Chapter Text
King Daeron II ruled well, but the court already smelled of tension. The bastards of King Aegon IV had been legitimized, and the name Blackfyre echoed through the corridors. And to show that his family was not shaken by it, he named his eldest son Prince of Dragonstone.
The banquet in honor of Baelor’s appointment filled the Throne Room. A thousand candles burned; the air smelled of honey, incense, and sweet wine. Maekar sat at the high table in a simple violet tunic, without jewels, trying to go unnoticed. He drank his wine slowly and stared into nothing.
He did not want to join his brothers, who were competing over who could drink the most. Nor did he want his mother’s presence, as she had grown increasingly determined to keep him away from his older brother. Only his own company remained. His beautiful solitude drew the attention of the alphas, who whispered among themselves about who would be brave enough to approach the prince.
Daemon Blackfyre approached with the easy smile of someone who had never been rejected. He stopped before him and made an exaggerated, theatrical bow.
“Prince Maekar, the night was as dull as a septon without a sermon, until I saw you. Tell me, is it true that Targaryen omegas are born with stars in their eyes, or is it merely a trick of the candlelight?”
Maekar raised one eyebrow. For a second, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“If it were a trick, you would have already fallen for it, Lord Blackfyre.”
Daemon laughed, loud and genuine, and leaned a little closer, resting a hand on the back of Maekar’s chair.
“Well said, Your Highness. But admit it, I’m the only one here who could keep up with you in a dance without stepping on your feet. The other knights dance like drunken oxen.”
Maekar let out a low, short laugh, almost surprised. It was a rare, light sound that made several heads turn. Especially Baelor, who watched everything from a nearby column and felt his stomach twist.
“You are bold,” Maekar said, still with a small smile. “I’ll give you that.”
Daemon smiled, victorious, and extended his hand.
“Then dance with me. Just one song. I promise not to steal more than a smile.”
Maekar hesitated for half a second, long enough for Daemon to interpret it as yes. The knight stepped forward and, naturally, placed his open hand on the omega’s slim waist, pulling him firmly to his feet.
The touch lasted less than a second.
Maekar recoiled as if burned. The smile died instantly. He hissed, a low, sharp, almost animal sound and took two steps back, violet eyes frozen with fury.
“Do not touch me.”
The words came out low but cutting. The entire hall seemed to hold its breath.
Baelor did not think. He did not hesitate.
He crossed the hall in ten long strides, grabbed Daemon by the collar of his tunic, and drove the first punch straight into the knight’s face. The sound of fist against bone echoed loudly. Daemon staggered. Baelor did not stop. Second punch to the jaw. Third to the ribs. The fourth knocked Daemon onto the stone floor, blood pouring from his nose.
“If you touch him again,” Baelor snarled, straddling the man, his voice loud enough for the entire hall to hear, “I’ll tear off your hand and make you eat it finger by finger. Do you understand, bastard?”
The entire hall fell into deadly silence. Goblets froze midair. Musicians went still. Even the king on the dais raised his brows.
Daemon spat blood and tried to smile, but only managed a groan.
“Well, it seems traditions never really change. Jealous, my prince?”
Baelor raised his fist for another blow. Strong hands seized him from behind, two Kingsguard. He struggled, but could not break free.
Maekar appeared at his side, pale, voice low and unsteady. “Baelor. Enough.”
Only then did Baelor stop fighting. The guards released him slowly. Daemon was carried out of the hall, bleeding and half-conscious, while the entire court murmured.
Later, on the terrace overlooking Blackwater Bay, Maekar found Baelor alone. His face was marked by their father’s hand, which had reprimanded him far more harshly than words for causing such a scandal. The cold wind stirred his dark hair.
“You didn’t have to do that in front of everyone,” Maekar said quietly. “I had already said no.”
Baelor gripped the parapet until his knuckles turned white.
“He touched you.”
“And I pulled away. I always pull away.”
Maekar shrugged, his face impassive again.
“Because no matter how hard they try, they will never be you.”
Maekar’s words hung between them, dangerous.
Baelor closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw tightening. That was exactly the kind of thing he did not need to hear.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he muttered hoarsely.
Maekar did not answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer. His scent was the same as always cold, clean, irritatingly familiar. Baelor felt his body react before he could stop it, tension climbing up his spine.
“You’re bleeding,” Maekar said simply.
Baelor opened his mouth to say it was nothing, but his brother was already pulling a small flask and a clean cloth from the folds of his tunic. Practical. Precise. As if he had already decided he would do this no matter what.
“Stay still,” Maekar added when Baelor shifted.
Baelor let out a heavy breath through his nose but did not pull away.
Maekar’s fingers touched his hand first. The damp cloth pressed against his bruised knuckles, cleaning the dried blood with movements far too careful for someone who, minutes earlier, had seemed made of ice.
Baelor felt every touch.
Every single one.
It was ridiculous.
“You always solve everything with your fists,” Maekar murmured, focused on his task.
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“You made half the court panic.”
“He touched you.”
Maekar paused for a second. Just one. Then he resumed cleaning the smaller cut on Baelor’s face, the cloth moving with surprising gentleness.
“I can defend myself,” he said, though his voice was not as steady as before.
Baelor made a low sound, almost a humorless laugh.
“I know.”
The wind picked up, making the terrace candles flicker. Maekar finished wrapping Baelor’s hand with precise movements, then hesitated before giving the bandage one last adjustment.
It was a small gesture.
But Baelor felt his heart slam heavily against his chest.
It was intimate.
He pulled his hand back slowly, as if the movement had to be controlled before it turned into something else.
The truth, the one he refused to face, was simple and ugly. It hadn’t started that night. Nor in that hall.
Baelor could not say when exactly he had begun watching Maekar more than he should. Perhaps it had been years ago, when his brother still followed him through the corridors like a silent shadow. Perhaps it had been the first time the omega’s cold scent had shifted, quietly announcing that he was no longer a child.
Perhaps it had always been there. Just as that bastard had said, he was not so different from his ancestors.
What he did know was that each year made it harder to pretend he felt nothing.
Harder to ignore the way his body heated whenever Maekar entered the same room. Harder to forget that, among everyone at court, it was always him Baelor looked for first without realizing.
“That’s enough, Maekar.”
The omega lifted his violet eyes to him, expression unreadable.
“As you wish, my Prince.”
Baelor looked away immediately.
This was becoming far too difficult.
He was going to have to try much harder not to give in.