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When Aerion Targaryen was born an omega, with a shriek almost as powerful as his dam's anger when provoked, Valarr knew that that babe in his uncle’s arms would be his.
He had been nine-years-old then, but he knew it to be the truth and so it would be so.
It was never a matter of question nor doubt, even when his father hesitated at the notion. Baelor Breakspear, though beloved alpha heir, had incensed his parents when he eloped with Maekar, willing to carry his own father’s scorn on his shoulder but stubborn in his devotion.
Valarr had been too young to have any memory of that time, had still been a babe when his mother had died delivering his younger brother Matarys. He and Matarys had grown up at Maekar’s bosom just as their half-siblings did; it might have been Jena Dondarrion whose womb they came out of, but truthfully, there would only be one person they could call mother.
“Muña,” Valarr began softly by the bed, knowing better than to raise his voice. He remembered when Daeron was born: Maekar had always been a sullen man, but the shadows under his eyes then had been unnatural, his lips cracked and his skin pale as paper and cool as a corpse. His father had flicked him on the ear when Valarr had been careless with the door.
Your mother barely sleeps, his father had hissed, his anger barely perceptible through the cloak of stiff fear in his scent, be quiet or do not come at all. Valarr had sworn to keep still; he had only wanted to see his brother.
Aerion’s birth hadn’t been like Daeron’s; Maekar was brighter, face dark from temper rather than exhaustion, his lips cracked not from his lack of blood but from the screams and shouts he had filled the castle with just hours ago. His father, too, was more amused than he was fearful, answering to his brother’s every beck and call. Valarr had thought it funny, his father, the future king, flitting about like how a servant might.
“Valarr.” His mother’s stone-rigid features had softened at the sight of him. “Do you want to hold him?”
Valarr eagerly nodded and Maekar carefully but confidently placed his youngest brother in his arms. His mother didn’t linger, confident that Valarr, eldest of three—now four, and more to come—brothers, would know how to properly hold an infant.
Valarr stared at the babe in his arms with wonder. He was light, lighter and much smaller than Daeron had been, though it had been expected. The boy was an omega after all.
“His name is Aerion,” his mother explained.
“He’s pretty,” Valarr murmured, for it was true. Though he was not sure why. He had never thought babies to be particularly pleasant to look at. Daeron had been a crimson babe, red from head to toe, his scalp bare of any hair and his fists curled so tight Valarr had thought he was a living freshly-harvested tomato.
Aerion, though…
In his arms, tiny little Aerion cooed and Valarr had the sudden urge to reach out and pinch his baby brother’s fat, ruddy cheeks. He, too, was quite red, though there were already the pale wisps on the top of his head and his face wasn’t all scrunched up.
Valarr’s attention flicked to his father and found him already looking at them, eyes soft.
“Father.”
“Yes, Valarr?”
“Will I marry Aerion someday?”
The entire room went silent. His father gaped at him, but Valarr, unaware of the bewilderment his question had caused, only looked up at him expectantly.
“And…” his father began carefully, “why would you think that?”
Valarr’s brows furrowed, confused. “When you become king, I will be heir and every heir needs a wife.” His gaze lowered down to stare at Aerion. “And Aerion is my only omega brother.”
“You’re correct but… your wife doesn’t have to be your brother, Valarr.”
Valarr frowned. “Oh.” On the bed, his mother turned away, shoulders shaking in what must have been quiet laughter. “But why not?” His mother’s silent amusement had turned into hushed giggles then.
“Well…” His father’s gaze snapped over to his brother-wife, who only shook his head. “Why does your wife have to be Aerion?”
Valarr huddled Aerion close to his chest. “Because he’s mine.”
“Valarr, just because he is an omega does not necessarily mean he belongs to—”
“But mother is your brother!”
His father looked at Maekar helplessly, but his mother only shook his head, as though saying that this was his responsibility and not his own.
In his arms, Aerion gurgled and Valarr instinctively began rocking him, much like how he saw his mother and father cradle little Daeron to sleep when the maids couldn’t. But Aerion seemed to have no intention of sleeping, instead staring up at Valarr with his deep violet eyes with what must have been curiosity and wonder all the same.
It made Valarr’s heart flutter in his chest, but just as he opened his mouth to coo, Aerion threw up all over him.
Aerion was not the only Targaryen omega in his generation and neither was he the eldest.
There was Daemon, his uncle Rhaegel’s son. Pretty, soft-spoken, charming Daemon. Daemon with long, willow fingers and a fiddle that never left his side. He was closer to Valarr’s age, and perhaps a more appropriate match for a prince of Dragonstone. When he was younger, his father had flippantly said so as well, “Daemon is not much younger than you, and his father refuses to accept just any alpha for him… what do you think, Valarr?”
Had it been another omega, Valarr could have probably mustered up a polite smile at his father’s not-so-subtle attempts at matchmaking. But as it was, there was only one thing he was reminded of when he thought of his young cousin.
He remembered that early morning. It must have barely been a year since Aerion was born, Valarr at the flushed age of ten and Daemon barely more than a bright-eyed toddler—a year since Valarr had been so brazen as to already claim Aerion as his.
Daemon was cradled in his sire’s arms; it had stricken Valarr on how they seemed to share similar, if not the same, face, though young Daemon had none of his namesake’s musculature nor brawn, his own sharpness tamed by the warm gentleness he must have inherited from uncle Rhaegel.
“Uncle,” his father called out as they made their way towards the training grounds, hand pressed against Valarr’s back—gentle but solid, urging him forward. “Is that little Daemon?”
“Nephew,” the other alpha, Daemon, greeted coolly, “if it’s Rhaegel you seek, then I am afraid he is with the maesters. The trip to Kings Landing was not kind to his body.”
That seemed to make Valarr’s father pause, brows furrowing. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Daemon said simply, “the babe in his belly simply disagreed.”
The tension that had snuck itself across his father’s features disappeared almost immediately, a smirk snidely replacing his concern. “Again?”
Daemon shrugged and gave the other man an unimpressed look. “You tease, but I saw Maekar earlier today and he’s once more carrying. Your poor brother, do you not feel pity?”
Valarr vaguely had a feeling that he was rather too young to understand the nuance of the two alpha’s conversation and wisely kept quiet. If Daemon Blackfyre was interested, he would inquire and Valarr would speak. But he didn’t, so Valarr was silent.
“I’ve been meaning for a duel, actually.”
His father’s uncle bounced little Daemon in his arms. “Is the way you unhorsed me five years ago not enough to satisfy your itch?”
“Come now, uncle, it has been five years. You might beat me this time—let my eldest care for little Daemon here.” Baelor said, nudging Valarr towards his uncle. “Valarr has experience with his little brothers, I’m sure he can entertain your boy for a bit. Maybe a walk in the gardens?”
Daemon’s gaze briefly flicked over to Valarr—he looked disinterested, even disdainful—before returning back to the treasure in his arms. He seemed to hesitate.
“No need,” the older man said, before kneeling so his son could stand on his own feet. “I brought my son here so he can see the sparring.”
“Your son—?” Baelor Breakspear stared at the little boy then the boy’s father. “Is he not an omega?”
Daemon scoffed. “Of all people, I did not expect you to be a traditionalist. Does Maekar not ride during tourneys? Well, when he isn’t swollen with child.”
Valarr saw it as the dismissal it was and gently herded his cousin towards one of the many benches pressed against the walls. He watched the boy attentively, hands already extended in case he fell. Daeron had done it often enough, scraping his knees bloody and even bruising his chubby little arms, and while he never cried, he was an alpha, and little Daemon… well, if even one single tear fell from his eyes, he had a feeling that his cousin’s father would break his fingers. Or his legs. Or worse.
Valarr had a feeling that the older alpha did not like him. It made no sense, but a parent’s instinct was often irrational.
He hadn’t needed to worry, however, as Daemon climbed easily onto the bench beside him, his red dress unscratched. He was a quiet boy; oddly elegant in how he held himself despite his young age. It was almost unsettling, if nothing else.
Valarr was the eldest of several brothers, but looking down at little Daemon in front of him, he did not know what to say nor do. They were family but Daemon Blackfyre had insisted on taking uncle Rhaegel to his own castle near the shores of Blackwater, so they might raise their children away from the court’s scrutiny. It was the first time Valarr had ever seen and met the young Daemon.
It was when Valarr was wondering how to break the silence that the little omega suddenly turned towards him. And Valarr nearly had a little heart attack, for the boy’s eyes were exactly like his father’s.
“Kepa said your father wants me to be your wife,” little Daemon said. His voice was blunt and unfiltered, like a hammer to the nose. “But it won’t happen. Kepa thinks you’re weak and witless.”
Valarr stared at his little cousin, eyes wide and his mind blank. Frankly, he did not know whether to be offended or not. “And what do you think?”
Little Daemon cocked his head to the side, as though Valarr had asked a very strange question.
“I think…” Little Daemon brought his hand to his mouth and trailed off.
Regardless of what he would have said, it wouldn’t have mattered, for Daemon, with dresses so fine and jewelry so very queer, was also the son of a Blackfyre traitor.
Following Daemon Blackfyre’s failed rebellion, Valarr’s father had approached him with an offer. Valarr was fourteen years old, Aerion still a child at five.
“Maekar and I have come to a decision,” he had said, “we thought it wise to betroth you and Aerion.”
Valarr had smiled and only nodded politely, so as to not reveal his eagerness. After all, he doubted it had really been an easy decision for his father, but at that time, there had only been one thought in his mind.
Finally.
There was one night Valarr had woken to the shuffling of feet. It was too loud for a cutthroat with a dagger in hand, too quiet for a knight sent to wake him. And when he had opened his eyes, he had nearly jumped out of skin.
Silver-gold hair like a halo, violet eyes bright in the darkness like a cat’s.
“Aerion,” Valarr gasped out, too tired to even question how—and why—his brother was on his bed, looming over him, in naught but a loose nightgown that left nothing to the imagination.
He couldn’t see much in the night’s shadow but he could spy the vague outline of Aerion’s body. Thin and flat as any other child but already, Aerion was growing into his shape, his waist flaring into wider hips as the babyfat in his cheeks drifted into his thighs. He had yet to have his first heat, but gods, Valarr could guess how the court would react to him.
He dreaded it.
Aerion crept up towards him, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he shuffled closer and closer until he was practically in Valarr’s lap.
“Did you have a nightmare?” Valarr said, tongue thick in his mouth, still half-asleep.
Aerion blinked at him, like a cat, before wordlessly settling and curling up against his chest.
Valarr felt the corner of his mouth tick, hands carefully bracing against Aerion’s hip and back so he was more comfortable. It was Daeron Aerion often went to for comfort during the night; Valarr didn’t particularly like that, though he couldn’t exactly scorn Daeron for it. They were much closer in age and Valarr could imagine that Aerion found easier comfort in the younger alpha.
Though, Aerion did occasionally come to him. It would always make Valarr forget whatever irritation he held for Daeron, because who could look at Aerion and not think about how adorable he was?
The next morning, Valarr woke up warm and comfortable, the scent of cinnamon heavy in his mind. He leaned towards the smell—sweet, familiar and so very omega—and found himself pressed deeper against Aerion’s neck, where the scent was strongest.
He laid there for a long while, lost in Aerion’s warmth and devouring his little brother’s affections when the memories from the night came rushing back in.
Even with his eyes closed, the sun pouring through the windows was blinding. He struggled against the brightness and urged himself to wake up.
Aerion was still sleeping in his arms, pale lashes brushing against his chubby cheeks, breathing softly against his collar.
Valarr ran his fingers through his little brother’s sleep-mussed locks. They were sleek in his hands, silky-smooth and smelled of those oils the maids no doubt used on his hair to keep them as soft as possible. Aerion was adorable, fitting so perfectly against him Valarr almost didn’t want him to grow anymore.
Aerion began to stir and Valarr’s lips twitched, ready to ease him into wakefulness.
But whatever he had intended to say died immediately on his tongue.
There was crimson splattered all over Aerion’s gown. Dark, almost brown, crusted over. Blood.
Valarr’s breath hitched and before he could even think about it, he gathered Aerion in his arms and ran out of the room.
Uncaring of his state of undress, Valarr rushed to the maesters, heart thundering in his chest and sending his blood boiling. In his arms, Aerion had fully woken from the sudden movement. His soft, confused whines spurred him faster on his feet and the bleary-eyed maesters had jumped at the sight of them both at the door.
Valarr had shed his usual politeness and almost scratched at one of the old men when he moved too slowly for his liking.
It didn’t take long for the maesters to determine that the blood wasn’t Aerion’s. He had no cuts, half-healed or otherwise, his skin unblemished and one swipe with a wet cloth was enough to clean the dried blood beneath his nails.
Valarr was so relieved that he simply did not think to concern himself with the blood’s source, though the maesters seemed satisfied with only giving them weary looks. Aerion was safe, he was unharmed and he was even amused; that was all that mattered.
Later that morning, the shriek of Aerion’s Septa—a source of much of Aerion’s many irritations—could be heard across the castle, the mutilated body of her pet bunny hanging by her door.
The betrothal was kept a secret from everyone but the king, the queen, Valarr and his parents, even Aerion was not told in order to keep him away from those who did not wish them well.
It was only when Aerion was fifteen, right after his first heat and during the celebration to honor Aerion’s coming-of-age, that the intention was made. Valarr was already much older, already twenty-four, yet still unwed with neither bastard nor lover to show his lusts. It would always make many raise their eyebrows; it was rare for a nobleborn, much less an heir’s heir, to still be unwed for so long.
The betrothal’s announcement hadn’t stopped many nobles—both Westerosi and Essosi—from foisting their omega children onto Valarr in many attempts to draw his gaze. It was a frustrating time, and even if Valarr had taken well to one of them, he doubted his father would break the nearly decade-long betrothal and shame his only omega child. He and Aerion were, above all else, still brothers. Not to mention, Maekar would have had both of them sent to Dragonstone in exile, and his father would let him.
Valarr hadn’t known of Aerion’s true feelings of the betrothal, unusually enigmatic during the first few months after the announcement. It worried Valarr—only slightly however, as Aerion still came to him when he wanted attention or comfort, ever so capricious even with his future husband. Valarr would find out what it was that seemed to trouble him a year later.
Aerion had snuck into his rooms, brows knitted, mouth pursed into a scowl and his eyes burning.
Valarr had yet to settle abed, had scarcely been out of his formal attire when he caught his brother by the door. He had immediately stood up, abandoning the letters at his desk and letting ink ruin whatever he was writing.
“Aerion!” he called, heart shooting up to his throat. “What are you—is something wrong?”
“Many alphas take lovers,” Aerion said.
“What is the matter, sweetling?” Valarr said, trying not to die a little inside when Aerion deliberately shifted away from his hand.
“Perhaps you are not like them at all,” he continued, unfazed, “or mayhaps you were simply lucky that I have yet to catch you with someone else.”
Valarr couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up from his chest. “I have no lovers, Aerion,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” Valarr brushed his knuckles across Aerion’s pale, reddened cheeks. “In fact, I can tell you that I have yet to bed anyone. If you do not believe me, ask father, he will tell you that I have spent even all my ruts alone.”
For a moment, the fire in Aerion’s eyes flickered into a softer glow, his scowl twitching into a slight smile. It made him look younger, made him look like what he had once been when he was but a babe who could only gurgle and laugh when Valarr made faces at him. Then Aerion looked down and his fine, pretty features tightened, gaze as hard as obsidian and as sharp as a blade.
“If you so much as touch another, I will cry to kepa that you have betrayed me,” he said, “If you even dare to look at another omega, I will break the promise and marry Daeron.”
The proclamation was ridiculous, a mockery of their betrothal, a childish threat that most would laugh off and assume its joking nature.
But Valarr believed him.
Wholly and utterly.
“You play the fiddle well, cousin,” Valarr said, voice cutting through the soft melody singing through the hall.
Immediately, at the sight of him, every alpha sniffing at Daemon’s skirts flinched, their arrested eyes tearing away from how they yearningly gazed at Daemon to look at Valarr, guilty as any green thief caught red-handed. They all scrambled to their feet, made their quiet excuses and ran off, tails tucked between their legs.
Valarr slid into the cushioned seat beside his cousin, who looked at him owlishly through his thick, white lashes.
“That was rather rude,” Daemon said, words accusing but voice sweet as honey.
“Where is Ser Willem?” Valarr said instead, spying neither hide nor scent of the man. Valarr made a mental reminder to report this to his father; Grandfather did not like having Daemon unguarded and exposed, Valarr agreed, but he suspected they had completely different reasons.
Daemon shrugged. “Well, the Kingsguard are oathbound to protect those of our blood, but they are still humans with human needs, no?”
Valarr felt his hand twitch. “That is no excuse to leave an omega prince alone,” he said, casting a disdainful glance at the hall where the alphas at Daemon’s feet had scurried away. “What if something were to happen to you? There must always be someone with you.”
“Isn’t that why I have you, cousin?” Daemon purred, his scent of oranges and limes intoxicating. Valarr’s breath hitched when the omega wrapped a delicate hand around his thigh. He had the urge to throw the omega off him—for, surely, he knew—but he forced his hand to stay. He shouldn’t and wouldn’t treat his omega cousin that way.
“Daemon—”
“Hmm?” The omega leaned over until his hair was practically blanketing Valarr’s right shoulder. He smiled so sweetly Valarr had the very unkind thought of standing and running away.
His cousin was comely, beautiful, with a face alphas would go to war for. And for most had eyes, they, too, noticed him. The way foreign alphas came begging at their grandfather’s feet, how even some of the Kingsguard’s gaze wandered whenever he came close, and how Aerion frowned at the mere sight or hide of their cousin, a snarl always lying restlessly in his jaws.
“I thought I smelled desperation in the air,” a venomous voice burned clean through the air, and Valarr felt himself relax, if only slightly.
Aerion pointedly poured himself into the small space in between Valarr and Daemon, who he shoved and kicked at.
If Daemon was a lovely flower during a balmy spring, Aerion was the first snow right before a bitter winter. As wicked as he was pretty, as temperamental as a summer storm.
They were both so very beautiful, but Valarr knew better than to compare them. The gods knew how much offense Aerion would take to that, how much Daemon would delight in his irritation. And Valarr would rather not get bitten on the jaw: Aerion was always much more charming and malleable when he was pleased, and that often meant in him not seeing Daemon at all.
Maekar had been close to Uncle Rhaegel, having been the only two omegas in their family then, but their two omega sons couldn’t be any more different from each other. Valarr couldn’t claim to know what exactly could cause such hostility between them when their own mothers had loved one another as most brothers should.
Daemon hummed. “I often forget that you are still a child, ever so eager for big brother’s attention.”
“And you never clung to your brothers?” Aerion smiled venomously. “Oh wait… my apologies, I forgot, they’re with daddy dearest.” Down under—not even burned, but buried.
Daemon’s ever-amiable grin twitched.
Valarr felt a shudder drag down his spine. Had Daemon’s father been successful in his rebellion, Daemon would have no doubt been an heir’s betrothed, his eldest brother Aegon’s future mate—just as Aerion was Valarr’s. In this world, however, the Black Dragon’s twin alpha sons, Aegon and Aemon, were dead, and Daemon was kept away under lock and key, so Aegor Bittersteel would not be able to spirit him away like his other siblings (in another world, would this have been their fate too?).
A reflection as much as a mirror, he thought.
“I have never felt the need to cling nor stalk,” Daemon said, voice dangerously even. “I trust the ones who love me to chase me rather than the other way around.”
“Oh, how odd then, how you are always so alone.”
Valarr winced, but he didn’t interfere. Wouldn’t and shouldn’t.
Daemon cocked his head to the side, his smile widening as he turned his eyes towards Valarr. “Why would I need anyone else if lēkia is here for me?”
Aerion growled and Valarr quickly wrapped a hand around his wrist before he could actually jump at their cousin and bite him. It would have been more acceptable, really; Aerion and Daemon were both omegas, roughly the same age, the same looks. Targaryen omegas were not bound by what the Seven considered appropriate of their gender.
Thankfully, whether by chance or interference from the gods, it was then that Ser Willem Wylde materialized at the end of the hall, his easy footsteps turning hurried when he saw Valarr.
He was lucky that Aerion needed to be calmed; Valarr would have had choice words with the man otherwise.
“Ser Willem,” Valarr intoned carefully. “Why don’t you escort Daemon to the gardens? I’ve heard that uncle Rhaegel’s roses have bloomed.”
Mercifully, Daemon took the hint for what it was and stood up, dusting off invisible stains on his skirts. He took to Ser Willem’s arm and let himself be led away from them, never once looking back.
When they were alone, Valarr curled a hand around Aerion’s waist, fingers digging into the fat there.
“You and our cousin,” Valarr began, “you two almost seem like dragons scowling at one another.”
Aerion glared at him. “I don’t like how he looks at you.”
Ah.
Well, it wasn’t so much a surprise for the reason as it was a shock that Aerion even confessed.
“Aerion.”
“That whore wants to steal you,” the omega said, “I can smell that cunt’s slick whenever he comes near you.” Valarr barely blinked at his little brother’s crass language. He had heard much worse pour out of his filthy tongue.
“Do you not trust me?” Valarr said, half-amused.
Most alphas his age had already whetted their appetite with whores, maids, commoners they thought pretty enough. But not Valarr.
Valarr would not be obtuse enough to claim that the idea had never tempted him, especially during his ruts when his cock was rock hard and urging him to bury himself in the first cunt he saw, but one look at Aerion was enough to dash away all sinful thoughts. It never failed to make him feel disgust and guilt, so much so Valarr often went off to bring Aerion something—a sweet, an exotic fruit, a new dress, a new dagger—just so he might wash himself of the shame.
(There was also that flesh-reaving fear that Aerion could read his mind, the fear that Aerion would make good on his promise.)
Aerion blinked owlishly at him. “Perhaps I do, but I do not trust that slut,” he said, “I know omegas like him; he’s like that Tyroshi cunt promised to Matarys, eager for a crown, desperate to be queen. They forget their place, they forget that I am to be queen and no one else—they forget that you are mine, lēkia.”
Valarr chuckled at the possessiveness in his brother’s voice.
Valarr couldn’t imagine Daemon in his bed, beautiful as he was with his silver-gold hair and dark purple eyes. And Valarr didn’t think anyone else could, especially not their grandfather. Daeron the First was even less likely to approve of that thought than the match Aerion and Valarr made, not after the Blackfyre Rebellion Daemon the Younger’s father had attempted.
(A throne so deeply contested by his bastard siblings… promising one of his omega sons to a brother who had designs for a crown that did not belong to him… several young children that were both the children of a traitor and his own grandchildren…
Many things could be judged of his grandfather’s character, but naive and foolish he was not. Valarr did not envy him at all, nor the throne he sat upon. Sometimes he prayed Aerion could give him an alpha son or daughter before he was to wear the crown.)
Valarr suspected—no, he knew—their grandfather willingly destroyed any betrothal contracts for Daemon. It could make no sense otherwise—Daemon, as eldest omega, should have been promised before Aerion, but he wasn’t, and here he lived. A maiden, fiercely guarded, without an alpha to sweep him off his feet in a few months time.
“You are very sweet, Aerion,” Valarr crooned, tugging him into his lap. “Do you assume that I stray so easily?”
Aerion’s lips curled into a glower, though Valarr thought it resembled more of a pout. “You have eyes,” he said, “and you entertain Daemon.”
Valarr brushed a hand against the swell of Aerion’s rump. “Daemon is our cousin, the only other omega in our generation, Aerion.” He knew better than to remark that had Daemon been his betrothed instead and Aerion the omega cousin, he would have treated him similarly. “He is uncle Rhaegel’s child, he is a dragon just like us. I cannot treat him like he is some common tramp. I must show him respect as eldest alpha. Do I need to remind you that I am as much a maiden as you are, sweetling?”
Aerion’s nose scrunched up adorably. “When I am queen, Daemon will wish he was never born.”
“When we marry,” Aerion began, long, slim fingers hooking onto Valarr’s loose collar. He was a pleasantly warm weight against him. “I will name our firstborn alpha Maegor. Then, you will give me an omega son, so I can name him Aenys.”
Then they will marry, Valarr guessed, Aerion would not allow anything else. Aerion had always been fascinated by Maegor the Cruel’s ‘devotion’ to his omega brother; Valarr had learned very quickly not to mention their ancestor’s many wives following Aenys’ death though (especially not the fact that the great hero Maegor the Cruel had substituted his dead omega with Viserys, Aenys’ omega son by his first husband Alyssa—or possibly even by Maegor, if rumors were to be believed. Scandalous even by their own standards).
“What if our firstborn alpha is a daughter?”
“Then she will be called Rhaenyra.”
“Is that so?” Valarr mused. “Then I suppose she shall marry little Aenys when they are old enough?”
Aerion’s brows knitted together. “No, because you will give me an omega daughter instead. Laena.”
Valarr stifled the chuckle in his chest. If only that were easy.
Aerion was a student of history certainly, just simply not the same way as Valarr was. Many things could be said of Aerion’s fancies but he did love his love stories, however… questionable some of them were. It was cute.
At the very least Rhaenyra and Laena would be significantly more acceptable than Maegor and Aenys. He didn’t think their mother would like either regardless, however.
It would herald conflict, Valarr could already imagine the protests, names had power, theirs would beget chaos.
And Valarr agreed with them.
Aerion could name all their spare children whatever he wanted, but their heir could not be named Rhaenyra nor Maegor—not with the darkness, death and blood they had brought during the height of their power.
Valarr felt exhaustion dig into his body, wrapping around his ankles and lashing at his arms.
He tucked a stray white hair behind Aerion’s ear.
He just had to find a way to convince the little brat that Valerion (a mixture of both their names, to stoke Aerion’s ever-present prickly pride and eccentric ego. No king had ever borne the name but there was a first for everything) or Rhaena (called the Wise, the Old King, the Conciliator, among many other names. Aenys’ eldest; her reign was a peaceful but stern one) might suit them far better.
Valarr had come down with a mild sickness during the last leg of their journey to Ashford. It wasn’t intense enough for their delegation to stop and return to King’s Landing, but it was enough for their mother to insist that Valarr take one of the carriages where Aerion had made his nest.
He made for very poor company and Aerion often went off with Daeron instead so he might be entertained. Valarr couldn’t say he blamed him, though it made his hackles rise when he was told by the servants attending to him. Daeron shouldn’t feel like a threat; he was a drunk and liked his whores as much as he liked his alcohol. Two things Aerion hated and had forbidden in Valarr. But… Daeron had always held a soft spot for Aerion, he knew. Around Aerion, he did not whore nor drink, he did not give into vices as much and did not wake up in cold sweats from the dreams that had been plaguing him since his birth. Daeron was at his most normal around Aerion.
Aerion would have made him better, Valarr thought vaguely. If he was a better brother, he would have told his parents so, would have insisted that they could marry, but Valarr was a selfish man. Regardless, both his parents knew Aerion could ‘tame’ Daeron, they were neither fools nor blind, but the decision had been made to make their only omega child future queen.
When they had reached Ashford Castle, Valarr was well enough to ride his own horse, though his mother hovered by his side, however worried he was with his other two missing sons. After dinner with their hosts the Ashfords, he had even insisted on Valarr taking a chamber in the castle rather than setting up his tents alongside the others who were meant to participate in the lists.
“At least for one night,” Maekar had said, “will you not entertain your weary mother for at least today?”
And Valarr was very much his father’s son: unable to say no to the omegas in their family.
Valarr wondered if he had done it mostly to distract himself from worrying endlessly for Daeron and Aegon; it wasn’t unpleasant, though. He was the eldest of the siblings and ensured that neither his parents worried too much for him. It had been a long while since he had been the center of attention for either of them.
He retired to bed way earlier than he would have done had he been at the Red Keep, exhaustion from the long days on the road and the sudden bout of sickness finally settling into his body.
He had already dozed off when the doors to the guest chamber opened.
Valarr was taught to always wake at the slightest sound; he was yet crown prince, but he was the crown prince’s heir. Many salivated at the thought of his death, perhaps even one of his siblings, were they ambitious enough. But it wasn’t the first time (nor will it be the last) that Aerion had slipped past the guards and crawled into bed beside him. The omega, it seemed, had made a frequent habit of it—Valarr would question why, but he knew it would only make the temperamental omega sulk and avoid him.
Some would call the behavior inappropriate but Valarr didn’t mind, nor did his parents for they knew their eldest would not shame his younger brother so.
It happened so often it became a given every night; if he didn’t wake with Aerion cocooned against his shoulder, he would still be able to taste the familiar scent of mint and cinnamon on his tongue, the mattress beside him still warm from another body pressed against his.
Rarely did he ever wake anymore to Aerion slipping into his rightful place, soft chest flush against his arm, nose pressed where Valarr’s scent was most potent, thick, creamy thighs curling around his much sturdier legs.
But that night, Valarr did.
He didn’t think much of it. His eyes still closed and his hazy mind treading lightly between the realms of dreams and the waking world, Valarr groaned, taking a firm hand around his betrothed’s thigh, the soft, supple flesh yielding easily beneath his fingers. His hand slid up, relishing in the generous curve of Aerion’s ass and the obscene way it filled his palm.
So perfect, so pretty… This beautiful creature of death and destruction—this seductive siren who made his most delicious nightmares true and his pulse-quickening dreams undying… His. His brother. His cousin. His omega.
Valarr nuzzled against Aerion’s ear, breathing in the gasp that escaped his omega’s lips. Sweet, rich on the tongue and—alpha.
Valarr stiffened, eyes blowing wide as saucers, jolting up and away from the scent. His blood burned and the growl that split through his throat shook the bed. It was not their father’s scent (too wild), not Matarys’ (he wouldn’t touch what wasn’t his), nor Daeron’s (too earthy), and Aegon was too young, his alpha scent far too weak.
A strange alpha scent on his omega. Who? Who dared—
Aerion was smirking at him, violet eyes twinkling with mischief. “You look like you have seen a ghost, alpha,” he crooned. Teasing. As if there was nothing wrong. As if there was no other alpha scent clinging to his delicate omega body.
Valarr bared down on him, flipping them so Aerion was now beneath him, fists curled around Aerion’s thin wrists. Valarr expected him to struggle but Aerion only laughed, eyes blown wide and his breathing heavy.
“Omega,” Valarr hissed, his instincts pressing into his mind, chest already rumbling.
“Alpha,” Aerion gasped, a crimson flush brushing the high hills of his cheeks.
“You… you smell—” Valarr’s tongue betrayed him when Aerion hooked a leg around his hip. His entire body still, his raging blood freezing in his veins and suddenly, he was thrust back into his brain.
“You’re quite attractive like this,” Aerion hummed, strong thighs pulling him closer until they were pressed together where it mattered.
His eyes falling on Aerion’s bare, milk-white neck, Valarr sucked in an unsteady breath. His teeth ached, the urge to bite and claim Aerion surging through his muscles. It would be easy; Maekar had ensured that Aerion was trained, as Daemon had been trained by his own traitor father, but Valarr was stronger than him, bigger and much more experienced in the art of war. Furthermore, Aerion was already his.
He could imagine it. Aerions’ neck crimson from a claim. Hips bruised. Virgin cunt dripping with his alpha’s seed. And their father’s fist connecting with Valarr’s nose; hot blood, bones broken, growls, a dragon’s rage.
How could you dishonor your brother? Baelor Breakspear’s voice, barely more than a deep, booming growl. How could you prey on your own brother, Valarr!
Valarr let go of Aerion’s wrists and took a deep, heavy breath, schooling his features and letting the lava in his heart cool.
“Who is it, Aerion?” Valarr said, biting down on the darkness creeping into his tone. “Do not play with me; who is it?”
Aerion giggled. “Oh, he is quite eye-catching,” he said, cocking his head to the side and exposing the pale, unblemished columns of his neck. Valarr felt his mouth water. “You will know him once you see him.”
The growl had crept up his throat before Valarr noticed; most would have cowered, bared their necks in submission and begged for forgiveness. But Aerion wasn’t most people, and he would never bow.
Valarr had fully planned on finding the enterprising alpha that morning, but who knew he would be delivered so easily on his lap?
He was dragged in by the White Cloaks just as they were meant to break their fast.
Valarr smelled him before he caught sight of the other alpha, and the anger, the alpha-reek of jealousy that had been mostly subdued by a pleasant night’s sleep with Aerion in his arms came rushing back into him at full force.
He quickly tamped down on the fire, though he must not have been able to do it quickly enough as his father shot him a look. Mostly confused but quite curious.
One of the White Cloaks pushed the boy—because he was a boy. Valarr could even guess that Aerion had a few years over him—towards them, urging him to a bow.
“That’s the boy who found you, Aegon?” Maekar asked, shooting a fierce glare at his youngest alpha before shifting his look at Aerion. “The boy who helped you?”
“Yes, muña,” both Aerion and Aegon said at the same time. If it had been any other day, Valarr would find that amusing.
Their mother’s hard features twisted into a scowl. “A hedge knight? With nothing to his name but a rope for a sword belt and ill-fitting clothes?” He dragged a hand over his face. “Why have the gods given me children who do nothing but give me headaches?”
His father chuckled. “Come now, brother, we should thank this knight for his services. Without him, it would have taken longer to find our sons,” he said, turning mismatched eyes on the boy. “What’s your name, Ser?”
“Dunk… Duncan the Tall, m’lord,” the rough-spun knight stuttered, voice unusually small despite how he might have seemed.
It made Valarr pause, as did his stature and the address. It was wrong; he was wrong. He was taller and bigger than most alphas Valarr had ever seen, but it was not enough to throttle the simmering embers in his body, especially not when the boy kept glancing at Valarr’s left, at Aerion.
Curling a possessive hand around Aerion’s knee under the table and throwing his father a glance, Valarr forced himself to breathe before he could do something he would regret. He was an alpha, a protector as much as he was a warrior. He could not simply jump at anything his hind brain saw as a threat. He must be calm, must be cool in body and brain before he could make any choice.
His father had taught him so; he was an alpha and thus it meant he could not abuse the control he could have on people.
It was why Valarr rarely showed much of his temper; it was something he had leashed tight and there were not many who had ever witnessed it. In a lot of ways, Valarr almost thought it only existed in his dreams, a monster he had groomed into a creature significantly more acceptable. But Aerion affected him in ways most could only imagine, in ways that baited his alpha forward, in ways that would have his fangs dripping with need.
“Muña, he promised he would make me his squire,” Aegon suddenly piped up, his eyes bright.
And Valarr almost felt pity for the other boy.
Almost.
“What?!”
“He said he would do it if I did as he bid!” Aegon bulled on, much too eager to having found a knight willing to take him on to notice the storm descending across their mother’s twitching brows. “And I’ve done as he has told me… until Ser Donnel dragged me off!”
“And thank the gods for that,” their mother said. “What are you thinking, boy?! You are already your brother’s squire!”
“Daeron is barely a knight, mama, he’s done nothing but drink since we’ve come here!” Not one to take offense, Daeron merely grinned at that. “I want a proper knight!”
“Do not insult your brother in such a way, Aegon!” his mother said, “he is much more of a proper knight than that—”
“Ser Duncan the Tall is a proper knight, mama,” Aerion drawled, sharp purple eyes trained on the man of his attentions. Ser Duncan just seemed very confused throughout it all. “He never once disrespected nor threatened with rape when he saw me… all alone, lost in a place I did not know. In fact, he had guided me to where Ser Roland eventually found me.” Every eye in the room snapped to Aerion. Their parents looked at their son as though he had lost his head. “A false knight would have had their way with me.”
Valarr almost bit off his tongue.
Their father nodded with a slight smile, though there was an unmistakable weariness in his movements; it was not often—moreso never, in truth—Aerion would willingly stand up for a commoner he barely knew.
“Quite so,” their father said, “he is a proper lad, could become a well-enough knight with some training… and new armor, mayhaps.”
Their mother went red in the face. “Baelor, you will not let our son—my son serve some good-for-nothing—”
“We could take him in as a household knight,” Aerion said airily, “if Aegon over there is so weak as to not brave the wilderness—”
“No,” the word came unbidden through Valarr’s lips, and he almost startled himself at the quickness of his own answer. Valarr stared at Aerion. “We barely know the boy; he could be a thief, a liar or worse.”
“Oh?” Aerion smiled at him, his lips set into an entirely too-smug amusement.
“Ser Duncan is none of those things, lēkia,” Aegon defended boldly. “He shared his food with me even when he had so little, helped me with my sword drills and listened to me when I talked!”
“Gods, what an honorable man, deigning to listen to what a prince of the blood had to say,” Daeron said sarcastically, voice unusually steady, “a true paragon of virtue.”
Aegon scowled, his impudent tongue already at the ready, but Valarr cut in. “Many a horrible men are charming,” he said, “simple kindness means nothing, brother, you must know this. Especially since he had not known who you were.” Aegon looked at him, his glare and scowl softening into confusion and a flicker of betrayed sorrow. Valarr almost always supported whatever it was he endeavored for. “We know nothing of him, why should we take in some unknown vagrant?”
“I squired for Ser Arlan of Pennytree, m’lords, he took me in. I’m not a vagrant, m’lord.”
“Your Grace,” Valarr corrected firmly, feeling a sadistic pleasure in seeing the boy flinch. “You refer to us as Your Grace.”
“Yes, of course, as you say—I only meant… no,” Ser Duncan stumbled, red rising to his cheeks. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Valarr could feel his father boring holes into the side of his head, could feel Aerion’s smile, his stare, the heat of what was clearly mirth. Valarr kept his gaze pinned on the hedge knight before him.
“Arlan of Pennytree?” his father wondered out loud. “A rather familiar name, though…”
The boy dared a look at their father. “He told me that he had faced you during a tourney at Storm’s End, he said that he had broken seven lances against you, m’lor—I mean, Your Grace.”
Their father suddenly brightened. “Ah, yes, of course, though it was four lances, not seven. Stories have a very curious attribute of growing with each mouth that speaks of it.”
“How is it that you remember someone like that?”
Their father patted their mother’s hand almost placatingly. “Brother, Ser Arlan was impossible to forget. It is rare that there are any knights who can challenge me in a joust, except for you, dear, of course.”
Their mother frowned at that, but Valarr could see the telltale sign of reluctant acquiescence. (There were not very many things Aegon was denied of. A large boy, who looked more like a freak in a mummer’s troupe, playing the role of a hedge knight would be no different.
It was only a pity that it just had to be that damned knight who dared to impose his stink on someone who already belonged to another.)
Later, as the last dishes were served, Aerion curled a hand around Valarr’s arm, cheek pressed against his bicep. He hummed a small tune under his breath, quite pleased with himself. Valarr let him, ignoring the very unsubtle glances Aegon’s hedge knight was throwing at them.
They would soon wed. Better now to show everyone that Aerion was his and only his.