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At first, Daeron thought it was a dream. He stood against the railing of one of the balconies of the Red Keep. It was summer – had been for many moons now that Daeron thought of it. The sun beat down on all the people mingling in the courtyard, the weather made comfortable by the sea breeze carrying over from the Blackwater. A few bumblebees buzzed close to him, dancing their plump little bodies around the Queen’s flowers.
But Daeron’s gaze wasn’t on any of the natural beauty surrounding him. No, he could only stare at one person.
His elder brother leaned against one of the straw dummies erected in the training yard, so carefree that one might never assume he knew any worries at all. And with most of the royal family off to their own devices, he could be. Matarys and Daella were attending their mother in preparation for their newest sibling. A novelty task Daeron had been excused of. Or rather, forbidden from, if one asked Aerion. His most volatile little brother was off to the falconry lessons Daeron had fled from.
The sons and daughters of highborn Lords flocked to Valarr like the bees. Mainly Alphas and Omegas, though occasionally Daeron would see the Beta twins of Lady Margaret Lannister caught in Valarr’ orbit. Daeron couldn’t keep count.
Their parents had betrothed them just shy of six moons ago. Daeron was not oblivious enough not to see why. His mother was doing what he could; chaining the half-mad drunkard to someone who wouldn’t raise a fuss over Daeron’s melancholic disposition. Valarr was too much their father’s son to openly defy the match. He was too gallant, too perfect, to mistreat any given into his care – even if it was his right both as Crown Prince and Alpha.
To everyone’s bitter disappoint Daeron was not their grandfather come again. He wasn’t a second Daeron the Good. He couldn’t swing a sword or ride like Aerion or Valarr. He couldn’t charm his way into anyone’s good graces like Daella. Aemon was much more learned than him. Even Matarys, maybe his most dutiful little brother, showed so much skill with everything he set his mind to.
All Daeron had was a womb. A place for their father’s bloodline to continue uncursed by Aerion’s cruelty. He would ripen, and when the moment came, Valarr would plant his seed there. Daeron hoped his children didn’t inherit a thing from him.
It could have been worse. Daeron was well aware of how many would sink a knife into his gut without a thought for the chance to become the next Omega Consort of the Seven Kingdoms.
The sound of laughter snapped Daeron out of his bleak musings. He blinked through the fog of his mind, which was terribly unburned by wine. His mother had ordered every single kitchen maid not to serve him anything resembling alcohol for the foreseeable future again. The last time this happened, Daeron had been so desperate he’d taken a blade to his veins. Now he was under constant guard by either one of his siblings or Ser Ronnel.
His father had made him swear to never attempt something foolish like that again, to the statue of the Mother, the Maiden and the Father. Daeron did not bother telling anyone that he hadn’t believed in the Seven since he’d turned two-and-ten. His grandmother had suggested sending him to Sunspear, but Maekar would not be parted from any more of his sons since Aemon spoke of becoming a Maester.
Valarr struck the straw dummy. His speed and strength elicited cheers from his admirers. Daeron stuck to the shade, idly drumming his fingers against the stone ledge.
“There you are,” a soft voice called from behind.
Daeron didn’t turn around, but he felt his shoulders go lax. His mother’s boots stepped up to him. Maekar Targaryen was a sight to behold – reduced to wearing long, billowing gowns and simple shoes for his swollen ankles. He wore his hair long and twisted it back into a single long braid.
“Mother,” Daeron greeted. His voice caught strangely in his throat, so he cleared it and tried again. “Your Grace.”
Maekar took a seat on the stone bench. Daeron sat down as well without needing to be prompted. Sharp, violet eyes considered him before Maekar asked, “Have you slept?”
“Yes,” he lied reflexively. “You can ask Daella. She woke me up in the morn' with her screeching.”
“Your sister, though I love her dearly, sounds like a drowning cat the best of times,” his mother agreed. A touch of amusement played over his lips in contrast to the ever-present frown lines. “But I’m glad to hear it, my son.”
Daeron looked down at his lap. He was at once acutely aware of his state – unbrushed hair, swollen eyes and wrinkled dress. He straightened his posture and stopped fiddling with his bandages. For lack of anything else to say, he blurted, “And how is my little sister?”
Maekar huffed, cradling his bump. “Constantly moving. Though I know the birthing bed is not what you’re truly interested in, Daeron.”
Daeron didn’t melt under his mother’s scrutiny. Everything the great Maekar Targaryen did was impressive. He was tall, muscled like an Alpha, and strong. At four-and-ten Daeron could pass for a much younger pup with his waifish build and narrow features.
“What is on your mind?”
Daeron scoffed. Though he couldn’t smell himself, he knew the scent of Sadness-Doubt-Anxiety clouded his scent of Hazelnuts. Bitter, burnt notes of Chocolate seeped out of his pores almost every waking moment since he’d presented. Aerion never failed to make it known just how unpleasant Daeron’s moods were.
“Why did you betroth Valarr and me?”
The question didn’t give Maekar pause. Instead, his mother reached out to push Daeron closer. Even with gentled strength, Daeron felt that the older Omega’s calloused hands could crush his wrist without effort. He arranged himself to be tucked under his mother’s chin and let himself be held like a pup.
“It was your father’s suggestion,” Maekar began.
Daeron blinked in surprise. He’d assumed his mother had to convince his father, not the other way around. Baelor Breakspeare surely wanted a better mate for his heir.
Maekar nipped at his ear. “None of that,” he grumbled.
Daeron whimpered to show his submission. “Apologies, Mother. Please continue.”
“Your father wished for you to be wed before you’ve reached your majority to avoid the Small Council’s input. As if I would let a bunch of knotless old Alphas sell off my pup,” Maekar rolled his eyes. A spike of sharp peppermint stung Daeron’s nose. He sneezed and rubbed it with the back of his hand until the scent returned to whipped cream.
“Why Valarr?”
“Who else would I entrust your well-being to?” his mother countered. “You are very dear to me, surely you know this, sweetling.”
Of course, Daeron knew his mother loved him. Maekar loved all his children. Even the less favourable tongues at Court couldn’t contest this. The Hammer and the Anvil were maybe the most devoted parents since Good Queen Alysanne and Jaehaerys the Conciliator.
“But you said grandfather was cross when you married and mated father instead of reserving both your hands for political matches,” Daeron explained.
“And he was. But years later, he saw his error and apologised for trying to keep us apart. When your father suggested you and Valarr mate, it was clear this would not happen against your or his will,” Maekar said. He detangled a few pieces of hair from Daeron’s head, patting his head afterwards. “Do you wish to dissolve the betrothal, sweetling?”
Daeron’s ears were ringing. He pinched himself to stop whatever dream he was having. Valarr, agreed to mate him? Even duty-bound as he was, surely Valarr would have said something to their parents in the weeks since the announcement?
Valarr knew his responsibilities, but he didn’t believe in martyring oneself for the sake of them. His palms broke into sweats. Daeron’s heartbeat stopped before it sped up to a tourney horse’s gallop.
“-ron?”
“Da-“
“Daeron?”
A new voice cut through the rush of noise descending upon the prince. Two familiar pairs of hands cradling his face. Valarr and his mother’s faces came into focus. Daeron blinked harder, trying to catch his breath.
“Get my son some water,” Maekar ordered.
A cup was pressed into Daeron’s hands. His brother took it and lifted it to Daeron’s lips, coaxing him to drink almost the whole thing before their mother stepped in.
“Enough, don’t drown the poor thing.” Their mother ushered everyone off the balcony, not even stopping in his tirade about spilled water and clumsy servants.
Daeron’s stomach quivered as he stared into Valarr’ mismatched eyes. He involuntarily took a deep breath and was immediately assaulted with Concern-Affection-Love of Valarr’s spearmint and lemongrass.
“Are you well, Dae?” Valarr asked.
Daeron managed to string together the syllables stuck in his throat as an embarrassed flush overtook his cheeks. “I am fine.”
He’d interrupted Valarr’s spar, caused a scene and worried their pregnant mother more than he already was. Behind his brother stood his group of sycophants – Kiera of Tyrosh, Royce Blackwood, and their cousins Aelor and Aelora. Mortification soured his scent even further.
“I’ll return to my chambers, if you excuse me,” Daeron stammered. He scrambled to leave the floor and regain some shred of dignity. “Ser Ronnel…“
Upon looking around, he realised his mother had taken the Kingsguard with him. Daeron wanted to sink into the ground and disappear. Good, noble Valarr couldn’t leave a distressed Omega, let alone his betrothed, alone in such a state.
“Nonsense, if you are well enough, you can join us,” Valarr suggested. He looked to his friends, who all gave varying degrees of agreement.
“Of course,” Aelora chirped. She snuck her arm around Daeron’s limp one to steer him. She smelled of cranberry tea leaves and sugar canes. “Daeron will judge our archery contest, won’t you, cousin?”
Daeron nodded, unsure if he even had a choice. Valarr stayed close, almost hovering over his shoulder, as he was pushed to join the group’s return to the training yard.
Even as the sun’s rays stung his eyes, Daeron’s mind circled one thing: Valarr had approved of their betrothal. He did not try very hard to stifle the rush of giddy joy that brought him, embracing the feeling.
Daeron watched with rapt attention as Valarr dispatched another arrow into the straw dummy’s head. Freshly roasted hazelnuts dipped in creamy milk chocolate filled the air around him. Aelor whooped from his seat next to Daeron and clapped for his twin.