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MAEKAR
As a Kingsguard Ser Richard Blackwood was as close to the royal family as one could get. He’d been sworn in not seven years prior, yet he already understood many things. He’d taken the same oath as the other six Kingsguard, to protect and give his life in service to House Targaryen. Coming from all over the Seven Kingsdoms his sworn brothers couldn’t be more different aside from their oaths. Yet, there was one thing they agreed upon. Prince Maekar was perhaps the loveliest creature to grace their sights.
The youngest Omega son of their Good King Daeron was a vision; his luscious silver hair braided loosely over one shoulder and kohl lines his eyes which were the colour of ripe plums. He was the living proof of the claim that the children of Valyria were closer to Gods than men.
Even the pox scars on his cheeks and chin couldn't mar his loveliness - they added a layer of resilience to him, if anything. He had survived the fateful illness that claimed so many pups and grown into his strength. For if there was one man who could stand against his brother, the greatly admired Prince Baelor, it was him. Where his mother was slight, as most Omegas, Prince Maekar stood tall and broad.
Any Kingsguard could attest to the Omega's prowess with both the sword and his mace.
As a late bloomer, no one would have believed the youngest son of the King would be an Alpha like his older brother. Maekar had trained since the age of eleven. He was known to swing a mace, many a squire might rip a muscle picking up.
Ser Richard remembered the day vividly.
What had started as an ordinary morning, by noon had the entire Court in uproar by noon. When the Prince retreated into his chambers one eve, he didn't venture back outside until a fortnight had passed. Word spread quickly - Prince Maekar had presented at last.
It was customary for the royal family to undergo their presentation period surrounded by family members only. Prince Baelor had remained in the royal nest for four days following his. Yet that time was spent curled up with his Omega mother and much younger siblings, perfectly appropriate for a boy growing into teenagerhood.
Everything was different when Prince Maekar blossomed.
Ser Richard remembered the day he first caught the pale-haired prince's scent for the first time. Ripe peaches from Dorne mixed with the fresh scent of peppermint. He nearly staggered to his knees when the door to Prince Maekar’s rooms burst open. The delicious aroma drifted into the hallway, causing the guards standing at the top of the staircase to stiffen in shock.
Instead of the Queen or Prince Rhaegel, Prince Baelor stood at the door. His spicy alpha pheromones exploded a moment later. Ser Richard had been in the King's presence enough times to know what Targaryen Alpha scents could do. They were twice as strong as the most potent Alpha in his prime, even without meaning to. Faced with such a strong combination of Protection-Possession-Dominance, Ser Richard dropped to one knee on instinct. "My Prince?"
"My brother has taken to Pre-Heat. Withdraw all guards from this wing of the castle and alert the King and Queen."
“What of Prince Maekar?” Ser Richard asked. He shifted under his prince’s glare. “It is protocol for him to be brought to the Queen-”
Prince Baelor’s eyes had a particular quality to them. One brown and the other a deep violet, they could exude both authority and warmth. Now they both appeared black as night. A subvocal rumbling escaped from him, turning Ser Richard’s spine from steel to liquid. He whimpered, sinking down on both knees instinctively.
“You will follow my orders and remove yourself at once, Ser Richard. Tell my parents that Maekar will not be taken anywhere. He is my responsibility.”
Ser Richard gasped for breath, trying to clear his airways of the oppressive pheromones. Prince Baelor’s scent was so sharp his eyes watered harshly. “Yes, Your Grace.”
If later asked how he ended up in the King’s study, Ser Richard wouldn’t be able to answer even under the threat of violence. His feet carried out the Alpha Command given by Baelor without conscious thought. Only hours later, when he’d been dismissed from his duty for that day, did Richard realise what happened.
Prince Baelor’s could’ve commanded him to slit his own neck. He could have any member of the staff tear out their own eyes for catching a glimpse of his little brother’s state. Then reason chased away these thoughts. The heir to the throne was a good man. Fair and chivalrous. Level-headed and caring. Prince Maekar was in good hands.
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DAERON
Maekar spent many a night in his sons’ rooms. His youngest, little Aegon, was still in the nursery alongside Daella and Rhae, but his older children expressed a desire for their own rooms. Where Valarr had been thrilled to have a place, his things were kept safe from Aemon’s or Aerion’s curiosity; his second oldest hated it.
The dreams started when Daeron was just shy of six years old. Every night he would wake half the hall with shrieks and screams. The first dozen times it had happened Maekar had bolted down the hallway in a blind panic. Baelor followed half a step behind him, gripping his Valyrian steel dagger and growling loudly. Then they would find his little baby sweat-soaked, terrified, and shaking with no threat to vanquish beyond the ones living in his head.
Baelor had every Maester, herb woman, alchemist and multiple Septons attend to their child for a period of nearly six moons. None could find what was wrong. Maekar had, in a moment of motherly instinct, nearly bitten off a Septa’s finger who had overreached by trying to cuff his pup. The woman was dismissed from their services and narrowly escaped losing her hand due to Baelor’s intervention.
Their child’s terrible sleep habits put the whole household under pressure. Queen Myriah Martell was the one to suggest giving Daeron milk of the poppy to help him sleep. Maekar’s instincts screamed at the idea of rendering his pup so pliant and defenceless. But what else was there to do?
The drug worked for a long time – it made Daeron’s night bearable but couldn’t be administered more than twice a week. So for five days, his son was cursed to sleep in small increments or not at all.
By the time his seventh name-day came, they’d had no other choice but to separate Daeron from his brothers by giving him the room in the highest western tower of the royal apartments. Daeron made no screte of how hurt he was by this. Maekar hated it. He prayed to the Mother, the Maiden and the Crone in the Sept of Baelor. If his saintly great-uncle were alive still, he would have surely fasted for Daeron.
Having grown up with a father who was constantly in demand, Maekar made it mandatory that he spend a few hours every day with one of his children.
After the younger children went down for their midday nap, Maekar set up camp in the nest he’d made in Daeron’s room. He took mental stock of all his pups. Aemon was reclined on a stack of pillows to Maekar’s left, reading quietly from the Seven-Pointed Star. Aerion and Matarys were off terrorising the squires in the training yard. Daella and Valarr were with Baelor, as they took to following him around the Keep after lunch. That left Daeron.
His second-oldest son had curled up in Maekar’s lap, his face buried in his stomach. Maekar breathed in the smell of Content-Warm-Safe chocolate spilling out from his little dreamer.
“Is Daeron asleep?” Aemon asked quietly.
“No,” Daeron answered. He lifted his head the barest bit to open one lazy eye. Maekar brushed his hand over his tangled blonde locks. “I’m not.”
“You could if you wished to,” Maekar said.
Daeron closed his eyes again and rolled over, jostling the blankets. He scratched his cheek absently. “I don’t want to dream.”
Maekar hummed. He directed a burst of Protection-Love-Safety to Daeron. The nest smelled of all his children – Valarr’s spearmint, Daeron’s chocolate and hazelnuts, and the newest presented Aemon’s beeswax and cherries. The unpresented pups left a thick layer of milk over everything, tying it all together under Maekar’s peaches and whipped cream. Daeron shuffled and rolled in the closest piece of clothing, which happened to be one of Matarys’ sleep shirts. He needed a haircut soon. All his pups were so different.
Daella, the only sibling Daeron shared a hair colour with, wore hers braided back with ribbons and jewels. Aerion insisted on his shorn very short. Matarys wore his dark brown curls past his shoulders. Valarr had a cut very similar to Baelor, but kept his silver streak longer. Aemon, Aegon and Rhae had the same platinum strands as Maekar himself and didn’t care much either way. As long as it didn’t get caught while playing, they let their parents decide.
“Maybe you won’t,” Aemon said. “I don’t dream every night.”
Daeron grumbled something under his breath that Maekar didn’t catch, but Aemon did. A rare huff of amusement escaped his lips. Aemon was as serious as a grave – another thing he’d inherited from his mother. Maekar had heard his whole life that he was too dour for an Omega. At least as a Beta, Aemon’s serious demeanour was stoic instead of cold. He was allowed to be stern and respectful without being labelled as Maekar had been.
Aemon pushed his books aside to wrap his arms around his older brother. His scent grew stronger, bursting with tart cherries that made Daeron’s shoulders relax inch by inch.
“Rest, lēkia. Muña and I will look out for you. Your dreams can’t hurt you here.”
Maekar wrapped his arms around both boys and pressed them close. “We won’t let anything hurt you, Sweetling.”
Daeron held out for a few more minutes before his eyelids became too heavy to fight it. Drunk on his mother’s scent, he just so managed to say, “Thank you, Muña.”
Markar purred back. He’d keep the worst fears at bay for at least a few hours. His sweet pup was too young to be so pale. He would speak to Baelor on the morrow to request healers from the Free Cities. One of them had to be able to help his pup.