Chapter Text
His first memory came to him when he was a boy of five. Back when the Realm appeared purer, grander, infrangible, through the wonderstruck, ignorant eyes of a sheltered child.
He remembers a slight tussle of snow-white curls peaking through a burgundy, molten-wine velvet cloth adorned in gold string. Chubby cheeks dusted apple red. Fat fingers, smaller than a walnut but strong enough to grip his own within his tenacious grasp, strength disproportionate to the slight bundle he beheld with awe.
Valarr remembers the most beautiful violet eyes he’d ever seen. Big and wide, much softer and lighter than his uncles’ own, but, within them, mirrored the entire ethereal cosmos in the sky. A million twinkling stars reflecting off of lilac oceans, like they had been personally painted by the Gods above. Divine, mythical, otherworldly. Valyrian.
The small babe bore up at him, curious eyes far too large for his head, and smiled, gummy and sweet. Valarr grinned back, mouthing a whispered greeting, worried his own voice would startle the child.
“Would you care to hold him, sweetling?” The mother’s silk voice captured the Young Prince’s attention, his eyes drifting from soft lilac to deep amethyst eyes, dark chestnut curls and warm, sun-kissed skin. Lady Dyanna Dayne. His aunt, the mother of the baby, held comfortably in her protective embrace.
Valarr looked at the fragile pup, small and precious. He’d never held one before. He looked down at his own grubby hands, fresh cuts from sparing lessons and burgundy bruises from wrestling with his cousin and other High-born sons littered his tan knuckles. His palms hardly seemed fit to crable the bundle.
Dyanna, as though she'd read his intrinsic burdens and concerns, gripped one of his small hands within her own - pristine and unsoiled, a striking and ugly contrast from his tarnished skin. He recoiled from her offered touch, though she held him firm.
“Come, I’ll help you. Do not worry yourself, Valarr, you will not harm him. Though, I can afford no promises that this little one won't harm you, he has quite a fearsome grip." She giggled and her jests loosened the tension in his shoulders and dissolved the poisonous uncertainty plaguing his mind.
He allowed himself closer to the Dayne who softly guided the weight of the newest born Targaryen in his own, small arms. Valarr’s mismatched eyes peered at the infant settled within his foreign, unfamiliar hold; the babe cooed and giggled, seemingly content within his cousin's seemingly pleasant embrace.
“You’re a natural, my Prince.” Dyanna praised, resting her fatigued body against a mountain of pillows and silks blanketing her weight. Her palm cradled the small of her pup's head, flattening the white tuffs that decorated his crown. She smiled proudly at the life she’d birthed.
“What’s his name?” Valarr questioned, he tentatively rocked the small infant in his arms, mimicking what he'd seen Dyanna do just moments before.
“Aerion.” She hummed. The baby gurgled at the sound, recognizing his mother’s sing-song tone. “Aerion Targaryen. Your uncle named him, told me he desired to gift one of his sons a name not yet written in the maester’s history scrolls.”
“So like me!? Father says I’ll be the first of my name also!” He grinned, his smile boyish and missing a tooth.
A knock settled at the door, Dyanna nodded and permitted one of her handmaids to open the timber doors. Valarr watched as his father and uncle entered the large chambers, looking ever the part of Targaryen nobility, however their smiles were pleasantly soft, kind, gracious; eyes wrinkled with age and mirth - domestic elation reserved from the public, secluded to the privacy of their walls and family. Maekar carried Daeron in his grasp - the boy just a few months younger than Valarr himself.
“Oh, what a sight to welcome our eyes.” Baelor rejoiced, though his tone was subdued to not stir the calm, dozing pup in his son's grasp. “I’m glad to see you’ve acquainted yourself with your newest cousin, Valarr.”
“Your son has quite the talent for handling babies, your Grace.” Dyanna gloated. “He’ll make a fine elder brother once his sibling is born to the Realm, Gods be good."
Maekar stepped towards his wife and placed a sweet peck onto her clammy temple, allowing himself to closely study his son and nephew, eyes hard with unspoken disquietude. Daeron replicated his stoic father and planted a wet kiss onto Dyanna's cheek and abandoned Maekar’s arms, opting to settle next to his mother, nuzzling into her side.
“Daeron must set a good example then.” Baelor jostled Daeron's dirty blond curlets. "You must teach little Aerion on the ways of becoming a proper Targaryen Prince."
“I will, uncle, I will! I’ll be the best elder brother this Realm has ever seen.” Daeron, ever the eager pup to please, jumped up and down, emphasizing his determination with uncoordinated movements. Baelor lifted his nephew into his arms, earning himself another burst of loud giggles and a slight reprieve from Dyanna, and feigned offense.
“Do not steal my title from me, Daeron. It's the sole honor that I reap from the burden of handling your father as a young pup." Baelor jested, childlike mischief dripping from his words, like sweet honey hoping to attract the viscious, irate reactions from his youngest brother.
However, Maekar made no comment, he'd rolled his eyes and sighed, disgruntled. No ill-suited comment; no attempt at denying the accusations; not even a clout to his brother's ear. Odd. Valarr had noticed and Baelor seemed to have caught on as well.
The Targaryen Heir freed Daeron from the shackles of his heavy arms and stepped towards his son, who had remained focused and headstrong with the crushing responsibility of rocking the sweet infant to sleep. Baelor kneeled before the two young princlings. “You’ll do well to protect and care for your cousin, Valarr. He’s your family, your blood. There is no greater bond, nor greater love, than that between family”
“I will!” Valarr exclaimed, a bit too eager, a bit too thunderous.
Aerion stirred in his hold, the abrupt calamity of far too many rambunctious voices urged him to become fussy and irritable.
"I'm sorry!" Valarr worried, guilt consuming him from the inside out. "I'm sorry, Aerion, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry."
“Your Grace, if it please, the young Prince is due for a feeding.” The milkmaid addressed the Heir, and Valarr was quick to return the troubled son to his mother, watching as Dyanna sang and rocked the grumpy pup into a state of temporary calm.
"It's okay Valarr, you did nothing wrong, sweetling." Dyanna calmed the Prince, though her words did little to ease his unrest. He grasped onto his father's leg, hiding his face into the fabric covering his thigh and bit back salty tears that threatened to spill.
“Dyanna, sister, we’ll be taking our leave now. I do hope you recover with haste. As I do wish to receive you and young Prince Aerion in Dragonstone soon. My brother is not nearly as charitable in his visits when it’s just his company I’m expecting.”
Dyanna snorted when Maekar slammed an elbow into his brother’s ribs, though his aggression held no ill-intent, nor true irritation.
“If the Gods are good, I’ll be in Dragonstone in time to accompany Lady Jena’s labors and welcome the third in line to the Iron Throne.” She looked down at Aerion, face scrunched into an adorable scowl, reminiscent of her husband's own pout. “Now, I must attend to my sweet prince, before he inherits his father’s ire due to insatiable hunger.”
Maekar sighed before leading Baelor, Daeron and Valarr out of his wife’s chambers and into the brilliantly radiant halls of Summerhall. Every bit of summer castle was an ostentatious fuse of Dayne and Targaryen cultures, from stars and dragons woven into every wool tapestry and silk curtain and carved into marble columns within the Hall. It was a palette of deep scarlets infused with pastel hues of purple. It was opulence yet domesticity. It was regal yet home. Light trickled through the colored glass panes down onto the floors, littering them in an iridescent shine. They followed the colored floors into the Prince of Summerhall’s private study.
The Elders made quick work of pouring themselves a chalice of wine, resting their weight into plush armchairs. The two pups eagerly ran, danced and pranced around the decorated space, looking in every which corner, aweing at the monstrous shelves housing an impossible amount of books, far too many to count; swords, axes, morningstars and daggers littered the long walls, most won from duels, jousts and war; some family heirlooms, others bought mere moments before they’d been lost and turned to mere ornaments for Maekar's own personmal quarters.
Valarr's prior frustration had been repressed as Daeron placed a heavy book in his lap, ancient and dust-covered.
“I must admit, I have always admired your lady-wife’s wit. Father chose her well for you, brother.”
“Ever my misfortune, that the both of you hold similar aspirations to disturb my peace.” Baelor choked on the bittersweet nectar, and smiled at his younger brother.
“Now, don’t be like that, Maekar. Pouting hardly suits you.” His eyes temporarily drifted to their Heirs, their first-born sons. He took small sips from the golden goblet. Baelor paused before gulping down the Dornish drink and glancing back towards Maekar.
“I would have hoped that after the birth of little Aerion you would allow yourself to untangle yourself from your constant state of frustration and yet, you seem even more troubled now than before Dyanna’ labors had begun. Why is that?”
Baelor swirled his wine in his golden chalice. Observing as it pooled and waved and became an ultimate storm. His eyes met Maekar's.
Expectant. Patient.
A pregnant pause loomed heavy over them, like a cataclysmic storm clouding the sky, imminent and suffocating.
Valarr and Daeron flipped through aged pages inscribed with ruins they could not read and drawings of magical creatures that had long been lost to the times and myths. Dragons, giants, merlings and children of the forest… Valarr wasn’t much focusing on the portraits, far more curious on the two brother’s flaring discussion.
“The maesters have brought… concerning news… of Aerion’s possible presentation.”
“And what have the maesters spoken of the boy’s status?”
Maekar breathed out and chugged his wine. He filled the chalice full and chugged another. His head laid back against the cushioned headrest of his chair; long, platinum hair cascading unelegantly around his face and shoulders. Valarr recalled believing his uncle had aged twenty years older then. Shackled by the pressure of unquieted distress and matters impossible for Valarr to comprehend.
“Omegan.”
“Are you certain?” His father’s mismatched eyes glinted with something awakened - a fire scorching hot within his deep violet and auburn eyes, blazing with intrigue, resolve, hunger.
“They believe so.” Maekar rubbed the bridge of his nose, massaging the aches from his throbbing temples. Useless. “The maesters said it’s apparent in his… anatomy. Only the Gods know what that could possibly fucking mean. Though we’ll only know for certain once he comes into his presentation, they’re certain there is no mistake and no truth more irrefutable. He'll present an Omega.”
Baelor poured himself another glass and looked out into the forests secluding SummerHall. Thoughtful. Not even Maekar could dissect the Hand of the King's tumultuous thoughts.
For a brief moment, the study was silent, save for the occasional flipped page heard or an echoed gulp of wine.
And suddenly...
“That could be good for us, Maekar.”
“Please, Baelor-”
“Maekar, if it is true, Aerion will be the first-born Targaryen Omega since the time of old. It would be wise to settle an arrangement, one that will benefit us, our House!”
“With your own kin, you mean.” Maekar grumbled. Valarr remembers his uncle’s deep plum eyes meeting his own. They were a tempest of inflamed anger, venomous and vicious.
What had he done to anger his uncle?
“Precisely. The Realm was at its most affluent and prosperous when it was ruled by an Omega and Alpha Targaryen - it is written in our history. This is surely a sign of the Gods, old and new, that a union between our two branches is bound to strengthen our House, our Blood, as it was in the time of Old Valyria, of Aegon the Dragon.”
"Never took you for someone who defended such foolish fucking beliefs." Maekar gritted between teeth, lowering his voice so the children wouldn't overhear.
Valarr overheard.
"I normally would not, and I do not." Baelor sighed, combing calloused fingers through graying onyx-hair. “I want nothing more than for Valarr and your own son to live normally, to wed through love and not through duty. But, they were not afforded those pleasures when they inherited out name, during times of war and rebellion, when we face constant threats of usurpation, of false claims to the Iron Throne.”
Maekar looked away. He swallowed his third? fourth? glass of wine. This conversation was aging far beyond his years and Valarr remembered taking pity on his uncle.
"The maesters are certain Valarr will present an Alpha. They hold no reservations.” Baelor knitted his fingers together, playing with the silver rings embellishing his hands. "Aerion and Valarr's union would secure us unrefutable, undeniable Targaryen Heirs, ones born from an Omega and Alpha, like the ways of Old, like the ways of our ancestors."
"And what of our allies? What of securing matrimonial alliances with the other Houses of the Realm?" Maekar breathed, heavy and animalistic, dragon-like. He pushed his chalice away, no longer consoled by the bitter tang of dornish wine.
“We need to strengthen our allies, yes. And if the Gods are good and just, Jena and I will bear many more sons and daughters who will wed into the Great Houses of the Realm. As will you and Aerys and Rhaegel, with your sons and daughters.”
Baelor sat straighter in his own seat. His eyes
“Valarr is second in line to the Iron Throne. A first born Alpha son. Many will make patronage of their Omega daughters and maidens, to strengthen their own House and name. But, we must first strengthen our own blood, through his union with Aerion. I will make it my responsibility to discipline Valarr into an Alpha and man worth your s-”
Maekar laughed, though it lacked any real mirth. He glared down on his brother, expression hard, furious.
“And so my boy is nothing more than a glorified, cockwarming Queen, to be wed off, breed and pop out future Heirs for the future fucking King?”
“Maekar, I never said-”
“But you implied it!” Maekar growled. “I will fight for you brother, I’ll bleed and put my life aside for your own blood, but, Aerion is my son. My son is but a fortnight old and we’re discussing presentations, betrothals and heirs. Fuck me! Baelor, I will not allow it.”
Daeron and Valarr had long since disposed their focus from the book on mystical creatures and deities; now, quietly engrossed in the heated battle of tongues between brothers. None understand their words. Alpha, Omega, betrothals and heirs, it seemed as imperceptible as the archaic ruins scratched into the torn pages they had just looked into.
“Very well.”
“Ver- Very Well? What could you possibly mean by very fucking well?”
Valaar felt his father's gaze on him, he could almost sense the weight of his exasperated glare on him. He remembered wondering why his and Aerion's relationship was so urgently imperative to the Realm.
He got along just fine with Daeron, yet neither his father nor uncle seemed so affected by their friendship.
Why was Aerion so special?
“Let them blossom into their presentations, let them become men of their own and find themselves in this world. When they’re old enough to comprehend the necessity of their matrimony, the burden of their blessings, we’ll betroth them.”
Maekar sighed through his nose and let his body slump into the chair. His aristocratic posture melting off his form, resigned, defeated.
“And if they oppose, Baelor? Or, what if they abhor one another? How stable do you believe this Realm will become with a Targaryen King who loathes his Consort? Do you believe Valarr capable of popping more bastards out of his cock than our grandfather? Perhaps one of his own bastards will start a new rebellion...”
“Let’s pray that it’ll never come to that.”
Valarr, just a boy of five, was unfamiliar with the concepts of Alphas and Omegas, marriages and betrothals, wars and rebellion. The words were as alien and estranged as valyrian was on his tongue.
Now, a man of nearly twenty-one, he was well versed in secondary presentations, the burdens and responsibilities forced upon him by his Alphan nature, the expectations of being the Alpha Heir to the Targaryen throne.
His unavoidable betrothal, looming over his shoulders like a tempestuous storm.
His first memory was a haunting omen of his forthcoming doom.
Valarr was a man of one and twenty, trudging forwards into an unwanted, unsought and inescapable matrimony.