Chapter Text
Prince Maekar took out three of the men sent to capture him before he was subdued, stripped and tied up, forced to drink something that left him drooling and insensate on the floor for hours, no more threatening than a beaten dog. No, not a dog, Quentyn thinks as he grabs a handful of that long, white hair and uses it to force the prince to look up at him. A bitch. That's all he is now. All he'll ever be. Once the war is won, Daemon can take him and his brother and present them to the court as his noble consorts, fitting mates for a king, but Quentyn will know the truth of them.
All these years he has wasted teaching this boy and his brothers, and all for the promise of a white cloak. It is a twisted form of revenge that Aegor Rivers has offered him, but revenge nonetheless, and Quentyn will take it. King Daeron has left him with little else.
Whatever it is that Aegor has given the boy, it doesn’t seem to have sweetened his temperament a great deal. He bears his teeth at Quentyn, though he can do little else. Such behaviour can’t be encouraged, so Quentyn slaps Maekar with the back of his hand. Bound as he is, Maekar cannot catch himself as he falls to the floor. Aegor had said the princes were not to be dealt any permanent damage, but such chastisement can only be for the good, and will not cause any lasting harm that will prevent Aegor from enjoying the boy. Quentyn had hit his wife many times in a similar fashion, and the bruises he left on her face had never stopped him. A bruised face will not prevent Daemon from taking his pleasure in the young prince, no more than it will Quentyn.
It is a well known fact that Targaryens are not like other men. Whereas any other man would live or die with one, immutable nature — with a knot or a cunt — whatever magic that once allowed Targaryens to command dragons allows them to change from one to the other. Even Aegon the Conquerer had done so, once his beloved wife Rhaenys had died, and Visenya was incapable of bearing him a son. There have been studies of such things, maesters long dead and buried who spent their lives cooped up, pouring over old Valyrian texts in an effort to discover their secrets. What might those maesters have given to learn what the old king had told his chosen son on his deathbed?
Prince Maekar smells, unmistakably, like an alpha of House Targaryen. It will take several days for that to change. Quentyn looks forward to it.
Aegor has already bitten the boy, Quentyn can see the wound of his claim on Maekar’s pale shoulder. It’s still bleeding sluggishly, for Aegor had bitten deep, and Maekar had fought. Aegor had insisted on doing it before forcing the potion down the prince’s throat. I want him to feel it, Aegor had said, almost fondly. He had gotten his wish — Maekar had howled as he was bitten, loud enough that in the other room, Prince Baelor had heard. According to the guards, the older prince had done his best to break down the door to his cell, and might well have succeeded if Quentyn had not turned up in time to wrestle him to the ground and give him a bite to match his brother’s. They don’t have a true breeding bench here, but Baelor is chained hand and foot to a heavy wooden table, and makes a very pretty sight indeed, despite his Dornish features. No wonder Daemon covets the oldest prince for more than just his claim to the throne. Quentyn imagines Aegor is currently relishing the chance to finally fuck Baelor Breakspear, King Daeron’s perfect heir. Fitting payback for the lad who humiliated Daemon at the tourney to celebrate their sister’s wedding. Aegor is unlikely to be kind about it.
Once Baelor and his brother have shed their alpha nature for one more appropriate to their status as consort to the true king, they will bear a new line of dragons. In time, they may even come to appreciate the chance they have been given to continue their father’s line. If Daemon was not so fixated on acquiring these true Valyrian consorts to bear his children, they would be executed as traitors along with the rest of Daeron Falseborn’s family, Quentyn has no doubt of that. One way or another, King Daeron, his Dornish whore, and the two weaker princes Aerys and Rhaegel, will all fall to Blackfyre. If Daemon is merciful, he may allow the sons of his consorts’ to live out their lives at the wall. But for that to happen, they must be remade. The process has some strange Valyrian name, which Aegor says roughly translates as bitching. It is generally a matter of choice, yet under the right conditions the change can be forced. Old King Aegon’s final gift to Daemon was to teach him how it could be done, and it was a greater gift even than his sword.
A simple bite from an alpha is enough to start the process. When Aegor had first told Quentyn that, he couldn’t quite believe it, but it does make sense, and explains why the process has been kept such a great secret. To have potential enemies know that they could force a man to change his very nature with a mere bite would be a tremendous vulnerability. The thought of it still makes Quentyn shiver. From the fuss he had made before taking Aegor’s bite, Maekar must know it too, must know that his body is changing.
However, a bite alone is not sufficient, Aegor had been very clear about that. A mere bite could be overwritten, if they were able to get to an omega soon enough. To make the change permanent, they will have to keep the two princes for several days, and knot them regularly. If they can get them to ingest alpha seed, it will speed up the process. If they knot them enough, they’ll go into heat.
That’s why Quentyn is here. Aegor cannot do it alone, not for both Baelor and Maekar, not at the same time. He needs another alpha, one whom he can trust, both to keep the secret and to be capable of handling the princes. Two alphas will speed up the change. Together, the two of them will make Baelor and Maekar Targaryen into perfect consorts for Daemon. And once my brother has seen what he stands to win, Aegor had said, then he will finally give his assent, and claim the throne for himself.
It’s a sound strategy. Where arguments and promises have fallen short, the reality of Baelor and Maekar in heat and begging for his knot should convince Daemon to finally do away with this pretence of loyalty to his half-brother. Once he has knotted the two men he has coveted for as long as Quentyn has known him, Daemon will not be able to resist claiming them truly.
For now, Maekar has only one bite on his shoulder, and a look of fury on his face. He can’t speak through the gag, but his eyes are bright with defiance.
Quentyn kneels next to him, and slaps him again on the opposite cheek. “Enough of that,” he says sternly. “Unless you would rather I visit your brother instead?”
Maekar freezes. His scent, already sour with rage and misery, makes his terror obvious.
The boy doesn’t have a cunt yet, though his knot has shrunk down to almost nothing, and his stones already look to be significantly smaller. They will disappear entirely over the next few days, drawing up inside his body, their place taken by a sweet new cunt, ripe and ready to take an alpha’s knot and seed. Quentyn has never much seen the appeal of male omegas with their ugly, useless cocks. Maekar’s has been bound with a length of cotton, then tied to his waist to keep it out of the way, just as they do in the lesser brothels. They say that if you keep an omega’s cock bound for long enough, the loss of blood flow will keep them from hardening permanently. It is a tempting thought, but not Quentyn’s decision to make.
For now, Maekar will have to take their knots in his arse or his mouth, though those sweet holes each come with their own risks. That is why Quentyn is here now, for Aegor thought their prisoner would take this offer better from his old swordmaster than from his hated uncle.
“I am going to remove this gag now,” Quentyn says.
“Where is he?” Maekar asks, voice rough. He hasn’t been given any water yet. “Where is my brother?”
“Not far,” Quentyn says truthfully.
Maekar attempts to hide his relief at that, but fails miserably. “You and Aegor cannot think you will get away with this act of treason,” he says. His words are bold for a man in his condition, naked and bound. He has taken Aegor’s bite already, and he must have already realised his body is changing. Likely as not, he hopes that he will escape before the change is irreversible. “My brother and I are princes of the blood. Our disappearance will be noted.”
“You lie poorly, boy,” Quentyn laughs at the look on Maekar’s face at being addressed with such contempt. “None expect either of you to return to court until the moon turns, and that is more than a sennight hence.” Aegor’s men in the Red Keep have assured him of that much. The princes had taken only a small escort with them for their journey to Duskendale, and all who had not already sworn themselves to Daemon have been put to the sword.
Maekar hides his dismay equally poorly. When Quentyn puts a hand over Aegor’s bite, Maekar shivers.
“Do you know what this means?” Quentyn asks, ignoring for the moment how Maekar is trying to pull away from his grip. He will learn, in time. This is the remnants of his alpha nature still fighting a hopeless battle to reassert itself.
Maekar does not answer, until Quentyn digs his fingernails into the wound, then he hisses, “Yes. Yes, I know what it means. How the fuck do you know?”
Quentyn ignores the question. “Of your brothers, you always took instruction the best,” he lies. “Daemon needs only one omega. If you behave, and cooperate with us, then there is no reason why your brother should suffer alongside you.”
He has always preferred his whores to be willing. And the thought of having the proud, stubborn Prince Maekar Targaryen struggling to be good for him and Aegor is an appealing one. Beyond that, is no simple thing to use an arsehole like an omega’s cunt. It will take time and care to prepare that little hole to take an alpha’s knot, and will be a much easier task if Maekar is not struggling and fighting the whole time. They had been torn about which of the two princes to make this offer to, knowing that whichever brother was given it would surely accept. In the end, they had left the decision up to fate, and tossed a coin.
Quentyn doesn’t need Maekar’s scent to know that he’s horrified, but the proof of it is gratifying. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Be good for us,” Quentyn says. “And your uncle and I will leave Baelor alone. You might even take some pleasure from it.”
“Swear it,” Maekar says eventually. There are tears in his eyes. “Swear that my brother will be spared.”
“I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New.” Quentyn does not bother to hide his grin. The lie will only make it all the sweeter when they eventually bring the two princes to the same cell. Aegor has claimed the right to fuck Baelor’s arse first, though he is not stupid enough to try making the older prince suck his cock.
Quentyn leaves Maekar’s wrists bound, but cuts away the rest of the ropes before ordering the boy to kneel at his feet. He unties the laces of his breeches quickly, exposes his cock to the chill of the room. He’s still mostly soft, of course. He is no pervert, he has no interest in other alphas. Not like the prince beneath him, who has been following his oldest brother around like a bitch in heat for years now, despite having an omega of his own. But Maekar is almost an omega already, and with a little encouragement, Quentyn should have little trouble fucking him until he has been well and truly bitched.
“I am going to use your mouth now,” Quentyn says. There’s really no need to tell the boy his intentions, but he enjoys the momentary look of rage and humiliation that crosses his face. “And you are going to show me how good you can be.”
He has Maekar suckle on two of his fingers first. “Remember to keep your teeth away,” Quentyn warns. He pushes his fingers down as far as they will go, holds them there while Maekar gurgles and chokes, then pulls back, praising him when not a hint of his sharp teeth scrape against them.
Maekar reddens, though Quentyn cannot tell whether it is from rage, or in reaction to his approval, and doesn’t much care either way.
He allows Maekar to take a deep breath before guiding his head down onto his now hard cock, and groans as the hot, wet hole engulfs his length. The boy does not gag or flinch, but Quentyn can feel him tremble as he tugs Maekar up and pushes him down to swallow more of his cock, until his lips are pressed against his knot. He has no intention of knotting inside the boy’s mouth, but the threat of it makes Maekar’s eyes widen so beautifully. It takes a few moments for Quentyn to register the filthy noises he is making as he fucks that tight hole, the slap of his heavy stones against Maekar’s chin, the wet spasms of his throat around Quentyn’s cock, the pathetic whimpers that spill from the boy’s lips.
“Oh, you are being good for me, aren’t you?” Quentyn laughs breathlessly. It has been far too long since he got his cock wet, and longer still since he had a whore so desperate to please him. Gods, the boy is not even trying to fight him now, just letting him thrust into his throat, milking his length perfectly. “Have you done this before?”
Maekar cannot answer with words, but his tear-filled eyes are furious. It only makes Quentyn enjoy fucking his mouth like a cunt all the more. He chases his own pleasure, thoughtlessly rutting at Maekar’s face, until he spends with a groan, knot swelling against Maekar’s lips. Quentyn does not give the boy any choice but to swallow it all. The more seed he ingests, the faster he will change. From the despair on his face and in his scent, Maekar knows that too.
Quentyn holds him stuffed full of his softening cock until Maekar reeks of panic, desperate for air.
“Good bitch,” Quentyn tells him finally, yanking Maekar up by the hair, letting his cock slip free. “Good omega.”
“Are you a maid?” Quentyn asks, once he’s got Maekar lying on his back on the floor, wrists now tied to a stake in the floor. He has faith that Maekar will try to obey, but this will be painful, and Aegor will be wroth if he accidentally breaks the prince’s wrist.
His long, pale legs Quentyn has spread wide, exposing his pathetic cock, his shy little hole. Quentyn tries to avoid looking at Maekar’s stones, which is a task made easier by the fact that they have already shrunk significantly since the bitching started. At this rate, they will be gone entirely in a couple of days, along with his knot, leaving only a tight cunt and useless omega cock between his legs. That time cannot come soon enough. It has taken far too long to open Maekar up enough to take two of his oiled fingers, and from experience Quentyn knows that trying to get his knot inside anyone who has taken fewer than three leads to tearing.
“I have two sons,” Maekar growls.
Quentyn slaps him again. “Has anyone touched your sweet little hole?”
When Maekar looks like he’s going to refuse to answer, Quentyn aims his next strike at the boy’s bound cock, and the shriek this earns him is delightful enough that he does it again. Each time his hand connects with Maekar’s bound flesh, his hole clenches around Quentyn’s fingers.
“No,” Maekar sobs, when Quentyn finally decides that he has taken enough punishment. “No, no one has touched me.”
“No one has touched your sweet little hole,” Quentyn corrects him, punctuating each word with a shallow thrust.
“No one has touched my sweet little hole,” Maekar mutters, so Quentyn makes him repeat it, until he says it loud enough that even the guards standing outside would be able to hear it, if their ears were not covered.
“Not your wife?” Quentyn asks. For all that a highborn lady should not know of such things, the prince’s wife is Dornish, and as wild and wanton as all who share her blood. If any woman at court were to think of such a thing, it would be Dyanna Dayne. “Nor your brother, Baelor?”
Maekar shakes his head, a touch frantically, too distraught to react to the insult to both his wife and brother. “No one — has touched — my sweet little hole,” he cries.
“Then you are a maiden,” Quentyn tells him. “In every way that matters.”
For some reason, that makes Maekar sob, and his hole tightens in a way that makes Quentyn suddenly desperate to learn how it would feel to make the boy sob like that while fucking him. He groans at how Maekar’s muscles flutter around his fingers, pressing in tight circles, coaxing the flesh to give in and submit to its new purpose. While not quite as good as an omega’s cunt, an omega’s other two holes should always be available to their alpha. Daemon will only thank Quentyn for breaking in Maekar’s arse for him, especially since he will doubtless want to breed the boy as soon as possible. His arse will make a convenient alternative, when pregnancy forces Daemon to avoid his cunt.
Quentyn fucks Maekar with his fingers until his hole stops resisting, starts opening up for him. The boy merely whimpers when Quentyn gives him a third finger, though when he looks up to check there are tears on Maekar’s cheeks. Interestingly, the cloth binding his cock is damp too, sodden with useless seed, and Maekar moans when Quentyn takes his free hand and presses it lightly. It would be hard, were it not for the binding keeping it flat to his belly.
“What use is this ugly thing?” Quentyn tuts. “Tell me, omega, what is this good for?”
Maekar closes his eyes, so Quentyn presses down harder, until he opens them and spits, “Nothing!”
“Nothing at all,” Quentyn says firmly. “Once your change is complete, you won’t need this anymore, will you? Just a touch to your sweet cunt will be enough to have you spending like a whore.”
Is he thinking of his lady wife, Quentyn wonders. Is it the thought of Dyanna Dayne that brings tears to Maekar’s eyes, as he is confronted by the ruin that Aegor and Quentyn have made of his cock?
He will never knot an omega again. With how often Daemon will likely be breeding him, Quentyn would be surprised if Maekar’s cock ever gets hard again.
“I’ll give you a choice, boy. Will you take my bite before I knot you, or after?” Quentyn doesn’t much care either way, for the outcome will remain the same. He does not fool himself that the prince has truly been tamed. Of all his brothers, Maekar is the only true dragon, and it will take much longer to break his spirit. But making him participate in his own degradation — making him choose — is the first step on a journey that will end with him submitting to his new alpha.
Quentyn does not need to speculate about how the offer makes Maekar feel. The humiliation and anguish in his scent are unmistakable. He does not want to answer, that much is clear. Yet he knows that he must, for that was their deal. That is the price that Maekar thinks he must pay, for Baelor’s sake, not knowing that his brother has likely already been bitten and knotted by Aegor.
“After,” Maekar says eventually, staring at a point somewhere beyond Quentyn’s shoulder.
It is a shame he cannot afford to leave Maekar’s hands free. He would have liked to see him crawl, or present himself like the omega he is becoming. It is not worth the risk though, so instead he positions Maekar on all fours, weight resting on his knees and forearms. Ready to be mounted like the bitch that he’s becoming. The bitch that they have made him.
The sight of it alone would have been enough to rouse Quentyn’s cock again, even if it were not for the Lyseni potion Aegor had bade him take before they began.
Maekar’s whole body is tense. Even his hole, well-stretched by Quentyn’s fingers only moments before, seems to be fighting to close up again. Quentyn keeps his eyes on it as he spreads the last of the oil over his length, just enough to keep from chafing. Such a small hole, twitching and fluttering around nothing. Yet when Quentyn presses the head of his cock to the rim, it slips in easily enough, though Maekar chokes on a sob.
“Hush now,” Quentyn admonishes, though he’s panting a little himself. The boy is so very tight, a maiden hole ready for Quentyn to fuck. Lower even than a whore, for whores get paid in coin, and Maekar has sold his maidenhead for nothing more than a promise. When he realises the truth, he will fight and struggle but it will be too late, far too late for his struggles to do him any good.
“Fuck,” Maekar is panting, over and over, voice breaking with each shallow thrust Quentyn gives him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“As you wish,” Quentyn chuckles, and fucks into that tight silken hole, as hard and deep as he can. He’s holding Maekar’s hips tight enough to bruise that pale skin, and a patient man would make the boy beg, but Quentyn has been patient and what has that gotten him? An empty bed and a broken oath and years of waiting, holding his tongue, training spoiled princelings and watching lesser men take what should, by all rights, have been his. No longer, Quentyn vows to himself. I will wait no longer to take what I am owed.
He tries to slap Maekar’s stones, but the pathetic things have shrunk so much that most of his hand hits the boy’s cock again, making him yell and clench and for a moment that’s all Quentyn can think of, the agonising pleasure of the tight hole gripping his cock and the sound of that proud voice breaking. Then it occurs to him that the bound flesh beneath his fingers is wet, dripping.
“Are you hard, boy?” Quentyn punctuates his question by yanking Maekar down hard on his cock. “Is that your useless, pathetic seed I can feel?”
Maekar only keens and sobs harder.
Quentyn reaches up to toy with the fabric binding. “Would you like for me to free your little cock?”
“No,” Maekar chokes out, as Quentyn gets his fingers beneath the fabric. “No, no, don’t!”
He is still babbling mindless denials as Quentyn finally loosens the sodden binding — “Don’t, don’t, please, no!” — but Quentyn only laughs, and fucks him harder.
He spreads Maekar’s cheeks with his hands, wanting both to get a better look at the obscene stretch of Maekar’s hole, and to humiliate the boy some more. Unexpectedly Maekar arches and moans, pushing back against Quentyn’s hands and shaking, shuddering. Fuck, this is better than any whore he’s ever had. Because that is the curious thing about whores, there’s a limit to how far they can be degraded — any omega who has fallen so low as to sell their body already knows themselves to be less than nothing, and it is very difficult to break an omega who has already been broken.
Not so with Maekar. The stench of shame and misery is almost overpowering. He needs this, he’s fucking desperate for it, and he hates himself for that, Quentyn can tell, he doesn’t need to look at Maekar’s face to know that he’s weeping. Doesn’t need to look at his pathetic cock to know that he’s spending either, since his hole clenches down hard and he wails through it. Quentyn looks down at the mess Maekar has made of the floor, of himself, and wonders how much of it is still seed. Omegas have been known to sire children, though it’s a rare thing, and most produce nothing more slick from their cocks.
“Very good,” Quentyn praises, grabbing a handful of that silver hair and pulling Maekar’s head up just in time to see his face redden with shame and unwanted pleasure. He always did respond well to praise in the training yard, and Quentyn had found it useful to ration it out, keep the boy starved for it and desperate to please. Back then, a murmured very good would result in a feral little grin from the boy, a renewed attack against whomever he was sparring against, even a peel of bright laughter. Now, combined with a sharp thrust of Quentyn’s cock, it is apparently enough to make Maekar spill again, a tiny weak spurt of milky fluid that Quentyn catches in his other hand, and brings up to Maekar’s mouth. He makes the boy lick his fingers clean, and asks if he can taste the difference between it and the true alpha seed Quentyn had fed him earlier.
An arsehole, even one as stretched as Maekar’s has been, is not designed to take a knot. Quentyn does not begrudge Maekar’s scream as he forces it in anyway.
“You’ll have a cunt soon,” Quentyn pants, as much to himself as to the bitch beneath him, whimpering as his knot swells. “Wet and dripping and made to be fucked —” he can feel his stones heaving, tightening, he’s so close to spilling his seed deep in Maekar’s hole, so fucking close, “— you’ll make such a good omega for Daemon. He’ll keep you just like this, fuck you so good and hard that you forget you were ever anything more than a bitch to be taken and bred.”
Maekar’s hole is perfect. Part of Quentyn wonders how Daemon ever intends to sit the Iron Throne, when he could be doing this instead. And while Quentyn knows that he cannot breed Maekar this way, even if the boy had been fully bitched already, as he spills his seed with a roar he cannot help but imagine it: Prince Maekar Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria, heavy with his bastard.
It will never happen, of course. Quentyn will never allow it, even if Daemon is generous enough to offer the use of one of his omegas to the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard. He will restrict himself to their arses or mouths, if the omegas are not already confirmed to be with child.
Yet one task still remains. He has fed both of Maekar’s holes with his seed, but he still needs to complete the claim. He hushes Maekar as he pulls the boy up onto his lap and arranges his trembling limbs. The bite Aegor has already given him is a stark contrast to the pale skin of his shoulder, and Quentyn indulges himself by running his fingers over it, enjoying the way that even the most gentle pressure makes the boy’s hole clench.
“Fucking do it,” Maekar says. He isn’t looking at Quentyn. From how glassy and vacant his eyes are, he doesn’t seem to be looking at anything at all.
A heavy knock on the door interrupts Quentyn before he can give Maekar his wish.
“Come,” Quentyn calls. There is only one reason why anyone would be knocking on this door.
Aegor enters the room with a sour look on his face, and barks, “Is it done yet?”
“Almost,” Quentyn says. “I was just about to bite him.”
Aegor chuckles darkly, and strides forward to kneel in front of Maekar. “And has the little prince been good for you?”
“Of course,” Quentyn tells him.
“In that case, he should be rewarded.” Aegor’s grin is a nasty one. “And a claim should have witnesses.”
When he’s dragged in, Baelor looks like he’s been dragged through each of the seven hells. His nose is broken, his right eye swollen shut, and even from this distance he stinks of sweat and blood and seed. One of his shoulders might be dislocated, from the way he’s holding it. Like Maekar, his cock has been bound, but it seems that Aegor was not kind enough to release it when he fucked him. When the guards shove him to the floor, Baelor shouts, the sharp impact obviously jarring the thick wooden plug that’s been jammed into his arse, keeping him full of Aegor’s seed. He’s been bitten, not just on his shoulder but across his chest, his thighs, his back, deep and dark and still bloody.
In Quentyn’s arms, Maekar flinches like a wounded animal. It seems that in the way of all younger brothers, he still thought of Baelor as somehow invincible. Just like when they were children.
Baelor has been fighting, that much is clear. He must be in a great deal of pain. Good, Quentyn thinks viciously. Baelor might have thought that Quentyn did not know that it was he who advised King Daeron to give the white cloak to Ser Willem Wylde, but he will soon learn to regret that advice. Making him watch as his younger brother is claimed, bitched, is only the beginning.