Chapter Text
The palace chambers were bathed in the gold of a setting sun that filtered through the high, arched windows. The air was not stifling, but rather a refreshing caress that struck Maekar’s temples as he executed his dance of swords under the tutelage of his instructor. Sweat exuded from his skin with every feint; a scent of bonfire ash with soft undertones of wild lavender flooded the room. However, Ser Bastian remained unmoved by such effluvia. It had been decreed that, from then on, every governess or master-at-arms assigned to the young prince would be a beta, to prevent Maekar’s nature from disturbing the men-at-arms.
For many moons now, suspicions that the youngest of the princes would be an omega had run through the corners of the keep like wine at a feast. Maekar did not find it altogether a problem, though bile rose in his throat and he grew irascible whenever his parents began the search for noble candidates for his hand. It was frustrating to realize he would be naught but a consort for some lord, a dependent being whose sole mission would be to oversee the proliferation of the Targaryen lineage. Thus, the finding of a worthy candidate lingered. His mother used to despise him with her gaze, yet she whispered incessantly with her ladies about how necessary a strategic union was so that, at last, Maekar might be worth something in the eyes of the realm.
It had been some time since the prince had given up seeking the Queen’s favor. Few were the words they exchanged, but lately, she had appeared more present, like a hawk guarding the nest. Everything had changed since Baelor began to exude his scent of sandalwood and grapefruit; an intense fragrance that claimed the training yard while the heir competed with the stable boys. Baelor always wore a wide smile, but it was a smile that now bore fangs in formation: canines peeking through like wolf’s teeth, sharp and white, ready to mark his hierarchy.
His mother, Queen Myriah Martell, swelled with pride knowing her firstborn would be an alpha. She boasted with disdain before the court, in a searing contrast to how she treated Maekar. Surely she already had a list of high-born maidens prepared for the courtship; he did not know for certain, but instinct assured him it was so.
Maekar was still moving his wooden sword, seeking a strategic blow, when Ser Bastian straightened with sudden rigidity. The echo of footsteps resonated in the corridor. Maekar ignored them at first, wondering why his instructor suddenly looked so afflicted, stopped dead as if he had seen a specter. They were the steps of his brother, who approached with that amiable smile he used to dissuade men from their duties. Baelor was the heir to the Iron Throne, after all.
Before Maekar could speak, Baelor stepped between the instructor and his pupil.
"Ser Bastian," Baelor said, with a voice that already carried the weight of command. "My brother seems fatigued by your lessons today."
The instructor gave a deep bow, avoiding the prince’s eyes.
"Prince Baelor. Your brother is tenacious, but he still has much to learn of the low guard."
"Then, allow me to be the one to test that tenacity," Baelor declared, as his scent of sandalwood intensified, dominating the space. "Withdraw a bit, Ser. I wish to see what you have done with my blood."
Ser Bastian nodded, visibly unnerved, and stepped aside, commenting on the drills he had been teaching. Maekar drew himself up, wiping the sweat with a silk cloth. He desperately brushed the silver-white hair from his face and faced the heir.
"What brings you this way, brother?"
Baelor murmured a brief dismissal to Ser Bastian and stepped forward. From his training armor, he drew a dagger with a dark hilt, engraved with characters of an ancient tongue. Maekar nodded in acknowledgment of the challenge.
"To train, of course," Baelor said.
"Your training is outside the castle, not within these walls," Maekar retorted, confused.
"I wanted something different today."
Both brothers held each other's gaze. The air seemed to thicken. Ser Bastian cleared his throat, fearing an altercation, but Baelor only shook his head and fell into a guard. Maekar, feeling a surge of euphoria, began the attack.
The clash was dull and dry. Maekar was nimble, a shadow of white hair launching peevish strikes seeking the joints in his brother’s armor. However, Baelor fought with a new ferocity; he moved with a terrifying economy of effort, parrying the lunges with the dark dagger and a strength that threatened to splinter the wood. The sandalwood was no longer a perfume, it was a physical presence that stifled Maekar’s lungs. With a low growl, Baelor threw a shoulder check that sent the younger reeling and charged him with his full weight. The impact against the floor was brutal; the air escaped Maekar’s lungs as his brother’s body, far denser and firmer, pinned him to the earth.
Ser Bastian, seeing Baelor’s eyes turn into dark fire and his fangs glisten with thick saliva, understood this was the claim of an Alpha. Gripped by panic, he fled down the corridor in search of the Kingsguard.
"Let me go. You won," Maekar pleaded with a thin voice.
Baelor did not respond. His eyes shifted heavily toward the curve of his brother’s neck. Maekar, moved by an instinct he did not comprehend, tilted his head, offering his skin. It was the final trigger. Baelor lunged and, with a deep growl, sank his fangs into his brother’s neck with savage force.
Maekar let out a cry of agony just as Queen Myriah Martell burst into the garden. It was not the pain of her younger son that made her turn pale, but the sight of her heir losing his senses.
"Get him off him!" the Queen bellowed in anguish. "Careful with Prince Baelor, do not hurt him!"
A guardsman pulled Baelor away, who struggled with eyes bloodshot in fury. Maekar remained prostrate, pressing his wound. His mother leaned over him, but her eyes sought the fault in the younger.
"My poor Baelor... his first instinct, tarnished in this way," she murmured, before fixing her icy gaze on Maekar. "It is not a mating mark, fortunately. Even so, it will likely leave the scar of a newly blossomed fang. You have ruined his first awakening, Maekar."
"I don’t understand..." Maekar stammered, his voice broken.
"What did you do?" Myriah insisted, shaking him by the shoulders. "How did you dare provoke him so? Look at you, exposing your neck like some King's Landing whore! Did you seduce him into losing his composure before the court? Is that it? Do you wish to destroy your brother before his reign even begins?"
He shook his head in desperation, tears of pain mingling with sweat and humiliation. But for the Queen, the culprit was clear. She sighed with loathing and stood as the handmaidens arrived, pulling away from him as if his omega status were a contagious plague.
The women began to clean the blood with linen cloths, but their lips never stopped moving in a constant hiss of gossip that filtered into the prince’s ears like poison.
"Look at the neck... a blood mark before the ceremony," one whispered, tightening the bandage with unnecessary force.
"They say the scent of Targaryen omegas drives those of their own blood mad,' murmured another, casting a sidelong glance at the Queen. 'Poor Prince Baelor, having to shoulder a brother who tempts him so vilely."
"It is a disgrace," the third hissed, nearly brushing his ear. '"It is said that if an omega bleeds so before an alpha ahead of time, he is already spoiled. No lord will want what the future King has already bitten."
Maekar heard the words, but could not unravel their meaning. Spoiled? Temptation?
The voices mingled with the ringing in his own ears and the cold contempt of his mother, who stood several paces away, conversing in urgent whispers with her head lady. Myriah was furious, but her fury was an armor that protected her first son’s reputation at the cost of the younger son’s dignity.
It was late when they finally placed a patch to suture the wound. Maekar thanked them clumsily and began to walk, feeling small beneath the vast shadows of the Red Keep. But the Queen’s hand stopped him, gripping his arm with the strength of a talon.
"You have proven to be a danger to the heir, Maekar," she whispered into his ear, with a venom he would never forget. "The two of you shall never be alone again. I will not allow you to tempt the beast within him once more. Do you hear me?'