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Maekar can scarcely recall the night his father told him his only omega son was to be wed to his brother Baelor. His first reaction had been rage. Aerion had been five and ten with Baelor being over two decades his elder. Maekar did not want his son living in the Red Keep either.
The Red Keep, King’s Landing in general, is a den of vipers. Maekar does not wish for any of his pups to be caught in a web of venomous spiders attempting to leech from them. Aerion is proud, an omega of Valyrian blood who knows how beautiful and bewitching he is, but he craves constant praise. The young omega has a desperate, frantic need for validation, starved for notice and affection. A few kind words from his family is enough to soothe his temper.
Maekar did not want Aerion living away from him either. He cherished his only omega son. The boy who has his fierce temper and Dyanna’s fiery spirit. Maekar’s baby boy who frowned like him and smelt of oranges and jasmine like his mother. He spoiled him. Maekar taught Aerion to ride, how to joust and wield a sword, hoe to hunt and hawk, and how to speak High Valyrian. When Aerion finally presented then had his first moonsblood, Maekar considered marrying Aerion to Daeron, just to keep his son at his side.
Maekar remembers being angry at his father, but there is little a fourth son, seventh in line to the Iron Throne, can do against the king of Westeros. Maekar directed his anger at his brother, the one he fought beside on the Redgrass Field, the person he trusted more than even himself. He challenged his brother on the training yard and reminded Baelor that he is just as strong as he was in their youth.
Annoyingly, Baelor took his loss with grace.
Baelor was nothing but perfect during his and Aerion’s betrothal. The alpha sent Aerion scented handkerchiefs and books on the history of their house. He escorted Aerion throughout the keep, the young omega beaming as he held onto Baelor’s arm, and pulled out his chair for him. At the tourney to celebrate their engagement, Baelor had asked for Aerion’s favour. Then after he won, crowned Aerion as the Queen of Love and Beauty.
Maekar hated Baleor for a while. He hated that his son was being handed to his brother without his leave. He hated that he was thankful that it was Baelor who he knew would ensure Aerion was always happy, safe, and spoiled. He hated the turmoil that churned in his chest. He hated that his inner alpha bristles every time the brother he loves glances at his son.
“I do not want there to be a bedding ceremony,” Maekar had demanded on the eve of the wedding.
“What?” Aerion squawked indignantly. He stepped down from the stool he was on and sent the seamstresses scrambling to grab his dress’s train lest he trip. Aerion pouted and placed his hands on his chest. “Why not? It’s my wedding!” Tears of frustration poked at the omega’s eyes. “You and mother had a bedding ceremony; Baelor did with his first wife as well. Why can’t I have one?”
Because I do not want to have to watch my brother take you, Maekar had thought, but he held his tongue. Being an alpha himself, he knew how alphas thought. Maekar knew his brother’s inner alpha was ravenous and impatient, and he knew he would be unable to hold himself back from striking the Heir to the Iron Throne as he thrust his cock into his son.
“I agree with Maekar,” Baelor said, his calm, steady voice cutting through Aerion’s young, outraged one. He reached over and squeezed Aerion’s shoulder lightly. With a tilt of his head, Baelor let his cedarwood and ash scent comfort his young bride to be. “You have a face blessed by the Maiden herself; it would be an insult to you for anyone undeserving to look upon your full beauty.”
Aerion’s face flushed pink. He squared his shoulders and released a happy scent.
“I suppose you are right, uncle,” Aerion said. His eyes had roamed up and down Baelor’s body, and the scent of omega arousal permeated in the air. “I want to be the only one to look upon your body as well.”
“Save it for your wedding night,” Maekar snapped, whirling on his feet and stomping out the room.
The wedding was perfect. A splendid affair with lords and ladies across the realm in attendance. Everyone commented on how lustrous Aerion looked and how happy Baelor seemed. Baelor was absent as Hand of the King for three days as he spent time with his new wife.
A little over a moon’s turn from the wedding, Maester Yormwell announced that Aerion was with child.
Aerion’s pregnancy softened Maekar a little. He spent his days accompanying his son when Baelor was busy. Maekar assisted Aerion in planning the royal nursery, supped with him in his solar, and even helped him pick an egg for the cradle. Aerion looked so fragile, so small as his stomach rounded with each passing moon. Maekar ordered his measter from Summerhall to come to King’s Landing to assist with Aerion’s labors.
Baelor was excited to be a father again, and he shared his joy with Maekar. The rift between them mended slowly and Maekar found himself laughing and smiling with his brother once more. One night, after they both indulged in too much wine, Maekar admitted that he felt a strange joy in his chest at the prospect of becoming a grandsire.
As Meakar paces outside of Aerion’s bedchambers, all the joy is sucked away with each sound coming from the closed door in front of him. Maekar remembers being filled with trepidation each time Dyanna began her labors. Now that his son is in his own labors, Maekar only feels fear.
Aerion has been laboring for eight hours now. Maekar was barred from his boy’s chambers. Maesters and midwives alike squinting at him as they shooed him out. Baelor sits on the settee a servant brought them hours ago. The Heir to the Iron Throne appears calm and composed, but Maekar can see the worry. He sees how Baelor twists the rings on his fingers, particularly the one that matches Aerion’s, and how his eyes glance to the door every time it quiets.
Aerion lets out another loud yell, an animalistic sound closer to a growl. Maekar blows a breath out of his nose and runs a hand through his hair.
“Aerion is too young,” Maekar says, gritting his teeth. He glares down at his brother. “You could have waited until he was older to put a babe in him.”
“You were scarcely a year older when Daeron was born,” Baelor points out.
“I was not the one laboring with him,” Maekar counters. He continues pacing, bringing a hand up to pinch the skin in between his brows.
“Aerion plans to nurse the babe himself,” Baelor changes the conversation.
“That is improper,” Maekar hisses. “You would let the future queen of the seven kingdoms nurse his pup? Is King’s Landing lacking in wet nurses?” Baleor shrugs, glancing down at the ring with Aerion’s name, and smiles softly.
“I cannot find it in me to deny him the want to care for our child,” Baelor admits.
The doors to the bedchambers open and a midwife runs out with a blood sheet. Another pokes her head out and barks at a servant to bring a bowl of hot water. Maekar moves his head to try and catch a glimpse of his son. He can see Aerion pacing his chambers in his bloody chemise, one hand cradling his bump while the other braces his back. His boy’s face is twisted in a painful grimace, and the room reeks of pain and fear and determination and hope.
The door closes again.
Aerion reminds Maekar so much of his late Dyanna. Now, all Maekar can think of is his wife’s pale face as she bled out after her last labor. His mind pictures his boy in her place instead, and Maekar imagines the Maester handing Baelor a healthy babe as the Stranger embraces Aerion in their arms.
“I shall take your head if you choose the babe over Aerion should the choice come,” Maekar tells his brother. Baelor stares at him before frowning, his scent souring with anger.
“I would never do such a thing, Maekar,” he says. He stands and clasps the younger alpha’s shoulder. “I love Aerion. I remember when he was small and only wanted to fish and search for dragons…I did not marry him for his ability to produce heirs. I married him because I love him, and I love you…Aerion is strong, valonqar. He will be just fine.”
Maekar grunts in reply, words clogged in his throat.
“Papa!” Aerion screams out. Maekar nearly breaks the door down to get to his son. The Maesters and midwives jump at his intrusion, but Maekar only has eyes for his boy. Aerion is holding himself up by his bedposts. Sweat makes his hair cling to his forehead and causes him to shake. Aerion snaps his head up and keens.
“Papa, it hurts,” Aerion whines out, tears spilling down his cheeks.
“You should not be here, your grace,” the Maester says. “It is indecent for you and Prince Baelor to be here.”
“Fuck your propriety,” Maekar snaps, shoving the maester away as he cups his son’s cheeks. He wipes the sweet away from Aerion’s face and kisses his temple tenderly. “Oh my boy. Oh my strong boy. You are fairing so well, my little dragon.”
Aerion lets out a little sob, face crumpling sadly.
“It hurts,” he whispers. Maekar feels part of his heart fracture.
“Lean against me, my love,” Baleor says as he pulls Aerion to brace against his chest. He nuzzles the mating bark on Aerion’s neck then kisses his cheek. “I will hold you up, and your father will hold your hand.”
Maekar whispers to Aerion in a voice he barely registers as his own. He holds his trembling hands, kisses his temple, and wipes the sweat from his brow as his boy pushes and strains. A new, shrill cry joins the bedchamber.
“A boy, your grace!” the midwife announces. Aerion pants as he collapses forward against his father. Maekar gathers him close and ushers him to the bed.
“My baby,” Aerion says, his voice stronger than it was seconds ago. “My boy. I want to hold my baby, father.”
“You will,” Maekar assures him. Tears of relief spring in his eyes as he watches Aerion’s eyes regain their clarity. He grabs Aerion by his nape and presses their foreheads together. He kisses the apple of Aerion's cheek. “My boy…I am so proud of you.”
Aerion pays his father no mind as Baelor walks over with the babe in his arms. The omega laughs in joy as he cradles his son close. Aerion coos and sniffles as he traces his son’s tiny face.
“Is he healthy?” Aerion asks one of the midwives, not taking his eyes off his son.
“Kicking like a colt, your grace,” she replies. “With lungs strong enough to wake the dead.” Baelor comes to stand on Aerion’s other side, a hand on the babe’s back and the other on Aerion’s nape.
“He is handsome, my love,” Baelor says. He reaches a finger out for the babe and chuckles as he grips it tight in his grasp. “Strong too; he will be a strapping young lad.” Baelor gazes up at Aerion with a soft expression. He presses three firm kisses to his wife’s jaw, cheek, and temple. “You did so well, Aerion. So strong. I am very proud of you, my love.”
“I will leave you be,” Maekar squeezes Aerion’s shoulder before returning to his solar.
He writes to Summerhall to inform his children of their nephew’s arrival. Maekar expresses his wishes for them all to come up and visit their brother. It would be good for them to see their grandparents and uncle as well, but Maelar’s only concern is his boy. Even as the color returns to his cheeks, Maekar worries for his Aerion.
“Prince Maekar,” Ser Donnel steps into his solar. “Prince Baelor and Prince Aerion have summoned you to Prince Aerion’s chambers.”
“Is Aerion still ailing well?” Maekar questions as he stands. Ser Donnel nods his chin.
“Everything is well, your grace,” he replies. Maekar hums and jerks his chin towards the door.
Maekar can smell Aerion before he enters his omega son’s bedchambers. It smells of oranges, jasmine, and the soft powder milk scent all pups have. Maekar’s eyes roam over his son’s body as Ser Donnal announces his presence. Aerion is sitting up in his bed, pup cradled gently in his arms, with a healthy color to his cheeks and a proud grin on his face. Baelor sits on the edge of the bed. The alpha has one arm around Aerion’s shoulders and the other stokes the babe’s cheek.
To Maekar’s surprise, King Daeron and Queen Myriah are present as well. Both of them glance his way as he steps closer towards Aerion’s bed.
“Congradulations, Meakar,” King Daeron says, reaching out to clasp his youngest son on the shoulder. “You have a grandson to spoil.”
“I have been blessed by the Seven twice today,” Maekar responds to his father. “I have a strong grandson, and my son is healthy and whole.” Aerion rolls his eyes, finally lifting his head to gaze at his father.
“You worry too much, father,” he says, shifting his arms as the babe grunts and coos. Aerion shushes his pup with a tender kiss to his nose. “Besides, I plan to bear at least fourteen children by my husband. One more to beat King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne’s thirteen.” Maekar makes a wounded sound from the back of his throat and glares at his brother.
“Let us raise this babe first before planning a dynasty, my love,” Baelor laughs as he nuzzles his wife’s cheek. Aerion purses his lips and hums. He looks back up at Maekar and cocks his head to the side.
“Father,” he begins. “Would you like to hold your first grandchild?”
Maekar steps forward carefully. He can feel his father’s kind eyes and mother’s scrutinizing gaze on him. Baelor stands and steps aside to give him room. Carefully, yet with a patience strange for one so young, Aerion passes his babe over to his father. Maekar holds his first grandchild close, tucking the blanket around his small chin.
His grandson stares up at him with wide curious eyes. His eyes are a deep violet color, and the small hairs adoring his head are platinum white hairs. He gurges at Maekar, his little limbs twitching. Maekar allows a small smile to form on his face.
“Does he have a name?” He asks, looking back up at his son. Aerion smirks proudly, and Baelor reaches and squeezes his omega’s hand.
“Father,” Aerion straightens his back and squares his shoulders. “I want to introduce you to Maekar Targaryen.”
A thick ball of emotion gets stuck in Maekar’s throat. He glances back down at his grandson, who his brother and son named after him, and offers the pup his finger. Little Maekar takes it and brings it to his mouth to gnaw at. Maekar blinks away to moisture accumulating in his eyes.
“That is a fine name,” he whispers quietly. He kisses his grandson’s cheek softly. He can hear Aerion humming, and he can hear Baleor laughing softly, but it matters little to him now.
“A fine name indeed.”