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Maegor is sixteen when he found the album. Just a dusty thing wedged between a broken telescope and his papa's old rugby trophies in the attic. He almost left it there- science project materials first, nostalgia later. But something about the leather binding, worn soft at the edges, made him tuck it under his arm. The attic smelled like cedar and old papers, and the eldest had learned early not to question why his family had both a garage full of power tools and a library with first editions.
He'd spent the entire Saturday collecting things for his physics project- old copper wires, a rusted compass, his papa's voltmeter from the garage. The album had been an afterthought, something he'd shoved into his bag between a coil of rope and his notebooks, meaning to look at it later. But then Arlan had begged him to go to the skate park, and Daemon needed help with his math homework, and suddenly it was dinner time and the album sat forgotten on his desk, buried under textbooks and half-finished circuit diagrams.
Sunday had been equally chaotic. Church in the morning with the whole clan- Maegor shepherding his younger brothers into proper behavior while Mama sat with one hand resting on the prominent swell of his stomach, five months along and showing elegantly in a vintage Dior coat that probably cost more than consoles and motorcycles. His silver-gold hair was pulled back in a loose braid, his violet eyes hidden behind sunglasses, looking impossibly regal even while complaining about heartburn.
Then lunch at Grandpa's, where Aeryn had knocks over a pitcher of lemonade and Jaehaerys- the baby at five, already fierce and opinionated- had decided that was the perfect moment to sing the entirety of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ at full volume while standing on a chair, his dark curls with streak of silver-gold bouncing as he headbanged.
After lunch, Maegor had helped his papa rebuild the carburetor on the old truck, hands covered in grease, listening to Dunk tell stories about his rugby days while Arlan sat on a tire, enraptured. They'd grilled burgers and BBQs after, Maegor manning the flames while mama made his special sauce- something involving truffle oil and TikTok trends- and he then swatted papa's hand away from the mashed potato salad every three minutes while simultaneously filming the entire thing for his Instagram story, adding captions about ‘my oaf’ and ‘cottagecore but make it wealthy’.
By the time evening rolled around- movie night, The Princess Bride for the hundredth time, Arlan quoting every line and demanding to know why he couldn't have a sword. To which the couple- including Maegor told him ‘just because’.
That’s the end of it.
It wasn't until midnight that Maegor remembered. The house was quiet- Arlan finally asleep in the next room, Daemon and Aeryn snoring down the hall, little Jahaerys curled up with Papa on the couch after movie night, thumb in his mouth, his dragon costume still on. Mama had gone up to bed hours ago, complaining about his back and how this baby was already heavier than the last four combined, looking impossibly graceful even in discomfort in silk pajamas and a sleep mask, his silver-gold hair loose around his shoulders.
Maegor sat on his bed, album in his lap, expecting baby photos. Vacation snaps. Something wholesome. Maybe pictures from the wedding ceremony- the one Maegor actually remembered, the one where Papa had worn a proper tuxedo and Mama had cried through the entire vows, the one that happened when Maegor was three and they thought he was too young to remember but he did. He remembered the flowers. The cake. The way his parents had danced in the garden while he fell asleep on a folding chair.
He opened the cover.
The first photos stopped his breath.
His mama- but not his mama. Not the man who packed his lunch with little notes and heart shape cookies, who wore cashmere cardigans to PTA meetings, who baked scones on Sundays and could silence a room of rowdy children with one raised eyebrow. This person wore leather pants that should've been illegal and a bright red mesh top that left nothing to imagination, his silver-gold hair shorn short on one side and wild on the other, violet eyes lined in black kohl that had smeared down his porcelain cheeks. He looked feral.
Beautiful and dangerous and completely unrecognizable.
Maegor turned the page.
His mama in a club, body pressed against strangers, head thrown back in laughter that looked too sharp to be genuine. Another: Aerion sitting on a velvet couch, a line of white powder on the glass table in front of him. Another: his mother- his calmed, sophisticated mother- wearing nothing but a fur coat and thigh-high boots, standing in an alleyway with a cigarette dangling from lips painted blood red.
The next pages were worse.
Or better.
Maegor couldn't decide.
Aerion with his hair dyed black, wearing a distressed crop top, standing on a bar. Aerion with three different people kissing his neck at once. Aerion with his eyes rolled back, clearly high, being held up by someone whose face was cropped out. Aerion with bruises on his neck that looked like they hurt, wearing sunglasses indoors, looking like he wanted to fight the world and lose.
Maegor's hands shook. He knew people had pasts- he wasn't stupid- but this? This omega who'd snort lines off bathroom counters? Who'd burned through his granpa’s trust funds and boyfriends and reputations with equal enthusiasm? Who'd clearly been drownng in something dark and sharp-edged?
He kept flipping, guilt pooling in his stomach. He shouldn't be seeing this. Shouldn't know that his mother- the same man who cried at every commercial featuring babies, who had somehow become the most refined person Maegor knew- used to be this person. This stranger with hollow eyes and a sharp smile that promised trouble.
Then: the shift.
It didn't happen all at once. That was the thing Maegor noticed as he kept turning pages- the change was gradual, messy, real. There was, his mama, in the leather pants but wearing a sweater instead of his spposedly signature mesh. There he was at a party but drinking sparklings, looking bored. There he was with his hair now growing out his natural silved-gold, the violet eyes clearer, less glazed.
And then- papa.
Not the papa Maegor knew, exactly. This person was younger, his dark hair longer, his shoulders somehow even broader, nearly seven feet of muscle even then. He was wearing either a rugby jersey or plain loose shirts in almost every photo, looking like he'd walked out of a sports drink commercial. In one of the photo, he was laughing at something off-camera, head thrown back, neck corded with muscle, mama is beside him looking annoyed but fighting a smile. In another group shot, they were with uncle Egg, looking young and delighted.
Maegor stared. He knew his dad was handsome- he'd watched teachers stumble over their words at pickup, seen the way grocery store clerks suddenly needed to check the expiration dates on everything when Papa walked by, seen the way his friends' mothers went slightly pink whenever Duncan showed up to school events in his work shirts with the sleeves rolled up. But young papa? With that jawline and those arms and that eatshitting grin? No wonder he'd been famous. No wonder everyone had wanted him.
The photos continued, and Maegor watched their relationship develop through timer shots and group photos. There was Duncan offering Aerion a drink in a kitchen full of people. Aerion accepting, looking surprised. There they were, at a rugby match, Aerion wearing an actual jersey- Duncan's number, Maegor noticed, his heart doing something funny- and looking like he understood approximately none of the rules but was trying.
More pages. More people Maegor recognized from family stories. Daella, looking ethereal and amused. Other Targaryen siblings- Rhae, who Maegor barely knew, and Daeron, the older brother who was always ‘off somewhere’. They were all impossibly beautiful and in these photos, they were all clustered around Duncan like he was a puzzle they couldn't solve.
The contrast between mama and papa was staggering even then. Papa in baggy jeans and faded t-shirts and old sneakers, looking like he'd walked out of a working-class pub. Mama in increasingly cultivated style outfits- silk blouses, tailored trousers, his silver-gold hair growing longer, curls tamed into something sophisticated. But they were together in almost every photo now. A photo where Duncan's hand found Aerion's waist. Group photos where Aerion leaned into Duncan's shoulder. The two of them sharing secrets, sharing drinks, sharing looks that made Maegor feel like he was intruding.
They were becoming them. The parents he knew. The ones who kissed in the kitchen and held hands during movies and have family dates in the garden every once in a while.
Relief washed through him. They'd saved each other. Whatever chaos his mama had been, his papa had grounded him. Whatever rough edges Duncan had, Aerion had softened.
Maegor smiled, ready to close the album-
Then he saw the last section. He’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.
His mama in white.
Not just white- wedding white.
A dress that probably cost more than papa’s customized car, intricate lace, pearls woven into his silver-gold curls. He looked radiant. Ethereal. Fucking magnificent (as he heard from his granpa once). His violet eyes were bright with triumph and love and something that looked almost like mischief.
And beside him, looking absolutely fucking bewildered-
His papa. In a striped t-shirt. Jeans with a hole in the knee. Rugby boots, for fuck's sake. Hair sticking to his face, his forehdd- still sweaty, like he'd come straight from practice. The expression on his face wasn't wedding joy- it was pure, unadulterated what the hell is happening right now.
Maegor took the photo from the film and flipped back. Checked dates. Flipped forward. The wedding was dated three months before the photo of Mama pregnant with him. Way before the wedding ceremony he remembered. This was something else entirely. Something like a secret.
The back of the photo had handwriting- his mama's very polished handwrite, already developing, but looser then, more wilder:
Duncan, five minutes after realizing it was his own wedding. I told him we were attending my Vallar’s ceremony. He didn't ask whose. I didn't correct him. The absolute love of my life, everyone. Also: Father nearly fainted. Worth it.
Maegor stared at the words until they blurred. His mama- his proper, poised, pearl-wearing mama- had tricked his papa into his own wedding. Had looked him in those trusting blue eyes and said ‘wear something nice for the ceremony’ while knowing full well Duncan would show up in practice clothes.
And his grandfather- Maekar Targaryen, the stern old man who brought Maegor presents every birthday and called him my boy with such affection that Maegor had never once questioned his love- had been there. Had watched his second eldest son deceive everyone in the room, including him. Had nearly fainted.
Maegor's head spun. Grandpa Maekar, who taught him chess and sent him books and hugged him so tight at Christmas? That Grandpa had hated Papa enough to nearly faint at their wedding?
There were more photos. Duncan's face cycling through confusion, dawning horror, then- finally- laughter. His head thrown back, tears streaming, while Aerion looked pleased as a cat with cream, his hand already possessive on Duncan's arm. The guests (and there were hundreds) seemed delighted rather than offended. The officiant grinning. And in the background, a tall man with silver-gold hair and a look of utter shock- Maekar Targaryen, clutching a program, his violet eyes wide, his face the color of skim milk.
Maegor needed answers.
At 1 AM, he crept downstairs, album clutched to his chest, and found his parents on the couch exactly where he'd left them- Papa asleep, Rhaella on his chest, Mama- surprisingly, awake and came back to the living room- reading with his feet tucked under Duncan's thigh. They looked like a postcard. Domestic bliss. The picture of a couple who'd renewed their vows in a garden ceremony with their toddler son as ring bearer.
Maegor stood there for a moment, taking them in. His mama, with his silver-gold hair loose past his shoulders, his violet eyes tired but soft, his fair skin practically glowing even in the dim light. He was small- barely 5'6"- and at his second trimester, his stomach prominent and round beneath his silk pajamas, looking like a renaissance painting of a fertility goddess. He was impossibly beautiful even in discomfort, even with his reading glasses sliding down his nose, even with his feet tucked under his husband's leg like he needed the contact to feel anchored.
And his papa- Duncan, nearly seven feet of solid muscle even at forty, his dark blond hair threaded with silver, his tanned skin marked with old scars from his rugby days. He was a giant, a legend, a man who could lift all five of his children at once and had, on more than one occasion. Next to Aerion, he looked like a mountain beside a porcelain statue, and yet they fit together like block pieces, like two halves of the same whole.
Maegor himself was somewhere between them- six feet at sixteen and still growing, with his mama's silver-gold hair and fine features, but his papa's blue eyes and build. He towered over Aerion already, which his mother found endlessly amusing and slightly tragic, always reaching up to pat his cheek and sighing about how her baby was going to be a giant like papa.
"Mama," Maegor whispered.
Aerion looked up, smiled- then saw the album. The blood drained from his face. He mouthed "fuck" so perfectly that Maegor almost laughed. He then smack papa on his forehead- papa stirred, blinked, saw the album too. His expression went carefully blank.
"How much did you see?" Aerion asked, voice steady but hands trembling.
"All of it," Maegor admitted. "The parties. The... substances. Theoutfits." He paused. "The wedding. The part where you lied to Papa. And Grandfather." He paused again, something clicking into place. "The part where Grandfather was objecting. To you being together."
Duncan groaned, burying his face in Jae's hair. "Aerion, I told you to burn that."
"It was for keepsake, Duncan."
"It was evidence."
"It was ROMANTIC."
Maegor watched them bicker- his proper parents, squabbling like teenagers. Jae slept through it, drooling on Papa's shirt.
"You tricked him?" Maegor asked, still stuck on it. "And Granpa? You invited him to a wedding he didn't approve of, without telling him it was your wedding?"
Aerion lifted his chin, and for a moment, Maegor saw that old Aerion- that wild, dangerous creature from the photos. "I surprised them. There's a difference."
"You told me we were going to your cousin's wedding," Duncan muttered, though there was no heat in it. "You didn't specify which cousin."
"I don't have that much of many cousins! Valarr is already married, Matarys was young-"
"And Father?" Maegor pressed. "He didn't approve of Papa? Even after... everything?"
The wildness dimmed slightly. Aerion looked at Duncan, something soft and complicated passing between them. "Your grandfather is a... difficult man. He saw your papa as beneath me. As temporary. As someone who would drag me down rather than lift me up." He reached out, took Duncan's hand. "He was wrong. But he wouldn't listen. So I stopped asking him to listen."
"How did you even guys meet?" Maegor asked. "If you were so different? If Grandfather hated the idea?"
Aerion set down his book and patted the couch beside him. "Sit, love. It's a long story."
Maegor sat, the album between them like evidence at a trial.
"We met because of Egg," Aerion began. "Your annoying bald uncle. You know him- he's the one who always brings you those terrible sweets from abroad."
"Egg wanted to see a rugby match," Duncan continued. "He was obsessed with my team. Your mama was supposed to take him."
"I wanted to go to a concert," Aerion added. "I was furious about having to babysit. I showed up in leather and attitude, planning to drop Egg off and sneak out to smoke in the parking lot."
"But you didn't," Maegor said.
"I didn't," Aerion agreed. "Because I met your papa. And we hated each other immediately."
Maegor blinked. "What?"
"Oh yes," Aerion said, almost fondly. "I thought he was arrogant. Another jock who thought he deserved the world because he could throw a ball. He thought I was spoiled. Dangerous. A Targaryen who'd never worked a day in his life and looked down on everyone who did."
"We fought," Duncan said, grinning. "Every time we saw each other. Which was often, because Egg kept finding reasons to attend matches, and Aerion kept getting stuck babysitting him."
"Then what changed?" Maegor asked.
Aerion was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer. "There was a game. A rough one. Your papa's team was winning, and the other side was getting frustrated. I was walking Egg to the concessions- he wanted nachos- and this player, this massive alpha who'd been benched for foul play, came storming up the tunnel. He was furious. Looking for a fight. And he saw me."
Maegor felt his stomach tighten. "What happened?"
"He decided I looked like a good target," Aerion said simply. "He grabbed me. Shoved me against the wall. I was... I was scared, Maegor. Genuinely scared. I'd been in fights before, but this was different. This was someone who wanted to hurt me, and I was small, and Egg was screaming, and- "
"And I was there," Duncan finished. His voice had gone hard, protective, the way it always did when he talked about keeping his family safe. "I'd come looking for Egg- wanted to give him a signed jersey. And I saw that bastard with his hands on Aerion, and I just... reacted."
"You hit him," Maegor guessed.
"I broke his nose," Duncan corrected. "And two of his ribs. And I might have kept going if security hadn't pulled me off."
"He was magnificent," Aerion whispered. "Covered in blood- not his- and shaking with rage, standing between me and that monster like I was something worth protecting. Like I was something precious." He looked at Duncan with such naked love that Maegor had to look away. "No one had ever looked at me like that before. Like I mattered more than their own safety- his future."
"After that," Duncan said, "we stopped hating each other."
"After that," Aerion agreed, "we started falling in love. Slowly wit lots of arguments and misunderstandings and me being quite difficult." To which in Maegor’s peripheral vision sees his papa agree and his mama sneakily pinch his side and just snorted/
"And Grandfather?" Maegor asked. "He never approved?"
"He hates me with his utter being," Duncan said cheerfully. "With the fire of a thousand suns. For almost three years. Thought I was beneath your mama. Temporary. Someone who would drag him down."
"He came around when he realized I was pregnant with you," Aerion said. "The moment he held you- this not so tiny, perfect thing with my hair and Duncan's eyes- something in him just... broke. Or healed. He saw that we were happy. That you were loved. That I was finally, truly okay."
"That's why I'm surprised," Maegor admitted. "Grandpa has always been... he's always been Grandpa. Bringing me books. Teaching me chess. Telling me stories about the family history. I can't imagine him hating Papa."
"Oh, he hated me alright," Duncan said. "Until you were born. Then he did a complete one-eighty. Now he asks me for rugby tickets and investment advice."
"People change," Aerion said softly. "Even stubborn old Targaryens. Even wild omegas who think they're too broken to fix."
Maegor looked between them- this ridiculous, mismatched, perfect pair. His wild omega father who'd traded parties for bake sales but still kept that spark in his eyes, that willingness to burn the world down for love. His steady alpha father who'd been ambushed into matrimony and never looked back, who'd let Aerion have his spectacle and then demanded a do-over with their son as witness.
"So you're not..." Maegor gestured at the album. "Embarrassed? Ashamed? Worried I'll think less of you?"
Aerion's expression softened. He reached out, cupping his son’’s face with hands that smelled like lavender and home. "Maegor. I was a disaster at your age. I was a disaster at thirty. But I grew. Your papa helped me grow. That's not shameful- that's how life should function. As long as you live- there are several chances and do overs."
"And the wedding?" Duncan snorted. "Kid, if you find someone who loves you enough to trick you into forever? Marry them twice to make up for it." He kissed Aerion's temple. "Even if they deserve to be strangled with their own veil."
Maegor took the album back, flipped to the last page one more time. His papa's shocked face. His mama's triumphant smile. The chaos and joy and loveof it. The wedding ceremony he remembered suddenly sat in context- not a replacement, but a completion. A promise kept after a promise stolen.
"Can I borrow this?" he asked. "For uhm... research purposes."
"Absolutely not," Aerion said.
"Over my dead body," Duncan agreed.
They spoke simultaneously, then looked at each other in horror.
"Oh my god," Aerion breathed. "We've become the same person."
"You did this to me," Duncan accused and Aerion scoffed- offended.
"I improved you."
Maegor laughs, deep and genuine, feeling the vibration through his papa's chest, his mama's indignant huff. Yeah. This was them. All of them. The golden boy and the wild omega and the steady alpha and the five (soon to be six) kids between.
He stayed there until his eyes grew heavy, until the weight of the weekend- skate parks and homework and church and carburetors and movie nights- finally caught up with him. His papa's arm settled over his shoulders. His mama's hand found his hair, stroking like he was still small.
"Go to bed, love," Aerion murmured. "School tomorrow."
Maegor nodded, mumbled goodnight, left the album on the coffee table where his mother could reclaim it. He climbed the stairs in the dark, fell into his bed without changing clothes, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
✧ ✧ ✧
Downstairs, Duncan waited until he heard the creak of Maegor's bed settling, the soft sigh of a sixteen-year-old finally at rest. Then he looked at his husband, one eyebrow raised.
"The other albums," he said quietly. "And the CDs. Where are they?"
Aerion didn't pretend to misunderstand. He'd known the moment Maegor opened that particular album that the others- the ones from the early years, the ones with the rowdy the parties and the private moments- might be in danger of discovery.
"Bedroom closet," he said. "Behind the winter coats. In the box labeled 'Important docs 2012.'"
Duncan stared at him. "You kept our sex tapes in a box labeled important docs?"
"Who would look there?"
"Maegor is sixteen and curious and has now found one hidden album. He's going to tear this house apart looking for the rest."
Aerion had the grace to look slightly concerned. "You think?"
"I think," Duncan said, standing carefully so as not to wake Jaehaerys, "that I need to move them somewhere else. Somewhere with a lock. Several locks. Perhaps a safety deposit box."
"You're overreacting."
"I'm not taking any chances." Duncan shifted the sleeping child in his arms, leaned down to kiss his husband's forehead. "You are a menace, and I love you, and if our children ever see what we did in that hotel room in Palawan, I will blame you entirely."
"Fair," Aerion agreed. He stood, picked up the wedding album from the coffee table, and followed his husband up the stairs- past Maegor's quiet room, past the other sleeping children. They settled the youngest in his bed with his stuffed dragon, checked on the other boys- Arlan sprawled sideways, Daemon clutching a book as if his life depended on it, Aeryn with his glasses still on.
Duncan walk towards their bedroom, expecting Aerion to follow. But when he turned around, his husband was gone.
"Aerion?" he whispered, not wanting to wake the children.
He found him in the hallway, having ducked back downstairs. Aerion stood by the window in the moonlight, the wedding album clutched to his chest, looking at something in the distance.
"What is it?" Duncan asked, coming up behind him, his large hands settling on Aerion's shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tension there.
"I was just thinking," Aerion said softly, "about how scared I was. Back then. How convince that I was too broken to fix. That your love would be temporary because everything was temporary."
"And now?"
Aerion turned in his arms, looking up at his husband with violet eyes that still held shadows of that wild boy, but were softened now, grounded, home. "Now I'm five months pregnant with our sixth child, living in a house that's too big, married to a huge man who still looks at me like I'm the most precious thing in the world even when I'm bloated and hormonal and crying at dog food commercials."
"Especially then," Duncan rumbled.
Aerion smiled, slow and deliberate. "Take me to bed, alpha."
They climbed the stairs together, Duncan's hand on the small of Aerion's back, steadying him as he navigated the steps with his growing belly. In their bedroom, Duncan closed the door behind them, turning to say something about the closet and the tapes and perhaps installing a better lock system-
He stopped.
Aerion had set the album on the dresser and was slowly- deliberately- unbuttoning his silk pajama top. One button. Two. The fabric slipped off his shoulders, revealing porcelain skin and the prominent swell of his five-month pregnancy, round and glowing in the lamplight.
Duncan's breath caught. He stepped forward, reaching for his husband, but Aerion stepped back, a teasing smile playing at his lips.
"Close the door," Aerion whispers.
"It's closed," Duncan said, voice rough.
"Lock it."
Duncan reached back, turned the lock with a soft click that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet house.
Aerion let the pajama top fall completely, reaching for the waistband of his pants. He was all curves and glow, silver-gold hair cascading over shoulders that had carried five children and would soon carry a sixth. He looked like a fertility deity, like something ancient and sacred and his.
"You're a menace," Duncan rumbled, closing the distance between them, his large hands finding Aerion's waist, spanning around him easily, thumbs stroking over the curve of his belly.
"Your menace," Aerion corrected, letting Duncan pull him close, his own hands finding the buttons of Duncan's shirt.
From down the hall, if anyone had been awake, they might have heard the soft rustle, the low murmur of Duncan's voice saying something that made Aerion laugh- breathless, delighted, the sound muffled by the closed door and the solid wood and the love that filled the room like a physical thing.
Then silence, broken only by the creak of bedsprings, the whisper of skin on skin, and the quiet, intimate sounds of two people who had burned the world down to be together, and would happily do it again, and again, and again.