his favorite person in this room.”

Daeron grins. “Also, relax. You have enough stored milk to feed an army.”

Aerion rolls his eyes. He genuinely no longer knows what day it is. Pumping had become horrific. Not physically. Emotionally. Because this wasn't the plan. The plan had been twins together. Not pumping milk at three in the morning while half-asleep in an enormous bed beside one baby, labeling bottles for another baby sleeping inside the NICU.

Sometimes the nurses remind him about the app. The tiny camera. You can watch Seara whenever you want.

But screens aren't enough. He can't smell her. Can't soothe her. Can't whisper nonsense to her during lonely nights. “Still, idiot,” Aerion murmurs quietly. He kisses Maegor's forehead.

The baby smells like newborn skin, warm milk, detergent, something soft and impossible to describe. One white tuft of hair sticks upward. Dark blue eyes remain closed.

“Call me if anything happens.” He stays there a little longer. Breathing him in. Because separating physically feels almost impossible. Before leaving, Aerion checks three separate times to confirm Maegor is breathing.

The NICU feels like entering another universe. Cold. Bright. Painfully quiet. Parents sit everywhere. Some alone. Some together. Some crying. Some stared blankly. And then—Seara. Tiny. Hidden behind plastic walls. Now that he sees her properly, she has his nose. His mouth. His hair. Deep violet eyes. Nothing like Maegor, and the second she hears his voice—chaos. Tiny movements. Little noises. Complaints. Protests.

When nurses place her on his chest, she immediately falls asleep. Like she finally stopped searching.

“My baby...” Aerion whispers, sitting down carefully. Seara frowns at literally everything. “You'll come home soon.” He strokes one impossibly small hand. “Then you can destroy the apartment.”

Seara eats like she's trying to prove something. NICU staff practically adore her. She's improving. Only the lungs worry them. Maybe asthma later. Maybe nothing. Maybe they'll know eventually. Despite tiny lungs, she screams like she's twice her size. If Maegor is calm, Seara is at war.

Maegor observes. Seara demands. Aerion loves them the same. When he holds Maegor, he thinks about Seara. When he holds Seara, he thinks about Maegor. For days now, Aerion has discovered something terrible. He never feels fully complete without the other half in his arms.

It was a Sunday night, and after a month of absolute madness since Maegor and Seara were born, Aerion finally had something dangerously close to peace.

The apartment was quiet. Not truly quiet—nothing with a newborn ever was—but quiet enough. A month had passed, though it hardly felt real. Time had stopped existing somewhere between pumping schedules, feeding charts, hospital visits, pediatric appointments, and endless alarms set at impossible hours. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept properly. If he added together all the hours he had actually rested this month, it would probably equal what used to be a normal weekend.

Maybe.

Food wasn't much better. Sometimes Daeron forced meals into his hands. Sometimes people left containers in his fridge. Sometimes he found cold coffee he'd forgotten three hours earlier and considered that enough. Sleep happened only when his body stopped negotiating and simply shut down.

And somehow—somewhere, he was still standing. There were moments when he felt himself slipping. Moments where exhaustion wrapped around his skull so tightly he thought he might genuinely lose his mind. Then Maegor would smile. Or the NICU doctors would tell him Seara gained another few grams. Or he'd watch one of the videos on his phone for the hundredth time. And somehow, he'd climb back up again.

Gods. He was never alone.

If it wasn't Daeron practically monitoring him twenty-four hours a day, it was someone else filling the apartment. Friends. Family. People are bringing food. People holding babies. People refused to let him disappear into himself. Not that he was going to spiral anyway. Probably. Maybe. Regardless, he had too much support for that, and as much as he hated admitting it, he needed them. He needed people to hold Maegor during endless NICU visits. Needed reminders to eat. Needed someone to say, “Go shower. I'll watch him.”

The month had been full of milestones. Videos. Mistakes. Learning how to function with one hand because the other was always holding a baby. Learning how to pump while answering messages. Learning that sometimes it was easier to simply let Maegor nurse because they would both accidentally fall asleep halfway through. No. No, he didn't miss Duncan. Not during Maegor's first smiles. Not during his first month. Not during the nights he woke up every few hours. Not during the endless drives to the hospital. Not during the month Seara spent fighting inside the NICU.

He absolutely didn't miss him. Even when certain situations still made him instinctively think, Duncan would know what to do. Even when he still slept in his old shirts because they were comfortable. Even when, sometimes, during the worst nights, he caught himself reaching toward the empty side of the bed.

No. Absolutely not.

The apartment remained dark except for the soft glow of the television. Aerion bounced Maegor carefully against his chest while preparing the milk with one hand. The baby cried against his shoulder, tiny fists opening and closing against Aerion's shirt. Maegor was ridiculously cute. Which was honestly unfair. Because, unfortunately, he was also a complete copy of Duncan. Same dark blond hair. Same cheeks. Same expression when angry.

Aerion stared down at him while measuring powder. “Seriously?” he muttered quietly. “You couldn't even steal one feature from me?” Maegor answered by crying louder. “Yeah, okay. That's definitely your father's personality, too.”

Aerion's body hurt. Not sharp pain anymore. Just constant pain. The kind that lived everywhere. His shoulders ached. His lower back ached. His chest still felt heavy sometimes. He had lost enough weight that even old sweatpants hung differently. Dark circles stained beneath his eyes. His hair needed washing. He smelled faintly like baby shampoo, milk, laundry detergent, and exhaustion.

Tomorrow, everything changed. That was probably why sleep felt impossible.

“I know,” he whispered, rubbing small circles against Maegor's back. “You miss your sister.” The baby made a small, unhappy noise. “I know. You've been together forever.” He screwed the bottle closed. “Well... technically not forever.” He paused. “One month feels like forever, though.”

The smile that appeared was small. Fragile. Tomorrow, Seara comes home. The doctors finally said yes. Officially. Cleared. Ready. They had praised her progress so many times today that he nearly cried during every conversation.

“She's doing amazing.”

“Her weight looks fantastic.”

“She's strong.”

“She's ready.”

Ready. Gods. His daughter was ready.

His chest tightened immediately. Not painfully. Just too full.

“They said your sister is amazing,” he whispered. Then quieter: “They said she's perfect.”

His voice cracked slightly. He pretended not to notice. Settling onto the couch, Aerion adjusted Maegor carefully against his chest. The couch had become permanently occupied by blankets, bottles, burp cloths, tiny socks, chargers, and random baby things that somehow multiplied overnight.

“It won't just be us anymore.”

Maegor squirmed. Aerion offered the bottle. Instant silence.

“Traitor.”

The baby drank greedily. Aerion watched him. Sometimes he still couldn't understand this. That he had made them. Two babies. Two tiny people. Maegor. Seara. The most beautiful things he had ever seen. Nothing else mattered. Not the scars. Not the exhaustion. Not his career. Not that Maekar still refused to speak to him. Nothing. He would survive anything for them. Anything. The only sound left was soft swallowing. Aerion pulled a bear-patterned blanket over himself. The apartment smelled like formula. Clean laundry. Baby lotion. His entire life smelled different now.

“You know...” he murmured. His fingers rubbed gently across Maegor's stomach. “When your sister gets here, you two are going to be in absolute chaos.” He smiled. “I think your father would've liked that.” A pause. “You barely got time with him.” Another pause. “That giant idiot is probably sleeping peacefully somewhere.” His eyes narrowed. “I hate that for him.”

The feeding finished. He burped Maegor automatically now. One month ago, he had watched tutorial videos. Now his body simply knew. After the small burp finally came, Aerion turned off the television. Darkness swallowed the apartment. The bedroom felt warmer. Maegor normally slept in his crib. Tonight felt different. Tonight, Aerion couldn't do it. He climbed into bed carefully and placed Maegor beside him. Tiny hand. Tiny fingers. Tiny breathing. Aerion brushed soft hair away from his forehead.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow there will be two. No more daily NICU trips. No more leaving Seara behind. No more driving home feeling like half of himself stayed somewhere else. Maegor slept deeply. Completely unaffected by the emotional collapse happening beside him.

“In a few years,” Aerion whispered, “You can tell people you spent one whole month as an only child.” A smile pulled at his mouth. “Because once your sister arrives, your life is over.”

His fingers slowed. Something cold touched his skin. The dragon necklace. Duncan's necklace. Aerion stared at it resting against his chest. He never removed it. Not during labor. Not during recovery. Not while nursing. Not once. His throat tightened. Without thinking, he grabbed his phone. Opened the camera. Took photos. Another photo. Then a short video. Maegor is sleeping. Tiny breathing. Tiny fingers curled against the blanket. Aerion stared at the screen afterward. Longer than necessary. He knew who those videos were for. He always knew. He simply preferred pretending otherwise. Setting the phone aside, he pulled Maegor closer. That night, he slept with his baby pressed against him. No dreams came. His mind remained filled with only one thought. Tomorrow, Seara will finally come home. And for the first time in a month, everyone would finally be where they belonged.

MONDAY MORNING ARRIVES WITH SUNLIGHT SO BRIGHT it almost feels offensive. Aerion Targaryen could swear the birds are louder today. Or maybe he is simply noticing things again, because after an entire month of living inside hospital lighting, recycled air, and the constant rhythm of machines, sunlight feels different now. Everything does. He imagined this moment so many times that, now that it is actually happening, he almost doesn't know what to do with himself. Because after one whole month, Seara is finally here. In his arms. No wires. No incubator. No monitors screaming every few seconds. No, carefully threading tubes through his fingers whenever he picked her up.

Just—his baby. Just her.

“Well,” the nurse says while checking something on her tablet. “Perfect weight. Temperature looks great. Oxygen saturation is perfect.” She glances up. “Honestly? She's gorgeous.”

Aerion lowers his eyes immediately.

Seara blinks slowly up at him. Now that she has gained weight, now that her cheeks are rounder and her tiny face isn't hidden behind medical equipment, he can see it properly. She looks like both of them. Duncan's features. His features. Huge eyes. Tiny nose. An expression so calm it almost feels ridiculous. As if absolutely nothing important is happening. As if spending a month terrifying everyone was perfectly normal.

“That's... it?” Aerion asks carefully. He came alone today. He needed to do this alone. “Nothing else?”

The nurse smiles. “That's it.” She taps the tablet. “The tests look good. Vaccines are done. Everything we wanted to see—we saw.” She looks toward Seara again. “We'll continue monitoring how her lungs develop as she grows, but right now?” The nurse smiles wider. “You have a perfectly healthy baby.”

Something shifts painfully inside his chest. For weeks, there had been numbers. Charts. Explanations. Percentages. Alarms. Questions. For weeks, every conversation about Seara came with conditions. If this improves. If she gains more weight. If her breathing stays stable. Now they are simply telling him—Take your daughter home. That's it. You can leave. You can finally go. Seara makes a small, unhappy noise. Aerion immediately adjusts the blanket around her. 

The nurse notices. “You can relax a little,” she says gently. “Seara already proved she's a fighter.” A small pause. “And that she enjoys screaming.”

Aerion stares at her. “No,” he says seriously. “I don't think I can.”

The nurse laughs softly. “Yeah.” She nods. “That's about what I expected.”

Without another word, Aerion shifted his weight. The deep, biological pull in his chest—that fiercely stubborn omega drive to provide, to claim, to heal—overrode any remaining hesitation. For weeks, their bond had been mediated by specialized bottles, supervising nurses measuring intake down to the milliliter, and the mechanical, exhausting routine of the breast pump, freezing yellow milk in sterile bags. Not today. He sank carefully into the cracked leather armchair, the material groaning under his weight. He propped Seara securely against his forearm and pulled up his soft jersey shirt with a fluid, unbothered motion, exposing his breast.

Aerion waited for it. His body braced for the inevitable—the sharp chirp of an alarm, a nurse stepping in to check a chart, the heavy atmosphere of the NICU reasserting itself. But the silence remained unbroken. Seara’s tiny, damp mouth sought him out, her instinct unerring, and she latched with a fierce, greedy tug.

A sharp ache of pure, unfiltered emotion shot straight through Aerion’s core. Her small, plump hands, still somewhat mottled, flailed clumsily against his skin before anchoring themselves against his chest. Aerion let out a long, shuddering breath, feeling the cool air of the room enter his lungs fully for what felt like the first time in a month. There were no leads tape-stuck to her delicate skin, no sensor lights burning against her heel. Just the solid, radiating warmth of his daughter, nursing with a quiet, desperate hunger, as if she were a tiny creature determined to make up for every second of lost time.

"Were you really that starved? Gods, you’re exactly like your brother," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper against the crown of her head. Seara paused her rhythmic swallowing to let out an indignant, nasal squeak against his skin. "Right, sorry. Heaven forbid I compare you to Maegor," Aerion teased, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a rare, genuine smile. "You two spent all that time cramped together in the womb, and now you’re determined to be completely different, aren't you?"

The infant went back to her meal, entirely focused. Aerion traced the fine down on her scalp with his thumb. It wasn't the stark, striking platinum of his own hair, but it had lightened over the weeks into a rich, warm gold. Her cheeks were rounder now, her thighs holding the soft, healthy weight of a pup who was finally thriving. A month ago, she had looked entirely too fragile, a translucent thing made of glass and bone. Now, boosted by their stubborn Targaryen lineage, she looked substantial. Strong. Both Seara and Maegor were going to be tall; there was no doubt they had inherited Duncan’s broad-shouldered frame rather than his own compact build.

Something ancient and knotted deep within his omega subtext finally began to unravel, loosening its grip on his heart.

When Seara finally pulled away, heavy-lidded and milk-drunk, Aerion lifted her with practiced ease, bursting her small air bubbles against his shoulder—a routine he had performed dozens of times a day, yet it felt entirely new without the tether of wires. Within seconds, she was limp against his chest, completely dead to the world. No cardiac monitors tracked her breathing. No staff stood by with a stopwatch.

The nurse re-entered the cubicle, holding a small plastic basin. "Ready to get her dressed? You can take your time changing her diaper, then we’ll sign the final release forms."

Aerion simply nodded, the words catching in his throat. Moving with deliberate, slow care so as not to wake her, Aerion laid her on the changing table. He unzipped the heavy diaper bag he’d been hauling around like a security blanket for weeks and pulled out the outfit he had been staring at in the nursery drawer at home: a ridiculously soft, cream-colored cotton onesie with tiny green dinosaurs embroidered across the chest, paired with a matching white beanie.

He worked methodically, the way he had practiced with Maegor at home. One small, fragile arm through the sleeve, then the other. But as the fabric slid over her skin, Seara began to squirm, her brow furrowing into a fierce, tiny knot of rage as she protested the sudden intrusion of clothes.

"Seriously?" Aerion let out a soft, breathy laugh, his fingers working quickly to snap the buttons between her legs. "I know, I know. You hate the fabric. You've been spoiled living in nothing but a diaper for a month. You and your brother lose your minds over the slightest inconvenience." Seara kicked out her legs, a surprisingly strong extension that struck his palm, and let out a sharp, angry wail. The moment Aerion smoothed down the cotton and tucked her into the small beanie, however, she settled back down, turning her face into his warmth with a heavy sigh.

Perfect, he thought, looking down at her. He could already read the blueprint of her personality. If Maegor was the calm, observant anchor, Seara was going to be the tempest. A miniature, stubborn storm.

A true, brilliant smile finally broke across Aerion's face. The reality of the moment washed over him, thick and undeniable. He had spent so long preparing his mind for tragedy, steeling himself against the sterile walls of the hospital, that the simple act of leaving felt like a dream he was terrified to wake from. But the weight in his arms was real. The scent of sweet milk and baby skin was real.

Aerion Targaryen gathered Seara against his chest, tucking her secure against his collarbone, and reached for the diaper bag. He walked out of the unit, carrying his daughter away from a month of agonizing silence and dark thoughts. He knew what waited for him at home. He knew that when he finally placed Maegor and Seara side by side, when those two halves of the same soul finally looked at each other after a month of forced separation...Aerion closed his eyes for a brief second, his scent flaring with absolute certainty. He would never, ever miss Duncan again.

Aerion discovers something curious about babies. Two months later, they are still small. They are also unbelievably heavy. Ever since Seara and Maegor finally started living together, Aerion carries them everywhere strapped against his chest inside the wrap someone gifted him. At first, it felt magical. Now? Now it feels like carrying sacks of bricks. Or maybe something worse. It reminds him too much of the last months of pregnancy—the constant weight pulling at his back, pressure against his ribs, the strange awareness that his body is carrying more than it should. The babies themselves are easy. They rarely cry. They stay calm against him. Everything becomes simpler this way, especially when errands need to happen or when he suddenly realizes at ten in the evening that they somehow ran out of diapers again.

So now his routine looks ridiculous:

• Baby backpack on his shoulders.
• The wrap is secured tightly.
• Two babies strapped in.
• Keys in hand.
• Leave the apartment.

Chaos. His life is chaos. He likes it.

"Are you sure about this?" Daeron asks for the fourth time.

Aerion doesn't even look up. He adjusts the wrap again, carefully checking both babies. "Yes." A small tug. Another adjustment. "Seriously, stop asking."

Daeron makes a face. "Aerion, I'm not joking. Their eyes move toward the twins. They're heavy."

Aerion exhales dramatically. "If I hear you call my babies fat one more time, I'm hitting you." He points a finger. "Seriously. My strength came back. Don't test me."

Daeron raises both hands. "Okay, okay." Then he pauses. "I'm saying this because three days ago you were complaining about your scar hurting." He grimaces. "Gods. I think I need a drink."

Aerion lowers his gaze. Maegor sleeps against the left side of his chest. Deeply asleep. His cheek squished against fabric. Warm. Heavy. Round. He looks ridiculously cute in his tiny Winnie-the-Pooh outfit. Both babies can sleep through noise. Both babies ignore chaos. But Seara? Seara refuses to miss things now.

Aerion adjusts the wrap again. "They're comfortable."

He doesn't mention something else: soon, he won't be able to do this. They grow too quickly. Every day they feel heavier. Duncan's genes are clearly working overtime. Behind him, Daeron pushes the empty stroller. "Then explain something." He gestures dramatically. "Why did we bring the bloody stroller? I look ridiculous pushing an empty stroller. I'm turning it into a shopping cart."

Aerion shrugs. "Emergencies." He yawns quietly. "Sometimes Maegor wants space when sleeping. And Seara likes sleeping beside me." He adjusts the strap, digging into his shoulder. "Maegor moves too much. Seara wakes up screaming because she wants cuddles."

Daeron rolls his eyes. He already knows this. He knows bottles, diapers, burping, and rocking babies at two in the morning. He knows because Aerion's psychologist appointments often mean babysitting.

"You know what the real emergency is?" Daeron points at his brother. "Your back." He snorts. "I carried Maegor last week. Felt like lifting construction equipment."

Aerion ignores him. Mostly. He still punches his arm. They're heavy, yes. But that means they eat well. And honestly, considering how ridiculously thick Aerion's milk became lately, maybe he shouldn't be surprised. Maegor now has chunky legs sticking out both sides of the wrap, and Seara has transformed into a tiny dictator demanding constant attention. Sometimes Aerion still doesn't understand how much has changed. Getting used to Maegor was one thing. Two babies mean:

• Two strict schedules.
• Double the bottles.
• Double the laundry.
• Double the crying.
• Double the panic.

Recently, the twins discovered each other, which means placing them together in the crib often results in tiny hands pulling hair. Nobody prepared him for sibling violence beginning this early. Somehow, babies also create endless laundry, endless bottles, and endless photographs. His phone storage is mostly twins now. Today they're outside because his psychologist insisted—fresh air, sunlight, getting out of the apartment—because apparently having twins changes things. Especially because Aerion sometimes still wakes suddenly to check whether both babies are breathing, or wakes convinced he forgot to feed one.

And Seara... no. He doesn't think about incubators today. Or wires. Or monitors. Today the weather is nice. They need wipes, more clothes, and more baby things. His brain permanently feels full.

"Fine," Daeron murmurs, pushing the stroller dramatically. "Then I'll use the expensive stroller as a shopping cart. I'm telling Valarr and Kiera."

Aerion adjusts Maegor's head carefully. Dark blond hair, a tiny white streak. Beautiful. Annoyingly beautiful. A mini Duncan. "Gods. Let's just shop." He blinks. "I need to feed them soon... did I bring bottles?"

Daeron stays quiet because Aerion has become a total control freak when it comes to schedules. Feeding schedules, schedules for sleeping, not to mention the list of do and don'ts for anyone watching the twins. Everyone has the rules written down: no TV, tummy time, no bright colors, only soft lullabies, and other things he’d rather not remember.

Aerion keeps walking slowly. Despite everything, he still moves some mornings stiffly—pushing too hard makes his scar hurt, the cold makes his scar hurt, and now, carrying two chubby babies strapped to his chest turns a simple walk into a marathon. Seara makes little noises constantly. Those tiny "ah" sounds that he finds adorable—little protests over nothing. She is always "talking" and moving her tiny hands. On the other side, Maegor continues to exist in peaceful bliss.

Aerion never says it out loud, but he is convinced that if both of them were like Seara, he would have died weeks ago. Especially since Seara really turns the apartment upside down, while Maegor just does things his own way. They reach the store, and he carefully begins to walk down the aisles. Every aisle is packed with more toys. He looks at clothes for older babies; currently, Seara and Maegor are wearing four-month sizes, a month ahead of what they should be in. Just more unnecessary things. Valarr and Kiera have gifted them so much. Aemon usually sends things from China, where he is right now—everyone sends them things.

"Damn it... " Seriously, let's just get the things and go," Aerion mutters, while Daeron stares at a baby toy—a piano shaped like a bowl of soup. "Seriously... Daeron?"

"What? It's fun. Besides, I get pretty bored when you ask me to babysit the twins, Aerion. Too many rules, and that 'no TV' thing is the worst one you could've come up with." Aerion rolls his eyes again.

Seara decides that this is the perfect moment to start fussing. She doesn't cry, but she makes that baby noise that sounds more like a complaint than a sob. It’s that specific pre-crying sound, so Aerion just focuses on gently swaying his body, as if that were a foolproof way to soothe a baby. Other times, Seara and Maegor just want to be moving all day long. "What's wrong, hm?" Aerion asks.

Seara kicks her chubby legs, while Maegor stays fast asleep without a care. It’s as if, in the two months Seara and Maegor have spent together, he has grown completely used to her noise. "I still don't get it. How does he manage to sleep all the time?" Daeron asks. "The other day I was watching an intense movie, and both of them were sleeping like logs."

Aerion looks down at Maegor. "I think he just decided to live a stress-free life. He’s a baby who only wants to sleep and eat. And what did I tell you about the TV when you're babysitting them?"

Daeron says nothing, only letting out a soft chuckle. Aerion keeps walking carefully through the store aisles, still looking down at his babies despite it all. As he watches them—looking at the two of them, at their little heads and how both babies seem to want to take everything in—he feels a horribly familiar weight crushing his shoulders and back. Seara tries to chew on his shirt while Maegor remains sound asleep. He thinks about the future—he has done so since the very beginning. The debts, the baby supplies, the times they go out at night with the babies against his chest because he has to buy diapers or grab something they ran out of. He is too proud to accept anyone else's money; he is too proud for a lot of things. So he thinks about the future—he thinks about the impossible, now barely remembering what day of the week it is.

He always thinks about the future: when they grow a bit older, when their schedules are more established, when they sleep a little more. And above all, because he can't go on like this—it's something that is constantly on his mind, especially since he is practically doing this whole parenting thing solo now.

"What are you thinking about?" Daeron asks, tossing a few items into the empty shopping cart Aerion is pushing.

It takes Aerion a second to snap out of his thoughts. "Just that they'll have to go to daycare at some point. I've been looking into it." He doesn't share his deeper thoughts, his dreams, or his illusions. He doesn't mention any of that—how he wants to go back to college, how he needs to start working again soon, despite everything.

Daeron looks at him for a moment, as if trying to read between the lines, peering into those hidden dreams, trying to piece his younger brother together. "Poor daycare... if you send them there, knowing you..." He pauses. "You'll be spying on them 24/7."

"Don't be ridiculous..." Aerion pauses, without thinking too much about it. He gently strokes Seara and Maegor’s heads for a moment, watching how Seara stays awake, trying to observe everything around her. "Besides... I'll have other things to do."

For that brief moment, they say nothing else. Daeron keeps dropping things into the cart that Aerion doesn't actually need. They stand there in the aisles, staring at the tiny items. Aerion doesn't mention how, at times, it all sounds terrifying and absurd—because these weren't his life plans. Yet there he was, weighing certain choices, thinking about how, at some point, he would have to start working and then head off to university.

Deep down, Aerion has already made his decision. A decision he will reveal in his own time.

Life with the twins had become a blur of strange, disjointed hours, but Aerion wouldn't change a single thing. He wouldn’t change the sleepless nights, the lingering physical ache in his pelvis, or the damn sacrifices he’d had to make. He wouldn't even change how ruthlessly the experience had rewritten his worldview. He loved them too much to care. Half the time, he didn't even know what day of the week it was, the dates bleeding together into one continuous cycle of survival, but the passage of time only truly mattered when he looked at how much the twins were growing.

The looming reality of his life was waiting just outside the bedroom door: a stack of bills, debts to clear, the constant anxiety of whether he could afford to renew the lease on this cramped apartment, and the distant, fading dream of finally starting university. He still needed to find a job that would tolerate a single omega parent. But right now, Maegor and Seara were his entire universe. He breathed for them. He lived for them. They were his family—his, and absolutely no one else’s.

At three months old, life was pure chaos. The twins were only just starting to adapt to a loose schedule, forcing Aerion to live his life in fragmented, two-hour blocks. His existence was measured in ounces of milk, rocking motions, and the endless rotation of diapers. There was laundry to scrub, a kitchen to clear, a dozen tiny chores pulling at him, but none of it truly registered. It didn't matter if he got four hours of sleep or six. His babies were thriving. The excruciating pain of his labor and delivery was a fading shadow, and though the nightmares of Seara hooked up to hospital wires still haunted his mornings, they were surviving. Day by day.

As the sun began to dip that afternoon, a rare, quiet stillness settled over the apartment. The bedroom—the one he used to share with him, with that fucking idiot—was a messy sanctuary. A nursing pillow was wedged onto the mattress, baby clothes were strewn across the unmade sheets, a tablet glowed dimly in the corner, and stray towels and plastic rattles cluttered the floor. It wasn't silent, but the noise was pleasant now: the soft, wet snuffles of nursing infants.

Aerion leaned back against the headboard, a heavy fleece blanket draped over his legs. The crescent-shaped breastfeeding pillow anchored his hips, supporting the dual weight of his children. Maegor was tucked against his left side, Seara against his right. It was a clumsy, exhausting maneuver to get them both latched at the same time, but this afternoon, he needed the closeness. He wanted them to take from him, not from the cold plastic of a bottle.

They nursed lazily, swallowing with rhythmic, heavy gulps, treating the milk like a slow feast. Sometimes, looking down at them felt entirely surreal. He was looking at two complete human beings who depended entirely on his body to stay alive. The overhead lights were off, leaving the room swathed in the warm, heavy orange glow bleeding in from the kitchen doorway.

Aerion traced the tops of their heads, marveling at the thick tufts of fine hair, the pale sweep of their eyelashes, and the way their tiny, starburst hands gripped the soft fabric of his shirt. Seara and Maegor still carried that distinct newborn scent—sour milk, gentle baby soap, and clean skin. They hadn't developed their own secondary presentation scents yet; there was no hint of alpha, beta, or omega clinging to their necks. To be honest, Aerion couldn't care less.

"Do you know something?" he murmured, his voice a low, raspy vibration in the quiet room.

Neither responded, predictably. They were far too invested in their meal. Seara’s little fist twitched against his skin, while Maegor remained utterly focused, his jaw working steadily. Aerion’s lips curved into a faint, tired smile.

"I think we're going to change things soon."

The words hung in the dim room, carrying the weight of a decision he had been nursing ever since his visit to that little shop a week ago. "I'm still figuring it out... but I'm getting used to the idea."

He paused, shifting his weight slightly as Maegor let go of the nipple with a soft, milky sigh. "Not right now," Aerion clarified quickly, as if they could understand his timeline. "I just... I want to spend time with you two first. You and your brother are only three months old. I want to keep you to myself a bit longer."

Maegor drifted, his lips still shiny with milk, while Seara kept up a lazy, intermittent suckle. Both were perfectly nestled into the contours of the pillow, warm and heavy against his abdomen. "But we'll figure it out together... sound good?"

Silence reclaimed the room.

When they were finally done, Aerion went through the familiar, mechanical routine. He pulled down his shirt, gently lifted Maegor to his shoulder to burp him, and then repeated the process with Seara, who was already squirming restlessly. Once they were settled, he lay them side by side in the center of the bed, propping himself up on his elbow so he could watch them. Maegor was practically dead to the world, his eyelids fluttering as he sank into a milk coma.

Seara, however, was stubbornly awake. Despite her full stomach, her tiny hands flailed through the air until they caught on something metallic. Around Aerion's neck hung the silver dragon necklace—the one Duncan had given him months ago for his birthday. Seara caught the tail of the dragon, tugging it toward her wet face, trying to shove the cold metal into her mouth.

"You should really follow your brother's example. He’s already asleep," Aerion murmured, cutting his eyes toward Maegor, whose breathing had slowed to a deep, rhythmic purr. "Instead of putting dirty things in your mouth, you little menace."

Gently, he pried the silver charm from Seara’s damp fingers, but she merely wriggled, her tongue poking out as she tried to chew on her own knuckles instead.

"You know..." Aerion whispered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with unsaid things. "This was a gift from the person who helped me make you." He swallowed down the sudden bitterness in his throat. "A dragon. You two weren't even an idea yet, but he gave me this."

He went quiet. Seara stared up at him with wide, unblinking eyes. For a long moment, parent and child just locked gazes. Maegor was completely out, snoring softly, but Seara... Seara was always his little confidante.

"Someday, I’ll tell you about him," he said, licking his dry lips.

With his free hand, he carefully slipped his phone out of his sweatpants pocket. Keeping his movements minimal so as not to wake Maegor, he scrolled through his locked gallery until he found an old photo of Duncan. He turned the screen toward the baby.

"See him? You don’t look like him at all. But Maegor does... You look like me." Seara kicked her tiny legs against the mattress, her arms waving. "Well, I suppose you inherited his eye color. At least one of them."

Leaving the phone face down on the sheets, Aerion began to stroke their small bellies—first Maegor’s steady chest, then Seara’s warm tummy, repeating the soothing motion until his own racing thoughts began to slow. He stared at them, completely consumed by an intense, obsessive fascination.

Aerion Targaryen had been obsessed with many things in his life, but looking down now, he knew Seara and Maegor were his ultimate masterpieces. They were flawless. They belonged exclusively to him. They were his babies, the greatest creation he would ever achieve, and a fierce, burning pride swelled in his chest.

"Soon, we’ll have to sort out a lot of things," he whispered, tracing Seara's cheek. "Maybe we'll talk about it when your brother is awake, and you aren't bouncing off the walls. Seriously, Seara, what is it with you?"

The baby just shoved her fist back into her mouth, her dark eyes reflecting the kitchen light. Aerion shook his head, a breathless laugh escaping him. "Unbelievable. Still awake."

He lay back against the pillows, letting his mind wander. There was so much ahead of him. His body was still healing from the trauma of an omega birth, his financial future was a question mark, and eventually, he would have to swallow his pride and face his father. He had to build a life for his children.

But right now, in this exact microsecond, with Seara squirming beside him and Maegor sleeping with his tiny hands clenched into tight fists, Aerion knew they would survive. The three of them would be together, always. He wouldn't waste another thought on Duncan. He wouldn't mourn the rupture of what they used to be or what they could be. Not while he could play with his daughter’s fingers and watch his son sleep in perfect, safe peace.

Everything was going to be fine, and that was the only truth that mattered.

He had no way of knowing that in four years, that very same alpha would walk right back into his life.