Chapter Text
After eight children (a number that had made his mother, Myriah, sweat), Maekar never would have guessed that it would be Aerion who would give him the most headaches.
In hindsight, it should have been obvious.
Maekar was not a typical omega. Whereas most omegas were short, small and pretty, Maekar was tall and broad with a pockmarked face that left much to be desired (Baelor would disagree, of course, but Maekar knew never to trust his brother-husband's bias for truth. Baelor was many things, but when it came to his omega and family, he was incredibly hopeless). He never ‘competed’ with other omegas for other alphas’ attention, and he grew up frequently sharing a nest with Rhaegel rather than finding a rival within him.
Those dramatic scenes in those horrid movies where omegas clawed and pulled at each others’ hairs, crying out about how the other stole their alpha or some such—were foreign concepts to him. (Maekar was, of course, not deluded enough to think he didn’t give his own parents similar enough conniptions, because he did. But instead of sore scalps and jealous hysterics, it ended with split lips and bloodied knuckles, because alphas were stinky pieces of caveman-shits and Maekar did not tolerate being picked on—would still beat someone to a pulp if it came down to it, though Baelor, annoyingly, often got to them first before anything else, his posture so straight and smile so innocent you would have never guessed that he had just ruined someone’s life then and there.)
Aerion, however, was his exact opposite. From the moment he was born, he was beautiful, and Maekar knew he would only grow into it.
Maekar was, admittedly, relieved. There were expectations that came with being an omega; Maekar would never force them onto Aerion, of course, but the world was not kind. The gods knew the kind of horseshit Maekar had been put through because he did not fit into that desired omega mold, nevermind that he was a Targaryen and richer than everyone who had ever dared to sneer at him. Maekar was used to it, having crawled through all the shit and muck because he knew he would fall and die otherwise. It was a necessary job, regardless of how much Baelor tried to shield him from everything.
Maekar would never wish such a thing on anyone, let alone his own son.
But by the seven hells, Maekar had expected Aerion to grow up like Rhaegel, sweet and soft-hearted, deserving of a knight in shining armor (well, preferably not a ‘knight’ like their uncle Daemon), not… this.
Maekar pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at his only omega son before him.
He was beautiful, unnaturally so. All silver-blond locks, big, precious purple eyes beneath pale lashes. He preferred skirts to trousers, lips always plush with some expensive lip gloss and his high-boned cheeks flushed from a cherry-colored blush—Maekar had never been interested in such ‘vain’ things, but it was not as though Aerion ever needed his permission nor approval; Aerion was sly enough to come begging to Baelor whenever an entire ‘makeup collection’ caught his fancy and Maekar’s fool of a husband could never say no to their only omega baby.
(Maekar had once stared at Baelor when he caught the alpha surrendering his Black Wex to their flighty omega son, with nary a trace of hesitation nor guilt.
Baelor had held up his hands in defense.
“Let our boy indulge himself, sweetling,” he had said, “it’s hurting no one.”
Maekar nearly throttled his brother right then and there.)
“What is this about the Lannisters’ boy getting his dress stained by a wayward wine glass?” Maekar asked carefully.
Just a day ago, a hysterical Damon Lannister had called, screeching about how his beloved Tybolt’s expensive, custom design white dress had been ruined during a gala—the same gala that Aerion had been insisting on going for the past few weeks.
“He was humiliated, Maekar!” Damon had said, crying into the phone. “My precious Tybolt… oh gods, he came home sobbing and refused to even come out of his room!”
Damon Lannister, a high-society omega just like Maekar, was not crude enough to accuse anyone of directly causing his son’s plight, but the implication was very much there.
In truth, however, Maekar could already guess what had happened the moment he saw Damon Lannister’s name flashing on his phone. Aerion had been a little bit too chipper when he had come home; Valarr had said nothing, nor implied anything of note, but like Baelor, his chivalrous and polite Valarr was utterly useless when it came to Aerion.
“Well?” Maekar prodded.
Aerion smiled. It was a demure little thing; sweet and so very soft that if Maekar hadn’t known better, he would have assumed his son’s innocence.
But Maekar was his mother and he was no idiot. Aerion was the bane of every horny alpha’s existence and the envy of any jealous omega who caught sight of him. The brat knew it. Lived it. Breathed it. Delighted in it.
“Oh, mama,” Aerion said, “it was awful, truly. If only I could have done something to help. It was truly tragic.”
Maekar raised an eyebrow. The way his son spoke the lie was sweet, but only a fool (Baelor) would take them by word alone.
“Yes, I’ve heard from his mother. Truly tragic,” Maekar echoed Aerion’s words. “Someone had purposely thrown wine at the poor boy’s clothes, left his pretty gown ruined. The poor thing was inconsolable, so his mother said.”
Aerion nodded eagerly as though he, too, mourned the loss of Tybolt’s dress. Maekar honestly couldn’t tell where Aerion inherited his demeanor from—it was certainly not from him. “An unfortunate tragedy. Shall we send flowers?”
“Perhaps a note as well,” Maekar suggested
Aerion blinked and cocked his head to the side. “A note?”
Maekar glared at his son, steeling his features. There were very, very few people who would ever stand up to his dear boy, either because they didn’t dare or because they couldn’t see the menace wearing Aerion’s skin—or both (again, Baelor).
“Yes, a note,” Maekar said, lowering his voice. “Handwritten and hand delivered—don’t you even try asking Valarr or Daeron to do it for you.”
“But why?”
“Don’t you why me, boy.”
“Ugh, fine!” Aerion huffed, a pout crossing his lips. Maekar was suddenly thankful he had shoved Baelor out of the room before Aerion had come in. “That Tybolt Lannister was being very annoying.”
“So,” Maekar drawled, “you decided to throw wine at his white dress?”
“It was an accident.”
“Was it now?” Maekar knew damn well it had not been an accident. The first few times, sure, but Tybolt Lannister was just one of many omegas Aerion had looked at and immediately disliked. Unfortunate that the boy was a Lannister, too; if he had been a Bolton or a Frey, it wouldn’t have caused as much trouble (some of those nasty tabloids might even say the poor thing deserved it).
“The color was rather ugly,” Aerion hummed. “It washed him out. I did him a favor, really. You should be proud, mama.”
Maekar felt a headache coming on. “It doesn’t matter what you thought you did,” he said, “the damage has been done. You have humiliated another omega at a very public, very expensive function.”
Aerion pouted, entirely guiltless. “You make it sound like I meant for it to happen—”
“Was it not?” Maekar scowled.
“It’s not my fault that Tybolt crashed into me,” Aerion said, “I was holding a glass of wine and I didn’t want to stain the new dress daddy gave me.”
Something inside Maekar died a little bit. At that function, Aerion had been wearing that black-and-gold gown he had been specifically saving for a very specific, special night; it was custom made, the red dragon detailing sewn by hand by some expert designer Baelor met during one of his many business trips to Dorne. Baelor presented it to their son in an elaborate black-and-red gift box, its gold ribbons tied into an unnecessarily elaborate bow. Aerion had practically destroyed the thing in his eagerness to see what it was his father had brought him. He had fallen in love at the first touch of the fabric and made sure everyone knew how he pleased he was, squealing and giggling for an entire night and the next morning; Maekar had even heard some of the maids coo about how they saw Aerion staring at the dress in his walk-in closet. Maekar had rolled his eyes at his son’s frivolities, because it was just a dress, but it had nonetheless made him smile: Aerion had looked so terrifyingly beautiful in it.
“Muña… it really wasn’t my fault,” Aerion said, leaning forward, eyes big and glassy.
“I do not care what you say, Aerion,” Maekar said flatly. “Whine and cry if you must—” a few dried tears on the paper might even serve them for the better— “but you will write that note.”
They stared at one another for a long, tense moment before Aerion’s lips twisted into an ugly frown.
“Fine.” He harrumphed. “But do I really have to deliver the flowers myself?”
Maekar sighed through his nose. “No,” he finally said, “your brothers can do it for you.”
Instantly, Aerion beamed, kissed him on the cheek and bounced out of the room, unscolded and guilt-free.
“You will be the death of me,” Maekar murmured to himself, hands itching for a glass of wine.
All his children gave him a headache—even Valarr, who never gave Maekar much to complain about, made him want to bash his head against the wall at times. It was natural; a proper mother would always be stressed when it came to their children. However, Aerion was frankly the worst of them all. Valarr and Daeron would often shoulder the blame when it came to Aerion, even if they were never asked; they would always, without fail, come to him first, claiming Aerion’s fault for their own. It was practically routine. Something happened—a humiliated omega, an offended alpha, a fight that ended in crying or some such—, Aerion would turn to his elder brothers with wide eyes and they, unable to deny him anything, would deal with the problem Aerion had created. Maekar had witnessed the manipulations with his own eyes, it would happen at least once a day, sometimes several times before the sun could even set.
But gods…
Why couldn’t Maekar ever say no either?!
Maekar had given birth to Aerion shortly after Rhaegel had delivered his third child, Daemon—named after his sire.
Maekar had been overjoyed when he found out that little Daemon was an omega as well.
He imagined taking Aerion and Daemon on playdates, hopeful that they, too, would share the same bond as he and Rhaegel had. Rhaegel would agree well enough, smiling that soft, almost-unseeing smile when they first introduced their two boys to one another.
At first, it had been exactly what Maekar had dreamed of.
They were both angels (especially in comparison to their alpha brothers, older and younger). They rarely cried and often giggled to themselves, playing house or some other. Aerion would often ask for Daemon whenever he grew bored of Valarr or Daeron or Matarys—or all three at the same time, though that would never stop at least one of them lingering around where Aerion was. Rhaegel had laughed and would frequently tell him much of the same whenever they saw one another; his twins, Aegon and Aemon, were always eager to be with their little brother, but little Daemon had a tendency of asking for their cousin anyway.
Maekar figured it would stay that way. He might not have been a typical omega, had related more to alphas than he did his own sex, but he had always wanted omega friends; omega bonds were as, if not even more, important than alpha-omega bonds. He and Rhaegel protected each other when Baelor (or Aerys) could not, and he liked the thought of Aerion and Daemon doing the same for one another.
Then years later—Aerion and Daemon grew up. Beautiful, fair, as comely as they could come. They could have been mistaken for brothers, twins even. If not for the fact that Aerion kept his own hair much shorter, most would not have been able to tell their difference from afar. They were so very similar, so dreadfully Targaryen it was ridiculous.
Blond bombshell barbies, some would call them. (Not out loud at least, lest they desired a fist on the noggin. It was something Maekar would willingly turn a blind eye to; if they didn’t want Valarr breaking their nose, they should have not said anything about Targaryen omegas).
It figured that they would eventually see each other as rivals rather than brothers.
Aeron and Daemon were twelve when the first ‘incident’ occurred.
Daeron—who many called the Good, which was not a very contested moniker considering his father, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father—always insisted on at least one family dinner every month. Even their uncle Daemon was invited, though Daeron was not very happy about it. The hurt of losing his eldest omega to his own bastard brother still smarted, Maekar guessed; he would agree but Rhaegel seemed happy with their uncle, their nine children was enough evidence of their ‘love’, so who was Maekar to disapprove?
The dinner was less for family bonding and more a display of ‘harmony’. The Targaryens couldn’t very well show that they feel threatened by the newly-founded Blackfyre business; better to show that the main branch and its bastard branch were friendly, if nothing else. The gods knew how eager the other families would love to rip into them; give them the slightest bit of meat to chew on, and they would find a way to tear them from bone to bone.
Therefore, dinners were often tense, if not a bit boring. Maekar, used to the monotony, assumed it would go as usual.
Aerion and Daemon no longer sought each other out as they once had when they were still small and sweet. But they still greeted each other with a kiss on each cheek and an embrace, their smile entirely too saccharine to be friendly.
“Cousin,” Daemon began, giving Aerion a once over. It was the first time Aerion had cut his hair so short; it had surprised Maekar at first, Aerion had always liked to keep his hair long, and Matarys would always braid it for him. “You’ve cut your hair… how… charming. You almost look like your siblings.”
All of Aerion’s siblings were alphas, if not betas.
The curl of Aerion’s lips was not a smile, nor a sneer. “Cousin,” he repeated. There was a glint in his eyes. “And I see you still insist on wearing the same clothes. Does daddy still dress you?”
Their uncle Daemon was a protective father, this he knew from Rhaegel; he rarely let his two omega sons, little Daemon and Aenys, out of his sight.
Maekar eyed them both, shifting from one foot to another, then mentally shook his head. Better not to think too much of it, lest he let his mind wander too far.
(Maekar shouldn’t have underestimated his instincts when they were screaming at him.)
Daemon and Aerion were seated across from each other, flanked by two of their eldest brothers. It was the usual configuration. Little Daemon had Aegon and Aemon, and Aerion had Valarr and Daeron.
Before, Daemon and Aerion were identical in appearance, always in matching attire that Maekar and Rhaegel would buy together. Now, though they still shared the same face and the same sharp Targaryen omega features, they looked very different.
Little Daemon kept to his demure station, wearing little to no makeup and his long blond hair pulled into a neat braid. His skirts were at knee length, legs concealed by what must have been thigh-high socks, and his long-sleeved blouse buttoned high at the neck, baring only his hands. Meanwhile… Aerion was in his more rebellious phase. Maekar hadn’t approved of his top’s low neckline nor the way it cut off at his midriff. Aerion, of course, had worn it anyway, even going as far as to wear those damned skin-tight pants he had been in a habit of wearing. Maekar swore the little demon was doing it just to purposely provoke his mother’s heart attack, because he nearly had one when he saw the kitten heels on his feet, an especially questionable choice when compared to his cousin’s simple Mary Jane’s. The only thing preserving the little menace’s dignity was the suit jacket Valarr had shrugged off the moment he saw him. It was draped across Aerion’s shoulders, practically drowning him in it, but Aerion, thankfully, didn’t seem to mind it. (Thank the gods; Maekar had attempted to get Baelor to ‘encourage’ the boy against it; he was only twelve, after all. Aerion wouldn’t listen to his mother—a side effect of being an omega, Maekar supposed. He had been similar when he was the boy’s age, refusing to heed his own omega mother’s warning and only relenting when his father told him to—but it was slightly different when it came to his father, however, he shouldn’t have given the boy’s father so much faith. Baelor was useful in everything but Aerion.)
If the cousins’ slow descent to ‘estrangement’ was not enough evidence of their eventual rivalry, their difference in appearance only made it all the more apparent.
Maekar was sitting right next to Valarr, his youngest Rhae half-asleep on his lap, and, unfortunately (or fortunately), had a full, clear view of the cousins.
“That outfit is…” Daemon’s gaze flicked from Aerion’s bare collarbones to his eyes. “Daring.”
Aerion’s smile was sharp. “A strange outfit for someone like you, no doubt,” he said, “I might let you borrow my clothes if you wish.”
“I don’t mean anything by it,” Daemon said, voice soft (too soft), “it’s just… I worry that you might catch a cold, considering how little you wear.”
“It’s still summer, dearest cousin.” Aerion cocked his head to the side. “I’m getting rashes just looking at you in those thick layers.”
Flanking him, Valarr and Daeron had stilled, utensils frozen in their fingers, and from across them, even Aegon and Aemon had stopped eating, wearily looking at the two omegas.
“I thank you for the concern,” Daemon said, “but my skin is not as sensitive as yours. I don’t feel the need to…” Daemon’s gaze dragged lazily over where Aerion’s top showed his midriff, “let everyone know. Although I guess some people just can’t resist.”
“I suppose,” Aerion conceded, though Maekar could very well sense the venom on his tongue, “if there’s nothing worth showing, it’s easier to keep it covered. Shame, really; some might have enjoyed the novelty of a stick.”
Someone choked. Perhaps it was Valarr, or Daeron, they certainly looked like they wanted to drag Aerion off somewhere safe (granted, they always looked like that if they felt their brother was being threatened, regardless of the truth). Or maybe it was Aegon or Aemon, because they looked ready to jump across the table and defend their omega brother (they wouldn’t, Maekar knew that enough. Aerion was an omega too, and Maekar would certainly not stand for it. He doubted their father would either).
“You’re so funny,” Daemon said flippantly, “I almost got offended. Your tongue is almost like a bee, I might have been stung had I not known you really meant no harm.”
Aerion’s smile ticked wider. “Oh, of course, bees only sting when they feel threatened,” he said in agreement, “like if, for example, there were two queens in one hive; by all nature’s law, one of them has to be killed, you know.”
“Tragic little creatures.” Daemon nodded. “It is good we are more than our baser instincts.”
“You’re so right, cousin,” Aerion said, “though I have to say, honey just tastes so very sweet when indulged alone, don't you think?”