Chapter Text
Maekar’s fate was sealed on a day of Spring.
Uneasiness twisted in the pit of his stomach, halting him in his steps. Puzzled, the prince brought a hand up to press against his abdomen.
It was a warm, sunlit morning. Having broken his fast, Maekar was headed down to the training grounds for practice. Baelor had promised to come along as well later.
He stopped right in the middle of a near empty corridor. Servants brushed past him, bowing briefly in their hurry, their scents faint to his yet underdeveloped senses. Maekar attempted to take stock of himself, to figure out where this sudden sense of wrongness had come from. Was it the porridge he ate that morn, perhaps? It’d been sourer in taste than usual.
But the feeling vanished as quickly as it had appeared. After a moment, the prince shrugged it off, chalking it up to some strange fit of the nerves, and continued on his way to the yard.
Perhaps he should have dwelt on it longer.
Maekar changed into his training leathers and began blunting his mace upon a weathered straw figure, lacking other opponents. It was yet early, and only squires and pages milled about the place. No one worthy of challenging. The prince had long outgrown stripling boys of his age in skill, but few knights were willing to meet his measure. Once he was older, they’d laugh, amused. Once he had an alpha’s scent. Maekar would scowl and bare his teeth at them, but nothing changed the milky smell of a displeased pup emanating off of him. At four and ten, he should have long presented – even Rhaegel had shown himself to be a beta at three and ten, and the court took the delay as just another sign of his impairment – but his rut refused to come. As if nature itself was making a mockery of him.
Some men, who felt pity for the prince, indulged him and took up arms against him from time to time, but Maekar could tell there was no intent behind their strikes, no force in their movements. Playfighting a child, that was what they were doing.
Maekar wanted steel and he wanted pain.
Only Baelor was gracious enough to grant him one of those.
His brother fought him like a man, not a nursemaid appeasing a babe. And though Maekar rarely won their bouts – Baelor was eight and ten after all, an alpha grown, with the height and strength to match such a status – the eldest always made sure to compliment him whenever the prince managed to land a solid hit or parry a tricky blow. He had a skilled tongue and a talent for making even defeat taste sweet. For that, Maekar loathed him and loved him in equal measure.
Baelor would also give him pointers other knights and the master-at-arms – that sullen bastard-lover – were too hesitant or indifferent to provide: ways to improve his footwork, blindspots that could easily be exploited, flaws in his form. Maekar had burned with shame at his mistakes – a clumsy fool he was, since the very moment of birth – yet his brother would merely smile and clap him on the shoulder. Let us do another bout, he would say, ever so patient in the face of Maekar’s failings, Show me what you have learned. And the prince would try his damnest.
A heavy swing took the strawman’s head clean off, stray strands of hay fluttering to the dirt. Panting, Maekar stared at the pale lump. Above him, the sun inched higher and higher in the sky, and the training grounds were quickly filling up. Baelor had promised him he’d come.
But like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, an heir’s duties seemed to have kept even the perfect Baelor Breakspear from fulfilling his oaths.
The prince struck out again, frustrated, this time taking a chunk out of the dummy’s side. There was enough stuffing left to occupy him for a while. Perhaps once the task delaying him was fulfilled, his brother would show up. Until then, he did not want to go around and beg the knights for a spar like some Fleabottom vagrant.
Jaw clenched, Maekar continued his abuse of the strawman before him, drawing amused glances from across the yard. The stares pricked at his skin. Once he was an alpha, things were bound to change. What did it matter if he presented late? As soon as his scent deepened into an alpha’s musk, he’d no longer be a boy in the eyes of these men, but a warrior worthy of their strength. Maekar craved the recognition almost as much as he craved to cast them into the dirt. Those smug bastards always scraped and bowed before the prince yet mocked him with their eyes. They would be the first to taste his mace.
He swung and hit and smashed. Straw littered the ground around him. The sun now climbed the summit of the sky, causing rivulets of sweat to run down his flushed face. Baelor did not come. Maekar raised his arm high, intending to deliver one final blow—
A sharp pain, sudden and devastating, pierced his abdomen. The prince doubled over with a grunt, weapon slipping from his hand. If possible, the ache only intensified, a white-hot pulse churning within his stomach. Dizzying heat spread throughout his hunched body, one which had nothing to do with the sun. Beyond the rushing blood in his ears, Maekar could hear shouts of concern and alarm, as well as a low, pitiful keening. It took a moment for him to realize that the sound came from him.
Something was wrong.
He clenched his eyes shut, trying to block out the pain. There was wetness between his legs, he realized, mortified. Had he truly—?
“My prince! Can you hear me? What—” The frantic words were accompanied by a pair of arms, wrapping around him to hoist him up. They recoiled, however, leading Maekar to slump back down with a whimper. “Oh, by the Seven…”
“W-what…?” the prince barely recognised his own voice, faint as it was. His fingers dug into the flesh of his belly in an attempt to claw at the agony rendering him insensible. Something’swrongsomething’swrongsomething’swrongsomething’swrong. “W-what is…?”
“Alert the guards, quickly!” another voice, farther away, shouted, “The prince has gone into heat!”
----
Maekar had laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Deranged, squealing giggles which must have followed him all the way from the training yard to his own, now sequestered chambers. He reckoned he only stopped once the heat of his treacherous nature overwhelmed him, leaving him only enough air to pant and moan.
He was an omega.
The prince barely remembered anything of his presentation besides the agonising pain and a fever so hot he thought he was being boiled alive. There was no pleasure, no cloying need. Only helplessness and the torment of a body dispossessed.
On the fifth day, Maekar woke near the grey of dawn, exhausted but clear-headed. With weary eyes, he took a look around his chambers. The bed was an utter ruin: pillows thrown to the floor, quilts and duvets ripped open, clothes torn and arranged into a frantic pile which he now found himself lying upon. A nest, he realized, repulsed, I made a fucking nest. His entire form was bathed in sweat and filth, enough to make him want to wretch. Maekar didn’t know which was more distracting, his uncleanliness or the gnawing hunger at the pit of his stomach. He’d barely eaten anything these past days, too lost to his baser urges.
And then there was the smell. Honey with a tinge of citrus. It had no edge or depth to it, only nauseating sweetness. Unmistakably omegan. After almost a week of him writhing around senselessly, the scent had practically fused into the walls, never to be wholly aired out or washed away as long as the prince occupied these chambers.
Maekar brought a trembling hand up to card through his hair, trying to make the sweat-damp locks seem presentable. He was terribly famished and filthy, but he knew that as soon as the servants were called, all the machinations accompanying a royal omega’s presentation would be set in motion.
He wanted just one moment of fucking respite. Was that too much to ask?
Lying back down into the stained mess of his bed, the prince shut his eyes. Why had the gods cursed him so? Maekar was meant to be an alpha – or a damn beta, at least. He had no softness to him, no talent for conversation or needlework. Nor for rearing children. Baelor had jested once that the mace fit him well: he’d always been blunt, hard, and uncompromising. Maekar had preened at the comparison. Those traits suited an alpha, as well as a warrior. Though he’d laughed at his eagerness, the eldest had agreed.
Maekar’s eyes flew open in a panic. Others take him, they could very well forbid him from training! Even if he pretended not to listen, the prince had heard the whispers of the court, and knew their wagging tongues flayed omegas for far less. His inclination for the blade would no longer be a point of pride but a threat to his reputation. The king and queen might decide—
He shook his head. No. Maekar would sooner be dragged to the Wall, court and their gossip be damned. Aerys had his books and tattered scrolls, Rhaegel his tapestries – Baelor had everything – and Maekar had his mace. He could no more part from it than his very nature. Whatever lord or lady his hand shall be given to would have to make peace with that.
Once the sun had fully risen, the prince called for a bath and a simple meal to be brought to him – something he could actually keep down in his state. As the servants filed in with their gazes pinned to the floor, Maekar’s newly sensitive nose recognised them all to be omegas and betas. Those who wouldn’t be affected by the lingering heat scent still potent in the air.
He sighed as he sank into the steaming water just shy of scalding, the aches in his body melting away. Though he preferred to wash by himself, he was weary enough to allow a pair of maids to scrub down his body. Maekar barely kept himself from whimpering as fingers dug into his scalp to rinse the grime from his hair. A solemn air settled about the washroom. Neither women tending to him talked, nor did the prince feel amiable for empty chatter. All he wanted now was a set of clothes not stained by his own slick and breakfast.
The rest of his morning was spent in silence. After finishing his meal, Maekar settled upon the freshly made bed, at a loss as to what to do with himself. Ordinarily, he would have long gone down to the training grounds, but he needn’t trouble himself with trying to get through the guards at the entrance to know he was not yet allowed outside. The fever may have broken, but the heat scent would linger for half a day or so. It made him vulnerable, an easy bait to sniff out. A liability. Maekar clenched his teeth at the thought. As if he wouldn’t cut the cock off of any alpha who dared to presume too much.
Baelor had preached much to him about instincts and control, firm in teaching his brother that an alpha’s innate nature did not entitle him to take any liberties. It might overwhelm you at first, he’d said, twisting the ring around his finger as Maekar leafed through some book on the crown prince’s desk, But you must learn to master yourself, once you are presented. An alpha’s duty is to protect, not dominate. Unleashed, you are no better than a rabid animal. Sound advice, his brother had given, though it proved to be quite useless in the end. How the gods mocked them both.
Lost in his thoughts, the prince must not have heard the footsteps approaching his chambers, only to be startled as the door slid open. Maekar scrambled up. His heart stuttered as he saw the figure standing at the entrance: Mother. Tall and graceful, the queen swept into the room, the silks of her crimson dress fluttering behind. Her face was a mask of polite neutrality, made perfect by years of affectation.
Maekar swallowed, at once wishing to be anywhere else.
With a gesture that was gentle yet assertive, Myriah cupped Maekar’s face, warm fingers caressing his jaw as she assessed her son. Neither spoke.
“How are you, my dear?” the queen asked at last, “Are there any spells of dizziness? Any blood?” Her concern was not without reason. Maekar could recognise that his presentation had proved far more intense than it should have been, perhaps because it was so long delayed. Omegas of weaker constitution have been known to succumb to intense fever of heats. Perhaps Myriah saw the same frailty in her youngest son as well.
Maekar’s brows twitched, caught between his desire to pull away or to lean deeper into the touch.
“I am well, Mother,” he rasped out, gaze lingering on the necklace of rubies she wore. He did not wish to look at her directly.
Myriah hummed, grasp tightening for a moment. “Are you?” she asked. Eyes still averted, Maekar did not answer.
His mother let go of him with a sigh. “Very well,” she reached out to straighten the sleeves of his robe, “I’m afraid you must remain inside your chambers for today. The heat scent is still too strong,” though she tried to hide it, Maekar saw the involuntary wrinkle of her nose, “I shall send a maester to have you examined. Complications could easily arise with such intense presentations. Be certain to behave yourself,” she added sternly, noticing the frown on her son’s face, “He will be there to ensure your health, not to torment you.”
“Aye, Mother, as you say,” the prince grumbled. To be at the mercy of an old man’s grasping hands was a displeasure all of its own, but there was no arguing with the queen.
“New servants shall be needed. I will choose them personally,” Myriah continued, almost to herself. A hand reached to fidget with the carved gold bracelet she wore. “You shall require ladies to wait on you as well. The Hand has already offered one of his daughters, but Lady Alynne is only a beta. A fellow omega with proper breeding would be the best. Perhaps a governess—”
“Mother, please,” Maekar interrupted, feeling a frustrated growl rise within his throat. The scent around him soured, its citrus tinge sharpening. “Let us not discuss this so soon.”
A cool gleam appeared in the queen’s eyes. “As you wish. But whether it is to your liking or not, you are not an alpha – though the Gods know you act like one. All of us were fooled,” the biting tone caused the prince to lower his gaze in shame, “I know you are disappointed,” she said, softer this time. Weary. Myriah sat down beside him, the bedding dipping beneath her weight. “But Maekar, you must understand: the realm shall not turn a blind eye to an omega’s improper conduct. Even if they are the blood of the dragon.”
“I never—” he began before cutting himself off. Why did the Gods, in all their bloody wisdom, make him an omega? Maekar had always lacked gentleness. No, he was a boulder, solid and immovable. Stubborn to a fault, Baelor often laughed. You shall be a devoted husband, dearest brother.
He felt his mother’s eyes boring into him as if with a single look, she could scour the depths of his very soul. A ring-laden hand reached out to steady his own. Maekar only realized then that he was shaking.
“Rest now,” Myriah said, thumb drawing circles around his son’s skin, “Maester Grynn will be with you shortly,” Maekar nodded, already dreading the visit.
She stood then, smoothing down her skirts. “Should you feel well enough, join us for supper tonight. Your father wishes for us all to be together, in the wake of such a… momentous occasion.”
Maekar worried his lip. Attending would mean facing the king, as well as his brothers, with the scent of heat still clinging to him. Gods, he would have to face Baelor. Of all, Maekar wanted to witness his disappointment the least.
“…I shall try, Mother,” he said at last, closing his eyes. With one last caress to his hair, Myriah slipped from the room, leaving her youngest child to brood.
----
A kingsguard flocked to his side as soon as Maekar set foot outside his chamber, dressed plainly, in a black doublet and breeches. Ser Gwayne Corbray was tall, rather broad in stature for a beta, and his skill with the sword put to shame even most of his sworn brothers. The prince had experienced it firsthand, having once been able to coax a proper spar from the knight.
Maekar had worn those bruises with pride.
Now, Ser Gwayne shadowed him in silence as they walked towards the king’s apartments. This part of the Red Keep had always been reserved solely for his family’s use, and thus Maekar was subjected only to the wide-eyed stares of servants. The whole castle was sure to be rife with gossip by now, all of it at his expense.
He grit his teeth, attempting to keep his scent from souring. His control over it would solidify in time, the maester had assured, but until then, every fleeting emotion was doomed to leak out into the air around him.
Exposed. Vulnerable. Weak.
A fool who had convinced himself he’d be an alpha.
Once they reached his father’s rooms, Maekar nodded his thanks to Ser Gwayne, then stepped through the door. Steeled himself for what was to come.
“Maekar!” King Daeron rose from his seat at the head of the table. With a bright grin, he beckoned his youngest son to come closer. Maekar obeyed, observing the room. On his father’s left sat the queen, her smile a touch more restrained. After a moment, she nudged Aerys – lost within some tome, as usual – to get his attention. Reluctantly, his brother raised his head to nod at Maekar, before continuing to read. Rhaegel, seated opposite, hummed a little tune, looking through him with a faraway expression. “It gladdens me that you could join us. Come, sit.”
“Father,” the prince said, forcing a stilted smile. He lowered himself upon the remaining chair between Rhaegel and Baelor, who sat to their father’s right, as always. Almost instinctively, he stole a glance at him.
Perfect. How else could one describe Baelor Breakspear? Handsome, with impeccable manners and poise, dark in colouring except for the pale violet of his left eye. Gracious, just, wise. Rarely prone to anger or envy. An alpha of exemplary conduct. Baelor the Great – that is how the histories shall remember him.
Maekar would be fortunate to have even a footnote.
He listened absently to what his father and brother were discussing – benefits of some new tax that was to be levied – eyes drifting, without much thought, to Baelor’s lips. The eldest laughed at something their sire said – then, as if sensing the attention, the mismatched gaze flicked over to meet Maekar’s.
It was a soft look, brimming with affection and sympathy. Pitying. Unable to bear it, Maekar averted his stare, piling a chunk of braised pork on his plate despite his lacking appetite.
All throughout their meal, Maekar had quietly waited for the other shoe to drop. For Father or one of his brothers to congratulate him, to remark on the honey-citrus scent clinging to his skin, or perhaps for the king to broach the topic of would-be suitors. Yet nothing of the sort happened. Talk around the table drifted from one menial subject to another. Aerys – persuaded to lay down his book for once – described in great detail an ancient scroll he had acquired a copy of from the Citadel. Next, they listened patiently as Rhaegel recounted seeing a songbird nesting outside his window. Baelor had an anecdote of his own to share about the last council meeting, amusing enough to get a dry chuckle out of even Aerys. Inevitably, the topic of the queen’s nameday feast was brought up, which, of course, quickly devolved into a debate about which guests would prove most advantageous to invite. Maekar chose to remain silent through it all, prodding at the half-eaten portion on his plate.
Bit by bit, a realization dawned on him.
His family was acting as if nothing had changed.
He could see the strain of it reflected in their expressions, this gracious ignorance. Minute twitches and tightening lips as they skirted around the truth which lay between them, blatant in the very air they breathed.
Somehow, this play-pretend wounded him worse. Already, he was being handled like fragile goods. As if he was some sensitive, frail omega, not to be upset lest he’s driven to hysterics.
Abruptly, Maekar stood from the table, muttering an excuse he later could not recall, then fled from the room. He heard his mother call out to him, the scraping of chairs as they scrambled to rise up. But their concern was not enough to stop him.
Tail tucked between his legs, he practically ran back to his apartments, a startled Ser Gwayne dogging his steps all the while. Maekar had half a mind to turn around and tell the kingsguard to fuck off as well, but restrained himself knowing the man was now sworn to follow him around – to shield his purity or some other horseshit.
The prince slammed the door shut hard enough to rattle its hinges. With a half-finished supper churning in his stomach, he threw himself onto the bed, burying his face in the sheets. Fuck. Maekar couldn't even hold out for a single meal. Pathetic. All those lessons in etiquette had been wasted on him, he knew. Ill-tempered and foul-mouthed, the septas always complained. A blaggard in all but birth.
His neck was itching like the hells – had been since the last tendrils of heat had dissolved. Lifting his head, Maekar’s gaze sought out the row of tinctures arranged upon his vanity. Maester Grynn had left them for him, to help with the irritation around his scent glands and other areas.
Sitting up, Maekar loosened the high-collared doublet he’d worn for dinner, then reached over for one of the bottles. He might as well apply it again before bed. Pouring some of the medicinal oil onto his palm, he warmed it between his hands, then pulled the fabric further open. The prince breathed a stuttering sigh as he massaged the salve into his skin.
A knock sounded at the door, giving him pause. Maekar didn't answer. Once the silence stretched on too long, the one on the other side knocked again, more frantic this time.
Baelor. Of course it was bloody Baelor.
“Brother?” the eldest’s worry was evident through his voice, “Are you well? Do you wish for the maester to be called?”
Maekar took a steadying breath. “I’m fine,” he replied, “Merely tired, is all,” His fingers dug deeper into flesh.
With a quiet creak, the door slid open, revealing the tall figure of his brother. Baelor’s scent – no longer mingled with the pheromones of the rest of their family and agitated by his fretting – hit Maekar’s newly sensitive nose with full force. Never before had the smell of smoke and jasmine seemed so overwhelming before.
Something primal roared at him through the pulse in his head: instinct. Before he could stop himself, the prince whined and tilted his head to expose his neck further. Submission.
His control slipped only for a moment, but that was enough. Face burning, Maekar flattened a hand over the glands – as if covering his shame could undo what had just transpired. Humiliation soured the scent around him.
On the other side of the room, Baelor froze, expression shifting to something unreadable.
“I-I…” the prince stuttered, but his brother put a hand up to stop him.
“Forgive me,” he said gently, taking a step backwards, “Mother warned of this. I should not have—” he cut himself off. Maekar could sense as Baelor’s scent receded, reigned in by his brother’s iron-like grip around his nature. Still, the way the man shifted from one foot to the other, twisting the signet ring around his fingers, belied his embarrassment – a rare thing indeed to see displayed. “…I only wished to know that you are hale.”
“Well, I am, as you can plainly see,” the words came out harsher than Maekar intended, “But it has been a miserable week for me, brother. Stop your nagging and let me rest.”
He did not wish to endure Baelor’s kindness while unraveling at the seams.
The eldest inclined his head. “Of course, I understand,” he hesitated, as if wanting to continue, but in the end said only: “Sleep well.”
Maekar’s mumbled farewell could barely be heard as the door closed. Placing the tincture bottle back onto his vanity, he stripped to his nightshirt and snuffed out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. He wormed his way under the covers, hoping for a night of proper sleep. But no matter how hard the prince tried, the lingering scent of smoke and jasmine plagued his mind for long after Baelor had departed.