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Chapter Text

Driftmark.

Aegon had never thought much of the island. Hadn’t the opportunity to visit the home of House Velaryon, and had it not been for the death of Laena Velaryon, he probably would never need step foot on it’s fields.

The funeral of Daemon’s late wife had been a mundane obligation for Aegon, tedious and monotonous – as were many of his regal obligations. And it wasn’t as though the Targaryen prince was emotionless or cruel-natured, no, he had been concerned with more disquieting affairs; his own thoughts and better judgement reduced to lawless anarchy, so much so, he cared not to present himself saddened or remorseful for the deceased mother nor her children she had left behind.

On the contrary, he had drunk his weight in lavish wines, from dusk till dawn. Whilst the sun had set, iridescent brilliance overtaken by ebony skies, and the radiant moon rose from it’s slumber, bright and full, illuminating the vast shores, Aegon had remained in solitude, unbothered and content with abandonment.

He’d resided for most of the evening on a cold, stone corner secluded from the sumptuous Castle and it’s residents. The desolate location overlooked the dark tides of Blackwater Bay rising and flowing, salty breeze sweeping Aegon’s curly blond hair away from his flushed face. The ambience was tranquil, quiet, serene… nothing alike the chaotic, mayhem of King’s Landing.

The silence was unsettling, Aegon had grown accustomed to deafening his problems, worries and feelings with the rambunctious ruckus of the Red Keep. Now, he had nothing to quiet down his mind.

The young prince, rested his head on the rough stone that supported his sore back, closing his exhausted eyes as he washed down the final droplets of wine within his golden goblet, hoping the strong alcohol would numb his mind, his heart, his soul.

He did not mourn the loss of Laena Velaryon.

No, he mourned the loss of himself. 

For Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, prince of the Realm, born and raised to become the next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms  (even though it was against his own desires and wishes) had presented as an Omega.

Only a fortnight before their departure towards Driftmark, Aegon had awoken in the middle of twilight in a cold-sweat, body perspired, feverish and uncomfortable. Cramps rolled through his muscles, each more intense than the last, and all he could do was wither in his silk sheets dampened with sweat, blood and a new foreign fluid, slick. The very next morning the Grand Maester had visited his chambers, examined him and shortly after announced that Aegon was of Omegan nature.

The first Omega born Targaryen since the ancient times of Old Valyria. Despite his unique circumstances, the Omega did not perceive his presentation as some grand blessing from the Gods, but rather a curse.

Aegon held few remembrances of his torturous heat, most memories a vague blur, a conglomeration of pain, arousal and desperation for an Alpha, any Alpha to claim, mate and breed him. But it hadn’t been the agonizing pain nor the insatiable thirst to be fucked that made him abhor his second nature. No, it had been Alicent’s cold reception to the diagnosis that hurt, burned and stung like acid on an open wound.

He would never forget his Mother’s face the moment the Grand Maester had confirmed her dreaded suspicions of his Omegan status. He watched as the familiar look of disappointment and discontent took  over her elegant features as her first-born son demonstrated, yet again, that he was her greatest misfortune and failure in life.

Alicent Hightower held impossibly high expectations for Aegon. Since he could recall, she had been instructing him on proper etiquette, ordered him to attend countless, tiresome lessons on his history and lineage, military strategies and the rules of the Court – all so, when the day come that Viserys Targaryen parted, he’d usurp his sister and ascend the Iron Throne.

Aegon never cared. He’d never thought himself a just or decent person and never wished to thieve what was rightfully Rhaenrya’s to claim. He held no dream of ruling nor did he thirst for unparalleled power, he much preferred to whore and drink himself to his early grave, content with a simple existence. His aspirations and disobedience only ever resulted in brutal beatings, stricter rules, perpetual control and surveillance from guards, handmaidens and any other soul his mother had commanded to observe his every move and breath.

And life itself metamorphosized from pleasurable freedom to an unbearable responsibility. The young child, once joyful and hopeful had been dispirited, beaten and maimed, until all that was left was the sad, pathetic man that drowned himself in his cups until his depressive existence numbed into momentary blissfulness.

Despite his misgivings, Alicent still remained resolute on sitting Aegon on the Conqueror’s Throne, it was his birth right she’d reiterate ceaselessly, determined to have her children, the Hightower blood succeed Viserys and not Rhaenrya, even if that meant that Aegon, her detested son would be the next heir.

Her resolve was proven fruitless, as Aegon, proved himself an ineligible Heir to the Seven Kingdoms.

No Omega was fit to rule.

No Omega would sit the Throne.

All that Aegon had been groomed to become, the reason for his very existence had been destroyed. The sole reason why his Mother and Grandsire tolerated his unbecoming behavior had been burned, disintegrated to ashes, as did the minimal respect and charity the Hightower’s had for him. He had nothing else, he was worth nothing. 

“Uncle?” A high-pitched tone broke Aegon from his self-deprecating thoughts. Focusing his foggy vision, he recognized a small figure approach him, clad in dark and burgundy tones. Ruthless winds blew against dark and uncontrollable chestnut curls, revealing a chubby and juvenile face – one that Aegon remembered as one of his nephews (he couldn’t remember which). “What are you doing out here?” The young boy inquired once he’d reached the Omega on the floor.

Rich, dark brown eyes reflected concern and worry, yet his face was stoic, determined, strong. Aegon felt a ghost of a smile rise on his chapped lips.

His nephews – Rhaenrya’s children, bastards of Sir Harwin Strong – were ever their father’s children, carrying themselves with similar strength and daring poise despite their young age. Aegon never cared for their heritage, he liked his nephews, enjoyed their company, adored that they looked up to him unlike every other soul that looked down on his existence as though he were the scum of the world personified.

His eldest nephew, in particular, seemed to be enamored with Aegon and the Omega preferred him more than he cared to admit.

Ah, he remembered which nephew it was.  

“Leave, Jace… I’m fine.” His voice slurred, words unstable and muffled. Driftmark’s salty, frigid breeze rouse him from his drunken conditions enough to speak with some form of coherency and literacy.

His response seemed to go through deaf ears as the child stomped his foot, face contorting into such a serious expression that Aegon could have sworn he momentarily saw the young boy’s mother stand in front of him.

“I will do no such thing.” He huffed, nostrils flaring, Now, Aegon felt as though he were hearing Rhaenrya’s tenacious stubbornness and fiery temper. He rolled his eyes and allowed himself to melt into the icy stone behind him, too exhausted and intoxicated to argue with the boy.

“Ever the righteous brat you are. You can tell whoever sent you to find me, that I’ll be on my way.” Aegon sighed, quick to remember that serenity and tranquility were concepts that he had not been fortunate to experience for more than a few moments – his Mother and her innumerable eyes in the form of innocent servants were always on him.

It should not have shocked him that the Queen would order her Grandchild to seek out his presence.

“No one ordered me to seek you.” That, however, had positively shocked the Omega. The eldest of the two raised his head, ignoring sickness and dizziness that overwhelmed him in result of the abrupt action, opting to address his nephew, eye-to-eye, for the first time that evening.  “I was searching for you. I was concerned.”

Aegon couldn’t recall the last time someone had admitted their concern or care for him. And, perhaps, it had been the pure and sweet sincerity behind the young child’s words or, perhaps it had been the negligence he’d suffered through most of his own infancy and adolescence, but he felt his heart swell and weep, suddenly beating with more vigor; he felt his eyes sting with hot, thick tears and to prevent embarrassment he turned his attention onto the calm ocean tides that washed onto the shores rhythmically.

“I’m fine. I just longed for some time alone.” He spoke up after a pregnant pause.

“May I accompany you?” Aegon nodded, pale lilac eyes adrift on the beautiful sandy beaches below them. Beside him, he felt Jacaerys sit, his presence a warm and welcome addition to the solemn ambience.

“What troubles you, Uncle?”

Aegon sunk in his spot and drifted his attention onto the vast, ebony skies.

It was an honest and simple question, one that the young Omega struggled to answer with just a singular response – in truth everything troubled him. His inexistent relationship with his parents – his Father who seemed to care for only one of the five children he’d conceived and his Mother who abhorred him more so than she did her old childhood friend; his secondary gender that had destroyed the sole purpose for his tragic existence; his own self-hatred for himself and the man he’d become; the ceaseless and unachievable expectations that everyone placed on his shoulders. 

It was all too much and it all troubled, consumed and destroyed Aegon from within. But how was he ever supposed to admit his tumultuous problems to his nephew that had just turned ten.

“It’s far too complex for your understanding, Jace.” Aegon eventually whispered out.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. However, whenever something is concerning me, Mother always allows me to speak my mind and it does relieve me. Perhaps I may not understand you uncle, but I may aid you.”

No one, not even his own Mother, cared enough to listen to what Aegon had to say. Most would dismiss him as an incompetent, imbecilic drunk who had nothing of use or of importance to say. And now, little Jacaerys, ever the kind and good-natured boy, was offering his time to listen to Aegon without judgement or resentment, rather to help him.

Perhaps that realization fused with the effects of gulping down an unhealthy amount of wine had made it so, after a heavy and silent pause, the Targaryen Prince felt comfortable and safe enough to speak his unconcealed truth.

“I presented as an Omega, Jace. Being born an Omega was a blessing, I’ve abdicated from all my duties and responsibilities as the King’s first-born son. I never wished to rule over Westeros, never desired power nor glory, never craved what most kill for.”

“So, what concerns you? Being an Omega seems to have been a gift.” Jace turned towards him and Aegon reciprocated the gesture, lavender eyes meeting chestnut eyes. The elder saw a glint of confusion flash across the dark irises.

“I’m an Omega, Jacaerys. Though I am no longer weighed down by expectations to sit the Iron Throne, I am far from being free. Omegas are seen solely for their wombs. They’re sold off to the most righteous and important Alpha as though an insignificant broodmare, living solely to produce heirs and satisfy their Alpha’s every need and desire. The same will be my fate.”

Another, long, suffocating pause amongst them. Aegon wondered if he had spoken too much, revealed too much, far too much that’d overwhelmed the young child.

“What if I were to present as an Alpha?” Jacaerys spoke up eventually, voice secure and resolute. 

That had winded the Omega, who choked on his saliva and coughed profusely, regaining his composure shortly after catching his breath.

“What of it?”

“Well, could I claim your hand?” Was Aegon hallucinating? Had he finally drunk more than his own body could handle and had perished on the cold ground of Driftmark’s cold, damp Castle? Perhaps the Old Gods had relieved him of his miserable existence.

The determination and sheer will that Jacaerys looked through him, as though analyzing  and observing into his very soul looking past  Aegon, Viserys’ first-born son, the blood of the dragon, Prince of the Seven Realms and glancing into the real Aegon, the petrified, depressed shell of a child, hurt and damaged beyond compare.

His words were absolute, sincere. The Omega’s heart spiked and hammered thunderously against his chest.

He had always suspected that Jacaerys harbored an insignificant infatuation for him. The young boy always quick to volunteer himself as Aegon’s sparing opponent; always searching for his uncle’s approval whenever he’d train Vermax; always attentive to Aegon’s every word and action as though his uncle were Aegon the Conquer reborn and had conquered all of Realm.

It was endearing, humoring even. Nevertheless, he had never once believed it would strengthen into anything more than a juvenile love – innocent and temporary. But Jacaerys seemed willing to take him as his future betrothed and husband. A prospect that would never come to fruition – Rhaenrya saw Aegon just as everyone else did, a sad drunken fool that deserved none of the privileges he’d been born into, she would first marry Jacaerys off to a Lannister sheep than to her ignorant brother.

And Alicent, well, she had already decided his matrimonial status days after his presentation.

“Mother has already promised me to Aemond. The Grand Maester’s have predicted that my brother will present an Alpha and it’s only a matter of time until his first rut, and, when that day come, I will be expected to wed him, bed him and bare his children.” Aegon played with a few grains of pale sand that cushioned his bottom from the ground, rubbing the fine sand in his fingers. Jacaerys held his hand with fiery force, clasping his larger hand within his two smaller and chubbier ones. 

“I will fight for you.” Jacaerys spoke as though it were the most natural course of action – as though fighting for Aegon’s hand in marriage and the right to mate and claim him was something to be desired and not something to dread.

Aegon smiled.

Jacaerys was still so innocent.

“I do not expect it.”

Before the young boy could voice his displeasure, they heard a thunderous crash that reverberated all across the scenic landscape. The two princes turned towards one another, bewildered and confused.

“JACAERYS!”

A high-pitched tone called for the eldest son of Rhaenyra. Aegon couldn’t recognize the owner of the voice, but it was evidently one of Daemon’s daughters. He waved off Jacaerys, releasing his hand that had warmed in the pleasant hold and let his head fall back against the cool stone in exhaustion. Through his intense fatigue, he’d neglected the violent tremors that rocked through his body due to the cool atmosphere that enveloped his form, he shivered and curled into himself.

“I’ll see you at the morrow, uncle. Here take his, nighttide is grim during these times, stay warm.” He felt something lay over his form and he opened his eyes, through his blond eyelashes he spotted the crimson and black cape that had been shielding his nephew’s body only moment’s prior, now protecting his own from the unfortunate temperatures and winds.

Jacaerys did not spare him another glance as he dashed towards the urgent voice that had called for him.

Aegon allowed himself to fall into calm slumber, thoughts drifting into the surreal and hypothetical idealizations of Jacaerys presenting as an Alpha when he come of age; subconsciously smiling at the illusion of his nephew, mature and handsome, fighting for his hand and taking him away as he had promised.

The young monarch hadn’t a perception on how long he’d slept for but he had been awoken harshly with a brute kick to his stomach, vile rising up his throat with the barbaric rouse, though he had little time to process the agonizing sting and the flourishing bruise that was sure to paint his middle dark shades of fuchsia and indigo, as he was forcibly lifted from his spot and was met with his Grandsire’s furious, dreadful eyes staring at him as though he were worth less than the common whore at Flea Bottom.

“Come with me.” His voice demonstrated just as much rage as the elder’s expression had, dripping with poisonous venom, lethal, lacking any ounce of love nor care that was expected from family.

His mind still spun, vision remained blurred and vague and nausea and fatigue burdened his injured silhouette as Otto Hightower mercilessly dragged him by the arm through the cold, somber halls of Driftmark Castle, and even through his unsound state, he felt the ambience tenser than it had been prior, more hostile, dangerous. It made the Omega uncomfortable.

In a moment’s notice, he was placed beside his younger sister, Helaena, and their mother – both women appearing worried, saddened, distressed, eyes focused on another figure being cared for by Driftmark’s Grand Maester. Aegon narrowed his eyes and only then had he recognized Aemond, hunched over, face scrunched in pain, whimpering and mewling every time the Maester penetrated his maimed face with needle and thread, stitching the skin where an eye had once resided, now in its place a horrific gash.

Aegon’s breath hitched at his brother’s state and gulped at the gory scene before him. He hadn’t need to wonder the cause behind the substantial wound, as four, younger children entered the Great Hall, each battered, bloodied and roughed – his youngest nephew, whose name the Omega could never remember, seemed to be in worst condition, nose several shades darker and crooked awkwardly, bleeding bright vermillion. Beside him, Jacaerys looked battered and bruised, disheveled from battle.

So his brother had an altercation with his nephews and Daemon’s daughters?

He grimaced and cringed once the King had made his presence known, shouting boisterously within the grand room, indignant and wrathful over the circumstances of his own blood mauling one another. Aegon saw his mother step aside from him and kneel close to Aemond, observing attentively as the Maester finalized the delicate procedure with a final stitch.

“It will heal, will it not, Maester?” Alicent whispered, distressed and fearful over her preferred and beloved son’s appearance and health. Aegon hadn’t heard her address him with such tenderness since he was a young babe, he was accustomed to her cold indifference and distance – it’s what he deserved for being such an insufferable son and prince; it’s what he deserved for being an Omega; it’s what he deserved for being Aegon.

“The flesh will heal.” A pregnant pause and the room, now populated with members of the royal family and court, waited anxiously for the Maester to continue. He cut the thin string that had sewn Aemond’s lacerated face. “But the eye is lost, Your Grace.” He concluded.

All who heard the wise elder stilled, gasps and prolonged sighs reverberating across the room, Alicent’s the most grief-stricken. Aegon looked away from his brother, unable to look at the grotesque image any longer, though soon enough his vision was dominated by his mother’s despaired stature, nostrils flaring and eyes vengeful.

“Where were you?” There was the familiar repugnance that came so naturally whenever anybody addressed him.

“Me?” He hadn’t known what he had done that had provoked Alicent to strike his face with burning rage. It wasn’t the first time she had assaulted him, but it had been the first time she had done so outside of his chambers, in the presence of others. He felt humiliated, ashamed.

“What was that for?” He held his pulsating cheek that blooming with feverish heat under his cool fingertips.

“That was nothing compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool.” He silenced himself, unable to mutter out a single syllable, fearful that if he opened his mouth he’d be reduced to pitiful sobs and cries.

His lilac eyes remained on the stone ground. He was incapable of facing the certain judgement, hostile aversion from his Father, his siblings, his nephews, from Jace. He felt his heart weep, tear and shatter at the prospect of his eldest nephew witnessing his vulnerability, his weakness, defenselessness. He abhorred that all had been testimonies to the cruelties he’d endured, yet no one, no one helped him, saved him. No one cared for him.

He was a Prince, laying a hand on a monarch was treasonous. But he was also an Omega – his Mother could do as she pleased with him, his status and blood mattered not. He was worthless now.

He drowned in his lamentable pities and self-hatred, suffocating in his own desperate desire to fall victim to Death and numb all the pain, tragedy and misfortune he’d inflicted on himself and those who surrounded him.

And though his mind was elsewhere, too conflicted and disastrous to care about the cataclysmic calamity that had surfaced upon the arrival of his eldest sister Rhaenyra and his Uncle Daemon, he did look when Viserys questioned Aemond over his slanderous insults directed at their nephews.

Bastards - Aemond had called them bastards – and with the singular taunt, he’d dishonored Jacaerys and Lucerys’ legitimacy. Treason.

“Who spoke these lies to you?”

Aegon looked at his brother wondering how he would manage to not expose his mother’s pernicious allegations and the horrors she’d been engraving within their young minds since they were out the womb. Aemond was too loyal to Alicent, he would quicker lose his remaining eye than imperil her to Viserys’ fury. The Omega, the only Omega within the Court Room, wondered who the luckless man or woman would be that his brother would unceremoniously kill off to protect himself and their mother.

Perhaps a handmaiden? A Kingsguard?

“It was Aegon.”

Aegon felt his soul leave his body, breath hitching in his throat as countless eyes, all reflecting some glint of loath and hatred, looked through him. Sweat built in his temple and he felt himself at a loss for words.

“Me?”

“And you, boy?”

Viserys turned towards him and trudged his way until he was breathing over Aegon’s skin.

He was sickly, no longer the proud and strong man he once was in his youth; missing an arm and limping with the aid of a golden staff, wrinkles and spots aged him through the times – yet despite his worn appearance, he was still Viserys Targaryen and he still scared Aegon, his presence sent shivers down his spine, raised goosebumps on his skin and made him fear for his own well-being.

“Where did you hear such calumnies?” He pressed again, and the Eldest Prince gulped on his own spit at the harshness behind his words. He could only wonder how nice it would have been to hear his Father speak to him or of him how he did Rhaenyra.

He remained silent, he didn’t know what to say, couldn’t articulate his words, couldn’t form any coherent thoughts or ideas. He trembled where he stood.  

“Aegon! Tell me the truth of it!” He scrunched his face, lip quivering and he noticed his own scent sour with bitter anxiety and fear.

He looked around the room, until he met caramel, deep eyes of his eldest nephew. Jacaerys – bloodied and bruised – looked at him, betrayal and repulsion evident on his face, though in his eyes, Aegon recognized a minimal glint of hope. Hope that his Uncle, his favored Uncle would denounce the accusations. Jace always held him to such high expectations, always thought so highly of him.  

Jacaerys was still so young, too innocent and good to be infatuated and in love with someone like Aegon. He would eventually fall out of love for him, just like everyone else, and would meet another Omegan Lady or Lord that would capture his heart. He’d forget all about him soon enough.

And Aegon was destined to wed his brother. Aemond would become his husband, the father of his pups. It was expected of him to defend his family, his soon-to-be betrothed.

Jacaerys would eventually forget him, he reasoned he would eventually hate him, just like everyone did, he repeated. So, Aegon thought, he might as well ease the process.

“We know, Father. Everyone knows.” Aegon’s lip trembled, observing as the little flame of hopefulness and idealism extinguished from the inner depths of Jacaerys, dwindling until all that was left was the cold and grim disdain that everyone held for the young Omega. There was no turning back now.  “Just look at them…”

Aegon had only visited Driftmark once in his sorry, pathetic excuse for an existence.

And he’d never look back on the day of his visit with fondness.

Chapter Text

“Aegon, wake up!”

The Crown Prince’s lilac eyes opened begrudgingly, momentarily blinded by the brute brightness of morningtide – golden, radiant beams illuminating his expansive and ostentatious chambers that had been dimmed dark and cool.  

“Huh?” He groaned but rather than doing as the clamorous voice had demanded, he rolled into his satin sheets and furs, hiding his face into his plentiful plush pillows in an attempt to escape the offensive brightness that burned his tired form, content and resolved in retreating into the calm blissfulness of slumber.

His delicate sheets were crudely ripped away from his body, exposing his pale and bare form. Aegon whined, pouting with displeasure at the inconsiderate woman that denied him his rest. He rose and sat in his bed, pulling a stray coverlet over his form in an attempt at protecting his intimacy.

Now more cognizant and conscious then he had been before, his pale eyes focused on the woman who stood near, his Mother. The Queen consort radiated irritable impatience liked the morning sun radiated warmth, her face contoured into a pretty scowl, wrinkles prominent, eyes twitching. Aegon sighed under his breath, unaware how he’d already upset Alicent when he hadn’t even properly awoken.

“Aegon, today is not the day to act upon your foolish and imbecilic ways.” She scowled, unbothered by her eldest son’s disrobed circumstances.

Alicent leant forward, using her height to impose her menacing demeanor over the exhausted and cheerless Omega who whipped drool off his chin and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, darkened and weighed down with deep fuchsia.  His sickly dark circles matched the numerous bruises and marks that blemished his pale skin across his entire body, from his chest to his legs, locations that were concealed under his clothes.

“Have you forgotten the importance of today’s date?” Alicent inquired yet again, voice rising in tone, shrill to Aegon’s sensitive ears.

He glanced up at her, his facial expression must have translated his ignorance as the Queen sighed in defeat, throwing the blanket she held onto the floor. Alicent was forever cursed with constant disillusionment of her Omegan son.

“I should have learnt to not expect nothing from you other than persistent disappointment and embarrassment.” Her voice was laced with callous stress and each syllable pierced Aegon’s weak soul and frail heart as though barbed swords stabbing through his flesh. Each word more resentful then the last, each sigh a testament to Alicent’s disdain for her own son.

It was far too early in the day to be confronted with his grim and unjust reality…

“Mother…” He rose from the bed, struggling from the lesions that impaired his body, still holding the thin fabric close to his chest – not to conserve his barren form, more so as a means to ground himself, something to comfort him when the one person he most longed to hold, care and protect him would do no such thing, not when Aegon was the Targaryen disappointment, a drunken Omega Prince who whored himself and fled his monarchial duties and responsibilities.

He would never be the son his mother tirelessly wanted him to be. He would never be a son worth loving, worth fighting for. He was destined to live his life in imperious abandonment.  

“Do not. Aegon, I beg of you, do not.” She whispered through her teeth, repressing the contentious urge to strike her child, though, with each fleeing moment, her patience wore thinner and her resolve grew weaker.

Aegon had grown accustomed to the barbarous beatings, accustomed to the bruises, lacerations, the physical scars and marks that reminded him of his inability to be loved or cared for.

“I do not know where I went wrong with you. But you are no son of mine.”  

The Omega, however, hadn’t grown acclimatized with her icy, heartless words, each threated with irrefutable rancor.

He could endure attacks and assaults from Ser Criston and from Alicent herself; could smile and laugh through cruel punishments and maltreatments; he could even act as though he wasn’t becoming weaker and frailer by the day, present himself strong and untouchable to the Court, play the part of the foolish jester with no aversion – yet Aegon could not hold back the bitter sting of tears that burned his eyes like acid on a wound, nor the whine that escaped his quivering lips. He was completely defenseless to his Mother’s irrefutable hatred for her sole Omegan child.

Alicent’s emerald-green eyes (expressing pure, adulterated, raw revulsion) in quickly tore themselves from the shaken man. No longer able to look her son in the eyes she faced the large wooden doors across his room. Now with her back towards him and safe from her judgement, Aegon felt a single crystalline tear fall free down his cheek.  

“Get dressed. Ser Harner will accompany you to the Great Hall. Look presentable, if not for yourself than for Aemond’s sake.” She finished before leaving his quarters without another word spoken.

And he was abandoned.

Desolate and morose were sentiments he’d grown familiar with as he’d grown, blossomed and matured with age, no longer a child, now a man. A pathetic, sad man.

He knew soon enough his room would bustle with numerous handmaidens fussing over his appearance, preparing his bath and dressing him until they deemed him acceptable to attend Court and be observed and scrutinized by High Born Ladies and Lords; despite it, Aegon had never felt so alone, no whores, friendly soldiers or drunken peasants could console him.

He was alone. He was always alone. He would always be alone.

As he had predicted, his room was promptly bustling with servants and chambermaids tending his every care and need. He had been washed with fragrant essences and ointments; clothed in dark, ebony attire suited for his title – black for his Targaryen lineage and heritage - though the jewels he adorned around his neck, on his many rings and around his wrists were a scintillating forest green, a remembrance of his Hightower blood.

Despite the gentleness and care that was granted with every comb through his hair, ever warm cloth to his body and every tender hand on his skin, Aegon still felt alone, broken, dead.

Before he was permitted leave from his Chambers, one of his handmaidens placed a small crystal vial in his hands. He dipped one of his finger’s into the viscous cream and lathered the cool substance over his scent gland, rubbing it in until his lavender and honey scent dispersed. The remnants of his scent dissipated into nothingness in a matter of seconds. Aegon sighed and passed the vile back to the servant.

He placed a trembling hand over his scent gland, grieving his scent.

Scent-blocker.

A remedy forged by the Grand Maester to prevent Alphan soldiers, Knights and servants from assaulting the Targaryen Prince.

His blood was Omegan and Targaryen, a rarity. Aegon was the sole Targaryen Omega in the Realm, the first to be born since the age of Old Valyria. He was also one of the few unmated Omegas residing within the Red Keep. His scent was alluring, sweet and dangerous. So, whilst the Alphas could freely reek the Red Keep with their musk, Aegon had to conceal his own.

No one, besides the few chambermaids and servants that tended to him in his private quarters and his own Mother, had ever smelt him. A small part of himself felt as though he had lost his scent due to years of overburdening his body with the obstructive substance. He worried he’d lost an extension of his essence, of his individualism, of what made him special, unique, what made him Aegon Targaryen.

He went through the doors he’d been facing, opting to ignore his unsettled worries, push them into the darkest depths of his mind.

He was guided by a Kingsguard towards the Great Hall. His lavender eyes never lifted from the ground, too tired and solemn to feign cordiality. He desired only to fulfill his obligations and quickly seclude himself with a bottle of fine wine, away from preying eyes, away from judgement, away from hatred. He longed to drown out his grievances, his hurt, his sorrows.

Life was just so incredibly unfair to Aegon.

He’d arrived and the grand room had already filled with populous members of the Royal Court as well as many powerful and imperative political figures, all clothed with their respective house symbols and similar looks of disinterest facing Otto Hightower that sat the Iron Throne.   

He looked no one in the eye as he passed, ignoring the few and in-between greetings from the Lords and Ladies, and quickly situated himself beside Alicent and his brother and betrothed, Aemond.

He was immediately overwhelmed and overpowered by the younger’s intense pheromones that smelt of pinewood and eucalyptus permeating and saturating the atmosphere that encircled them, musk heavy and down-right suffocating the Omega. He felt vile rise in his throat and he held his breath from inhaling any more of the tantalizing and maddening stench.

Aemond had presented as an Alpha a few days after his five and tenth name day. Whilst the Royal family (except Viserys) was breaking fast in tense and uncomfortable silence, Aemond had spontaneously fallen from his seat, heaving and withering, baring his canines and growling as though a feral animal, an apex predator prepared to pounce and ravish his prey – and when his younger brother had made eye-contact with the Omega, Aegon was made aware that he was the prey.

The Alpha was excised shortly after his deranged outburst, before he could act upon his carnal instincts to claim and take the Omega. However, that did little to relieve the horror that consumed him since that momentous day, as it was then that realization struck Aegon in the face with incomparable brute force. It was then that he had become aware that it was only a matter of time until he’d have to mate his brother and officialize their claim to one another, marry in front of the Seven and fulfill their duties as Targaryen Princes.

With Aemond’s Alphan nature secured, Alicent had been quick to decree that Aegon and Aemond unify their bond as Omega and Alpha, strengthen the blood of the dragon and wed – though, Viserys did not seem to care and had yet to legitimize their betrothal to the Realm, thus stalling their inevitable marriage and mating. Aegon had never been more grateful for their Father’s negligence.

And it wasn’t as though Aemond was unattractive. Quite the contrary.

Unsurprisingly, his brother had matured and grown into his features: tall, broad, lean and blessed with the handsome features of any true born Targaryen Prince. The scars he bore from the night at Driftmark only added to his mysterious allure; a sapphire took his eye’s place: grand, striking, enticing. Aegon had attested many handmaidens and High Ladies of the Royal Court flaunting over the Alpha whenever he’d pass or train, desperate to garner his attention.

He was an indefectible Alpha – masterfully skilled with a sword, a prodigy of swordsmanship and combat; he’d claimed and rode the eldest and largest Dragon in Westeros. He was knowledgeable of war, philosophy, history and all that pertained to ruling. He was passionately loyal, defended his kin and was fiercely protective of family. A ruler, a warrior, an Alpha.

Overall, Aemond Targaryen, was the idealistic, perfect man. He was everything that Aegon wasn’t.

But past the enchanting exterior, Aemond was still Aegon’s little brother – his little brother he’d teased and provoked during the innocence of their youth; his little brother that he’d detested for most of his childhood for being Alicent’s preferred sibling; his little brother whom he’d seen grow from a little babe to a capable man.

And whilst wedding and bedding amongst family members was an ancient Targaryen practice, Aegon would rather be sold off and wed a Dornish Alpha than imagine sharing a bed with his brother. But Destiny, Fate and the Gods were never on his side and once Viserys proclaimed their union to the Realm and the Seven Kingdoms, he’d have no choice, no options, no escape – he’d have to lay with Aemond and carry his heirs.

His focus abruptly shifted towards the grand, iron doors that suspensefully opened, revealing the final guests to arrive at Court. Aegon had yet to understand why they were all summoned with such urgency and the importance of such an event…

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne and her husband Prince Daemon Targaryen.” One of the Kingsguard had announced, voice echoing through the tall walls of the Great Hall, the populaces attention immediately drifting to the aforementioned couple with intrigue and astonishment.

Oh. Aegon had remembered. The debate of who would be the rightfully successor and heir to Driftmark was to be discussed and settled. Rhaenyra had flown to Kings Landing to protect her son’s claim to the Driftwood Throne.

He remembered the Alphan couples potent scents, dominating and intense, demanding respect and obeisance. Now, united as a single unit, mated and bonded, their aromas had fused and heightened. Aegon twitched his sensitive nose when Aemond’s pheromones intensified and polluted the air surrounding them, a subconscious response due to other powerful and threatening Alphas occupying his territory, his home.

Pinewood and eucalyptus was overshadowed in an instance by an exuberant musk of sea-salt and smoke, simultaneously potent and domineering as it was comforting and warm. It smelt of stability and safety, it smelt of home, it smelt of Alpha.

Aegon rose his head for the first time since his arrival at the Great Hall and his heart sunk to the pits of his uneasy stomach once he’d seen the man responsible for the enticing scent.

“And their heir, Jacaerys Velaryon…”

The Omega drowned out the rest of the ostentatious introduction, amethyst eyes never leaving the man that trailed behind his Uncle and Sister, a man who looked nothing alike his eldest nephew that he’d last spoken to, six years ago on the infamous night at Driftmark.

He’d grown, matured, aged with the seasons. No longer a foot shorter than Aegon, now rivalling Aemond’s impressive stature, nearly as tall as the Rogue Prince himself. Dark hair at shoulder’s length, curly and lush, a few loose strands framing his face. Chiseled jaw, full lips and strong eyes chocolate, deep and serious. He wore deep burgundies and black, clothes clinging to a strong and muscular build – not too bulky but far from thin.

Jacaerys was no longer a small child. No, he was an Alpha.

Aegon gulped, remembering the night on Driftmark, remembrances of Jace’s disappointment and betrayal after he’d protected his brother flashed through his mind; memories of his young nephew’s promise to claim and take his hand in marriage if he’d present an Alpha echoed and deafened out the sounds surrounding him; visions of their past friendship and comradery that had perished and wilted with his words and ultimate decision… a decision that Aegon had abhorred yet did not regret.

The Omega was still obstinate that the Alpha deserved to fight for someone kinder, softer, purer than Aegon; someone who deserved his nephew’s unconditional love, love he did not deserve.

He shamefully looked down, unable to look at the confident and gorgeous man any longer – though, in his haste, he’d avoided Jacaerys’ own wondering eyes that had glanced at the Omega for a second longer than they had any other person in the crowd. Aegon hadn’t noticed the flash of wonderment flash in the deep caramel eyes. Aemond had.

Rhaenrya and her family took their spot near the Iron Throne, across Alicent and her own children. An ironic image of the division that had parted their family into two opposing sides, drifting farther and father apart, all in consequences of the Games of Thrones. Aegon never desired to become a player, never desired anything that came of one man’s selfish desire to have his blood stain the Iron of the Blades.  

“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds, we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this and all other matters.” Otto Hightower sat on the ominous Throne of Blades, far too comfortable on the steal, too pleased with the position and role he occupied. “The crown will now hear the petitions.” Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”

Lord Corlys’ brother stepped forward and began defending his claim of succession over Driftmark. Aegon didn’t care. His mind was still processing the overwhelming presence of his Alphan nephew and how he’d grown remarkably well over the course of a few years.

In his own insistent self-degradation and cowardice, he’d wondered, reflected on the hypothetical stipulation of Jacaerys preserving any semblance of care for him or if he reminisced over his past promise; if he’d ever thought back on the words he’d spoken to the Omega with so much resolve and conviction at the age of ten, when he was still unpresented, young, naïve.

Aegon felt himself grin at his own stupid hopefulness, prospects that were but mere incredulous delusions in his imagination. He pressed his fist to his mouth, holding back the urge to laugh at himself.

He was worth nothing to the Velaryon Alpha. He deserved a mate who could be just as good, just as attractive, compassionate, kind as Jacaerys was. He deserved everything Aegon couldn’t provide.

The bud of love that had grown from the soil of juvenile adoration and infatuation was spoiled by Aegon’s own doing. All that was left was the trampled remnants of a devastated friendship that had wilted into malicious animosity.

Aegon had never even cared for Jacaerys as anything other than family. But now, as he was confronted with a fully realized Targaryen Alpha, Aegon could only wonder how the trajectory of his life would have altered had he not defended Aemond that very night, had he protected Jacaerys’ legitimacy. Would Jacaerys still pursuit him? Would he fight for his hand? Court him? Free him from his Mother and Grandsire’s poisonous talons that clawed into his very essence and drained of his very essence and fight to survive?

“Thank you Ser Vaemond. Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.” He’d been so intensely engraved within his own thoughts that he’d missed Vaemond’s defense, though, judging by Alicent and Otto’s satisfied and arrogant expressions, Vaemond must have been cunning, persuasive, difficult to refute. He wondered how his sister was going to protect Luce’s claim to Driftwood Throne.

He didn’t care, lacked any interest who’d rise triumph from the tedious debate. All he longed for was the security of his quarters, away from the overwhelming scents, away from his Mother, away from Aemond, away from Jacaerys and all the repressed memories and delusions that surfaced with his presence.

“If I am to grace this farce with some answer, I will start by reminding the court that nearly 20 years ago, in this very-“ Rhaenrya’s words were cut short when the boisterous roar of the grand doors to the Great Hall opened, Kings-Guards lining near the stone steps as though statues, patiently waiting and protecting the weak and shriveled silhouetted that had just disrupted the Court.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protecter of the Realm.”

Aegon rolled his eyes and scoffed, struggling to suppress the urge to laugh at the incredulity of the scene before him. He was in a state of disbelief, astonishment, disappointment.

Unbelievable...

He hadn’t remembered how long it’d been since he’d last seen his father leave his chambers, couldn’t form a recent memory of the man walking on his own two feet. He’d been a living carcass for months, aged and rotten, reduced to bone and skin, sickly and pale. Disease had quickly spread, infested and consumed him alive and, he’d been since confined to his rooms, bestowing his own responsibilities to his Lady wife and his Hand.

He had been rendered impaired, debilitated with illness. The Maesters had advised the King to remain bedridden and avoid exerting his weak body. But, of course, as any good and caring Father would, he did the impossible, preformed the unconceivable and attended Court to protect his cherished daughter and her family.

Aegon had only wished he’d spare him a whisper of the tenderness and love he had for Rhaenyra.

His eyes followed the decomposing sovereign that took his seat on the Throne of Blades, breath heavy and strained, hands rocking with violent tremors from the short however strenuous walk he’d just conquered.

To his side, Alicent’s breath hitched and Otto stood beside her, just as astonished and mortified as his daughter. Both aware of Viserys indisputable love and partiality for Rhaenyra. Vaemond’s (and consequentially their own) was inescapable.  

“I must… admit… my confusion. I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present whom might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes… is the Princess Rhaenys.”

Aegon’s lilac eyes observed as Rhaenys took a few, curt steps forward. Posture calm and collected, strong and poised. He noticed his Mother smile through tight lips. He’d forgotten about Rhaenys, she’d lost both her children and was balancing on the precipice to becoming a widow, perhaps Lucerys claim to Driftmark wasn’t yet guaranteed.

“Indeed, your Grace.” She paused and glanced towards Alicent, then towards Rhaenyra who returned her gaze with such desperation and plea that Aegon had yet to presence such a somber expression on her typically stoic and iron-willed sister. The elder woman addressed Viserys once more. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him.”

Aegon stifled a giggle at the suddenness that his Mother and Otto’s faces fell with her words. Aemond glared his way but he paid his brother no mind, curious on what Rhaenrya had wagered to secure Rhaenys loyalty.

“As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

The childish gee that had overcome the Omega had been ravished and razed. Small smile falling from his face, eyes shifting to the young Alpha across him who looked momentarily paralyzed by his Grandmother’s announcement, though he’d recovered marvelously after a short moment, nodding his head with a charming, handsome smile towards the beautiful beta Baela – his soon to be Lady Wife and mate. 

“Well… the matter is settled.” Viserys concluded.

Aegon didn’t comprehend why his veins pumped and flowed him venomous jealousy over the spontaneous proclamation. He had once enjoyed their time together: Jace had been a pleasant distraction from the torturous hell he was forced to live through with his Mother, Grandsire and Father… He didn’t love Jacaerys, never loved him, never saw him past his nephew, a child, a friend.

So why were his eyes burning with thick tears that threatened to shed and spill down his burning cheeks? Why was his stomach twisting and turning when he hadn’t had a sip of wine that day? Why was he suddenly burdened with such grief, sorrow and heartache? Aegon believed he was trickling into madness, there was no logical justification for his pathetic feelings.

He hadn’t much time to ponder over his irrational sensitivity as he overheard Vaemond’s outraged cries; the room quickly saturated with the overbearing scent of angered and dangerous Alphas – effect immediate on the sole Targaryen Omega who whined and shuddered, baring his neck as a show of submission, his instincts taking over Aegon’s body to protect him from the perceived threat.

Aemond noticed and took a slight step forward, guarding the Omega (his betrothed) from the other appalled and maddened Alphas.

“Her children… are bastards! And she… is… a whore.” Vaemond seethed, growling with every syllable.   

Viserys lifted himself from the Throne with unforeseen agility, wielding his blade, enraged over the treasonous accusations and insults, threatening to take the man’s tongue. He hadn’t need to act upon his threat as Daemon had swiftly struck Vaemond’s head, beheading and murdering the man with a single, clean strike.

“He can keep his tongue.”

Kings-Guards instantaneously surrounded the Rouge Prince who looked unbothered, cleaning Black Sister and retreating to his wife’s side whilst the rest of the court entered mayhem by the grotesque scene.

The exuberant amalgamation of different scents of petrification, disgust, rage, fear, revulsion, repugnance; Alphas reeking of dominance and permeating the atmosphere with heavy pheromones; the scent of fresh bloodshed and spilled brain and flesh – it all had overwhelmed Aegon who felt vile rise in his throat, breath erratic. He felt too much too suddenly. He felt nothing, all he felt was the urge to flee the sight and escape the peril his Omega sensed.  

An enclosed space full of unnerved Alphas was no safe space for any Omega.   

He clutched onto Aemond’s dark doublet, securing himself from the abrupt dizziness and disorientation. Aemond held him by the forearms, the Alpha seeking his Mother’s guidance that looked between her two children.

Alicent noticed her eldest’s unstable and faint appearance.

“Aemond, take your brother to his chambers.”

Aemond wrapped a strong arm around the Omega’s back and guided him effortlessly through Maegor’s Holdfast until he’d reached Aegon’s chambers, laying him in his bed. Alpha left without another word, only the remnants of his pinewood and eucalyptus scent lingered in the air. It did little to ease the Omega.

Aegon sighed and melted into his mattress, exhaustion devastating his body. He ordered a small servant girl to bring him the largest pitcher of wine she could find. He desperately longed to feel nothingness, fall into the calming depths of numbness and forget all about the day’s event.

It was all just too much…

Jacaerys had eventually left the Great Hall upon his Mother’s request. The Alpha had yet to process all that occurred in a matter of hours: returning to his old Home after six years away;  being betrothed to Baela Targaryen with no prior notice; witnessing the brutal manslaughter of his uncle and the decaying form of his own Grandsire; and possibly the most overwhelming incident of the day– colliding with his segregated family, mor explicitly his Omegan uncle, Aegon.

It was odd. He still felt deluded and deceived by the betrayal. Jace had always thought his uncle different – unlike everyone else who whispered and spread rumors over his parentage, Aegon seemed uninterested in the matter, too concerned with his cups and other unbecoming issues – and it had pained him greatly that night that the Omega blindly and effortlessly shieled his brother and his treasonous accusations against himself, Luce and Joffrey. He was no different than anyone else – and that fact had inexorably destroyed the young Prince who was once enamored with the Omega.

His scarred and maimed heart hadn’t healed. Time had calmed and lessened his resentment towards his uncles, though he hadn’t forgiven nor forgotten the unpropitious night.

Six years had transcended since the bitter episode on Driftmark and Jace had grown into himself. On his five and tenth name day, he’d come into his secondary gender – an Alpha born Targaryen. He didn’t recall much from the accursed rut, however, he had slight remembrances of calling out for someone in the confinements of his chambers, growling out a name with such carnal desperation, urgency; a name he hadn’t spoken in years, a name that had since been associated with animosity, rancor, venom…

He pictured resplendent lilac eyes, paler and more emotive than Jace had ever see before; de dreamt of pretty, platinum blonde curls unlike any Targaryen, unique and beautiful. He craved to touch, feel, taint porcelain white skin and taste pretty, pink lips always stained deep crimson from wine. He longed for Aegon. He wanted Aegon.

Aegon.

He’d chosen to suppress the memory, ignore the incongruous perceptions his mind hand woven in the wake of his rut and occupied himself with his duties as Rhaenyra’s first-born son and successor. He studied dutifully and arduously during daybreak, trained with the sword during evening and rode on Vermax until twilight. He preoccupied his mind with his monarchal obligations and never let his thoughts drift towards his Uncle.

He'd gone months without even thinking of the faraway Omega, until Daemon had announced that Lucerys’ claim to Driftwood Throne was questioned and challenged by Vaemond, their Uncle. And to add salt to the wound, the Hand of the King demanded an audience to extinguish the debate.

And thus, they were thrusted back into the Red Keep, back to where they had once lived, back to where Aegon resided. It was simultaneously exhilarating and petrifying – Jacaerys was curious to see how everyone had grown, changed -  wonderous on how the Omega had blossomed into maturity.   

And he abhorred to admit it – but Aegon had become even more ethereal than when he’d see him last.

He was the definition of the divine and transcendent Targaryen beauty that was proclaimed and sung about in old writings. Porcelain, pale skin unblemished and unmarked; full, pink lips; lilac eyes that remained just as reflective, just as mesmerizing as they were six-years ago. His physique was small, he hadn’t grown but he had plumped ever so slightly – hips and stomach rounded yet his doublet hugged his waist finely. He was the image of his Mother – a solemn beauty.

He need remind himself to avert his attention from Aegon. And all throughout court, he fought every instinct in his body to keep from glancing at the downcast Omega. He justified it as his own curiosity and hatred fueling his need to observe the Omega. Nevertheless, he was an Alpha and Aegon an Omega and his instincts screamed at him to jump and push through the frenzied crowd and attend and care for the distressed Omega across him the moment calamity had disrupted the calm in the Great Hall and he’d noticed his uncle’s frightened expression.

He fought his impulses and secondary nature, shook his head and focused his attention on his distraught brother, his pregnant Mother and his now betrothed, Baela, stepping in front of them and protecting them from harm’s way.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Aemond directing Aegon out of the Great Hall, the Alpha’s hand protectively wrapped around his brother. Jacaerys pushed aside any immature envy he felt at the sight.

In an attempt to calm his rambunctious mind, he and Lucerys visited all the different rooms, divisions, pathways and locations they’d once frequented when they still resided within the vermillion walls of the Grand Castle. They eventually made their way to the training grounds, the immediate smell of steel, horse and sweat reaching the Alpha’s nose and he smiled at the cozy familiarity of the ambience.

“Smaller than I remember.” Lucerys commented as they descended down the stone steps towards the hay covered grounds where men in chainmail combatted and crashed, women and men conversed and Kings-Guard and knights prepared their armor, weapons and horses. Unlike the rest of the Red Keep, it had remained unchanged with time.

“It looks exactly the same.” Jace quickens his steps, his younger brother following suit, attempting to keep up with the Alpha’s broader steps. “Luce come on.”

Eventually they made it into the range. Curious and judgmental eyes observed their every move. Jace walked unbothered, confident and self-assured, meeting their eyes with conviction and challenge. He ran once he’d spotted his desired destination.

“See? I told you this would still be here.” He pointed at an impressive dent on a thick, stone wall. A calloused hand rubbed and patted at the bashed in corner with a wide smile. “And you thought you could swing Criston’s Morningstar and you almost took your own head off.” He laughed off before returning to Lucerys’ side near a large table with various tools and weapons.

Memories of his early youth flooded Jacaerys’ mind – struggling to hold up a sword or a shield; training with Criston Cole and Harwin Strong on hand-to-hand combat, getting successfully dragged through the mud, grim and soil from dusk till dawn and being reprimanded by Rhaenyra for his carelessness; volunteering to spare with Aegon in hopes to prove himself worthy, prove himself capable and strong, show himself a skilled warrior to the man he’d held in such high regards at one point of his life…

Jacaerys shook his head free of the remembrances. Lucerys’ solemn and uneasy expression caught his eye.

“What’s your problem?” He got closer to the younger, picking up an elegantly crafted steel sword, crafted with integrate care and precision, light it was in his hand. He threw it from one hand to another.

“Everyone’s staring at us.” He confided, voice repressed and hushed so no onlooker could hear. His scowl deepened. “No one would have questioned me being heir to Driftmark if…”  He paused and the Alpha abandoned the sword in favor of focusing on his self-conscious brother. “If I looked more like Ser Laenor Velaryon than Ser Harwin Strong.”

It had always been a rather difficult subject for Lucerys, Jacaerys knew this. It’d only worsened after the incident at Driftmark. His brother’s insecurities had plagued him since.

Truth be told, Jace had once felt similarly to Luke – he’d lost countless nights of sleep, doubting and questioning his own parentage and if the treasonous accusations held any real value to them (if Aegon’s words held any truth). But he’d grown, matured and learnt to disregard what other’s thought of him. He was a Targaryen. He’d inherit the Iron Throne. That was all that mattered.

“It doesn’t matter what they think.” He held onto Lucerys’ shoulder. “You are the future Lord of the Tides, you’ll sit the Driftwood Throne. You are the blood of the dragon, why should you care what other’s think of you?”

Lucerys’ was about to retort but his argument was cut short by the rambunctious clashing of metal against metal, grunts and groans and suspenseful gasps and cheers from a large crowd near them. They swiftly trudged towards the intriguing sound and in the center of the populace, two figures combatted in an intense and fiery duel. One man swung a monstrous Morningstar, the same one that had nearly taken Lucerys’ head, the man wielding the weapon non other than it’s rightful owner, Criston Cole. The other man wielded a sharp sword, long blond hair swaying as he diverted and weaved through every attack, one-eyed and an Alpha, the man was Aemond Targaryen.

The Targaryen Alpha moved with grace and mastery of his chosen armament, dodging the ferocious attacks directed his way, Criston not holding back even though his opponent was of noble blood. The battle was exciting and the odds were even on who would triumph, Jacaerys and Lucerys watched attentively. In moments, Aemond had disarmed the Lord Commander of the Kings-Guard and held his blade flush against the Knights throat who smiled in pride at his pupil.

The Velaryon foreigners couldn’t mask their astonishment at the incredulous skill their Uncle had harbored over the years. The crowd encircling the two Alphas clapped and Aemond withdrew his sword. Despite his victory, his face emotionless.

“Well done, My Prince. You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.” Criston praised with a brilliant smile.

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys.” Aemond sniffed the air and his intense lavender eye landed on Lucerys and Jacaerys. “Nephews, have you come to train?”

Jace felt Lucerys hide behind him, attempting to make himself appear smaller, remove himself from the disquieting circumstances. His Alphan instincts pushed him to protect his kin and assert himself before the other Alpha High-Born. He held Aemond’s eye with his own obstinate glare.

“No, we were merely spectating. You’ve become skilled with a sword.” Jace smiled through his teeth and approached his uncle, Lucerys always a foot behind.

Aemond dropped his sword and approached his nephews, the crowd dissolving and granting them privacy.

“T’was but a responsibility as Prince and as an Alpha.” Aemond regarded Jacaerys eyeing his physique whilst sniffing the air, catching the strong, unmistakable fragrance of another Alpha, another powerful and challenging Alpha. “Congrats, nephew. You presented as an Alpha. I expected nothing less from such a… strong man.”

The Velaryon Alpha repressed a guttural growl aware of the implications underlining the backhanded compliment. His Mother had requested they avoid unnecessary conflict so he breathed deep and unclenched his tense fists.

“Likewise. Your Alphan presentation was practically prophesied. The child that had lost an eye without a single drop of milk of the poppy was sure to present as Viserys’ first born Alphan son. Rumors were right.“ Jacaerys would avoid conflict but he would not hold back his tongue after years of repressed resentment. If Aemond wanted to play, Jacaerys wouldn’t back down.

“Hm. I do wonder what other gripping whispers murmured hold some truth to them.” Aemond took another step forward, aura menacing, challenging. The Velaryon Alpha didn’t step down, thrilled that he had successfully riled his uncle. “I must admit my disappointment, nephew. A Targaryen Alpha more concerned with injudicious gossip than training hardly seems fit to sit the Iron Throne.”

“Nighttide is close and we do intend to dine with our family, but if you worry over my discipline, I would be more than honored to duel you at the morrow, Prince Aemond.”

“Did word of night’s dinner not reach you, Jace?” Aemond interjected, approaching his nephews.

“What dinner?”

“King Viserys has requested that we dine as a family tonight. So, I do expect to see each other this evening and honor our King’s orders.” Aemond placed a calloused hand on his eldest nephew’s shoulder, bringing him closer to himself so no one else would be able to overhear his next few words.  “Oh, and you’ll be seated beside Aegon tonight. Try anything and it’ll be your eye I’ll take.”

Aemond abandoned the Velaryon men, returning to the Red Keep followed by a parade of Knights and swooning women.

Jacaerys hadn’t responded to Lucerys’ insistent pestering about Aemond’s words. In truth, the Alpha was struggling to gather his thoughts and properly process what had been spoken. He’d been disquieted all whilst handmaidens and chambermaids prepared him for the banquet later at dusk, allowed them to mindlessly care and tend for him whilst he attempted to make sense of the threat.  

Did Aemond know of his past feelings for Aegon? Did he think he still felt that way for the Omega? What had sparked the question in the first place? Why would he think he would initiate anything with Aegon when he was just betrothed? Did he think so little of Jacaerys that he thought he’d disgrace his intended so early into their union?

And why did Aemond care at all?

Chapter Text

Aegon begrudgingly entered the Dining Hall. He held no interest in participating in the damned banquet nor did he care to spend the late hours of his evening in the company of his family, especially after what had transpired in the Great Hall that very day. However, the Omega preferred not to hear his Mother’s ceaseless sermons nor feel his Grandsire’s heavy hand strike his body, so he had braved himself for the discommodious dinner that he was certain would end in pure pandemonium in a matter of hours.

At the bare minimum, the Omega could anticipate some nonsensical drama. At least that would suffice as entertainment for his miserable state of mind.

The minute he’d stepped into the ostentatious space, Aegon was enraptured by the large pitchers of glorious, aged wine. Just what he’d been thirsting for. He immediately directed himself to the large wooden table and poured a chalice full of the rich alcohol, chugging the drink in a single effort – if he was to spend the night masking his displeasure, he might as well allow himself the comfort of alcohol to ease his torment.

He poured himself a second glass and leaned against the voluptuous furniture, admiring the impressive embellishments that brightened the typically gloomy and cold Dining Hall: numerous candles illuminated the vast space; tapestries, ancient and intricate, were dusted and cleansed – depictions of Old Valyrian culture: vulgar, lewd and beautiful intricately sewn; in the middle of the grand room a long table was lavishly set, the same one that Aegon supported his weight against; it was spread full with plentiful delicacies and golden cutlery.

Surrounding the dining table, all guests were present expect the King. Daemon and Rhaenyra were in their own corner, every so often glancing distrustfully towards Alicent and Otto who stood opposite the Targaryen couple. Heleana was sat in her designated space at the table, murmuring incomprehensible nonsense under her breath whilst fiddling with her spoon. Lucerys, Rhaena, Baela and Jacaerys were conversing animatedly amongst each other, blinding smiles and content scents reaching Aegon’s sensitive nose.

Aegon was not drunk enough.

The Omega chugged his third cup (or was it his fourth? Fifth? He’d lost count after his second, the wine’s effects quick since he had yet to eat) and sighed in evident frustration by the other adolescents unadulterated happiness and glee. He wondered, both with curiosity and spite, what they discussed with such rambunctious elation – perhaps their betrothal, perhaps their undying love for one another and how compatible they were as future mates. Aegon took another sip of wine, bitter envy overwhelming his senses.

“How are you feeling?” The Omega jumped in his spot, nearly dropping his goblet on the ground. He  glanced up towards his unexpected companion: Aemond. Handsome as ever, clad in opulent dark leathers; long, blond hair pulled back; posture confident and proper; aura strong and demanding. The perfect image of the perfect Prince, the perfect son.

Aegon was not drunk enough.

Aegon finished another cup and turned towards the table, away from his brother, and replenished his cup. The tranquilizing serenity of intoxication was remedying the Omega’s ill-mood. New-found confidence bubbled under his skin and he turned again, leaning closer to his brother, lifting himself on his toes so he could whisper in the Alpha’s ear.

“You do not need fake concern over me, Aemond. No one is observing us.” He giggled when Aemond pushed his brother’s sluggish form away, twisting his nose in disgust with a prominent scowl overpowering his features.

“You reek of wine.” He snarled.

“And you of Alpha. I haven’t a choice but to tolerate your stench, so you do the same of mine.” Aegon argued back, though regret and fear immediately crumpled his previous confidence once Aemond approached him, so close that their breaths fused in the insignificant distance that separated their silhouettes. The ambience embracing them lacked warmth, instead it imbued with precarious peril, Aemond’s rotten ire corrupting his naturally serene scent.

The Omega couldn’t tear his lilac eyes from the Alpha’s intimidating fuchsia: in it’s purple depths, he recognized volatile rancor, similar to their Mother’s and Grandsire’s own whenever they glowered down at Aegon.

“I do not know why I have been castigated to wed the likes of you, condemned to eternal imprisonment as your Alpha, as your husband, but do know your place, Omega.” Aemond spat, each word spoken intended to hurt and mar Aegon.

Aegon, however, just smiled and took another sip in defiance of his betrothed, pleasant intoxication desensitizing the Omega to the abusive blows. He’d practically drained an entire pitcher on his own, his body tingled and he felt the familiar warmth and comfort of blissful numbness calming him and dulling his mind.

He was happy, he was finally drunk enough.

Aemond opened his mouth to reprimand him but the previous animated ambience that spread in the Dining Hall dimmed into silence. The two brothers directed their attention towards the entrance where their Father was brought in by Kings-Guards, every other inhabit in the large room stood to pay their respects to the debilitated sovereign. Both Targaryen Alpha and Omega brothers did no such thing, simply taking their own places around the table – the first at the head of the table, the later beside Heleana and Jacaerys.

Aegon sat beside Jacaerys. Shoulder to Shoulder. Bodies closer than they’ve been in ages…

Perhaps he wasn’t quite drunk enough yet.

Not enough to sit directly beside his eldest nephew, his nephew that smelt divinely and that had grown into himself, into a man, into everything Aegon found desirable in a partner.

He gulped down the last remnants of wine from his goblet and settled in his comfortable seat, letting his head fall forward in defeat. This was going to be an excruciating night.

Beside the crestfallen Omega, Jacaerys - ever the courteous and honorable Alpha - had helped Baela sit in her own seat, gingerly pushing her chair in before he rested on his own chair. Aegon rolled his eyes at the pompous display.  

Nevertheless, Aegon was not alone in his anxious restlessness…

The Velaryon Alpha appeared uptight and tense, every muscle in his body cramped to keep his posture still and straight, fighting every instinct and intrusive thought that urged him to take a curious peek at his drunken uncle that sat beside him. His efforts to focus on Viserys’ heartfelt speech and on his future Lady Wife and Queen were all in vain, as he, inevitably, took a slight glance towards the Omega.

Aegon was flushed a pretty pink, eyes downcast on his intertwined hands, twirling his fingers absentmindedly, refusing to look up at his Father, more interested in his twiddling and in his thoughts than what was being spoken with raw conviction. His face was framed with perfect golden curls, though Jace could spot light eyelashes flutter occasionally against full cheeks, revealing saddened and sorrowful purple eyes that caught his own caramel ones in an instant.

Fuck.

It felt as though he’d been shocked, awoken from a dream-like daze and he quickly shifted his attention back to his Grandsire that had been observing his many grandchildren, prideful and over-zealous, chapped lips twitching into a small smile.

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luke will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses. A toast to the young Princes and their betrothed.” Viserys spoke slowly, pausing occasionally to catch his breath. He lifted his own glass and smiled through rotten teeth at the aforementioned newly betrothed.

“Hear, hear!” Daemon cheered, all at the table sipping from their glasses in commemoration of the now legitimized marriage between the Velaryon and Targaryen adolescents.

Jacaerys sipped from his own golden goblet, grinning at Baela with a bright and brilliant smile who’d returned the gesture. Underneath the table, he felt her cold hand slowly take his own warmer one. They held hands for only a second, a strong squeeze to reassure and secure one another at their new shared development, before she pulled away.

Jacaerys frowned into his chalice.

It hadn’t felt right. 

He drowned out the bubbling disquietude in the pits of his stomach with another long sip of rich wine in hopes the strong alcohol would silence the irritating doubts that flooded his mind.

He should be more than content with his chosen mate. His intended was someone whom he’d grown up with during his youth, someone he was close and cordial with. Their engagement would be beneficial in every aspect and perspective. And it wasn’t as though Jacaerys was unaware of his marital duties as future Heir to the Iron Throne, he’d long relinquished the right to wed whomever he desired. He was aware of all this, accepted all of it, yet a small part of him still felt all of it wrong.

From the corner of his eye, Jace saw Alicent tenderly grip onto Viserys’ thin hand, capturing her husband’s attention and they shared a knowing look, the King eventually nodding and smiling at his two sons across him. Viserys lifted his cup once more.

“And, to further the mirth of the evening, my sons, Aegon and Aemond too will wed, securing the purity and strength of our House and the blood of the dragon. A toast to my sons.”

“Hear, hear!” Alicent and Otto cheered, the rest of the table draining their cups and the feast begun, servants filling their plates full of delectable cuisines and replenishing the porcelain jugs. Soon the clambering of plates and cutlery resonated through the jovial ambience.

Jacaerys remained still, suddenly unable to think nor fathom putting anything in his unsettled stomach. It felt as though he had been thrown into the deep, cold waters of Blackwater Bay, unresponsive, stunned, still attempting to wrap his mind around the spontaneous announcement.

Aegon and Aemond were to wed?

Aegon and Aemond were betrothed.

Aegon and Aemond were mates.

…

“Mother has already promised me to Aemond. The Grand Maester’s have predicted that my brother will present an Alpha and it’s only a matter of time until his first rut, and, when that day come, I will be expected to wed him, bed him and bare his children.”

Remembrances from the night on Driftmark, when he’d spotted his uncle, sullen and dejected, close to freezing to death, mourning his presentation as an Omega; Jace remembered Aegon’s words that’d, at his age of ten, sunk his heart into the depths of rejection and withered his mind rotten with envious bitterness over Aemond’s undeserving claim of the Omega that he had idolized since he was old enough to understand the complex concept of love.

He hadn’t thought of Aegon’s words in years, until that very moment, and suddenly much of what had confused Jace through-out the day was justifiable, sensical even:

Aemond’s previous threat at the training grounds; Aegon being escorted out of the Great Hall by his brother rather than a Kings-Guard or any other competent and capable knight present; their previous closeness right before Viserys’ arrival, proximity too intimate to be merely fraternal and he knew better than to assume it platonic – how Aemond had caged Aegon like prey, whispered near him as though the concept of personal space was foreign to the Alpha.

It all made sense.

Despite it all, it didn’t feel right.

He didn’t like it.

Jacaerys couldn’t comprehend his knew found distaste for his uncles’ marriage. Just as he was expected to carry out his marital duties, so were Aemond and Aegon. And no union was more advantageous to  House Targaryen then a bond between two descendants of the blood of the dragon of opposing natures - Omega and Alpha. Old-Valyrian writings sung that the strongest Targaryens were born of Alphan and Omegan bonds. It made sense to wed Aegon and Aemond.

“I will be expected to wed him, bed him and bare his children.”

Jacaerys shook his head and threw his head back as he chugged his first full chalice of rich alcohol. He abhorred the overwhelming repulsion that burned at his skin, poisoned his veins and polluted his mind. He inhaled and exhaled, slow and deep, focusing on keeping his scent controlled so his revolt wouldn’t saturate the air and expose his displeasure.

Displeasure that he had yet to determine it’s origins.

Had his disastrous past and severed ties with Aegon crippled his heart so much so that a meager mention of the Omega sent him into blind, seething rage?

Then how come he’d accepted sitting beside the Targaryen Prince with little protest? Why had he been concerned for Aegon’s well-being at Court when he’d seen him so panicked ? Why had the thought of Aegon being destined to Aemond been the ultimate trigger to his abrupt agitation?

Perhaps it was the thought of Aegon happily wed with no consequence for his previous betrayal that set him off…

In the midst of his discombobulation - mind razed with an abundance of uncertainties, doubts and questions to which he lacked any justifiable response - one sentiment prevailed over his disorientated feelings: it just didn’t feel right.

His eyes drifted towards the Omega, who looked equally astonished by his betrothal as he was. Aegon was paralyzed in his seat, the hand that held his cup trembled with violent tremors and his purple eyes were wide, distressed, panic-stricken. His breath was erratic, frenzied, superficial – Jace wondered if the Omega was breathing properly – and with his distant gaze, he looked as though he was slowly processing the announcement, his drunken state evidently hindering his comprehension.

Jacaerys turned towards Aemond who faced him and caught his gaze, he seemed indifferent, passive, unbothered. He was never particularly emotive but unlike Aegon that appeared troubled by the arrangement, the Alpha remained calm, collected, expectant.

Aegon eventually caught himself and chugged another full chalice of wine and poured another after another whilst everyone at the table lifted from their chairs and delivered sincere speeches that he cared little about. Jace was amazed how the Omega hadn’t drunken himself to an early grave. His uncle swiftly turned in his seat and leaned closer to his nephew, head bobbing and his eyelashes fluttered softly on his reddened cheeks, eyes glistening with mischief.

“Tell me, nephew… You do know how…the act is done with a Beta, I assume? Please do tell me, you at least know the principals behind the act, where to put your cock and how to use it… It would be such a shame if Lady Baela were to suffer an unfulfilling night with her dear Lord husband.” Aegon’s sudden slurred tone and close presence captured the Alpha’s immediate attention and he seethed.

Jacaerys was unaware what had kindled his rage. Aegon’s comments weren’t unnatural for the foul-mouthed Prince. Additionally, as a child and a young adolescent Jace had been teased and provoked with similar statements by his companions back at Dragonstone and he had never concerned himself with such trivial matters such as his inexperience.

He was confident in himself, self-assured and had grown endurance to non-sensical comments and accusation.

However, his cool-tempered nature had been challenged through most of the day, his thoughts were reduced to pure, chaotic mayhem and venomous, carnal malice sizzled, red and hot, through his veins, coursing through him, corrupting his judgement and rationality. Aegon wasn’t the sole cause behind his crazed derangement but having the Omega belittle him as a man, belittle him as an Alpha and his competence to satisfy his mate was the catalyst to his tyrannous rage.

His scent soured with bitter animosity, Baela immediately noticing the change in the Alpha’s demeanor. She had overheard Aegon and had expected Jacaerys to disregard the unrighteous insults. But Jace was near frothing and foaming as though a rabid animal, hands clenching and unclenching underneath the table, nostrils flaring and he looked prepared to take someone’s head.

“Cousin.” Baela covered his tense fist with her soothing touch, an attempt at comforting the fuming Alpha – the gesture had dwindled his primal furor (if only temporary) and settled the Alpha, anchoring him to his surroundings and he recomposed himself (if only temporary) before regarding his uncle.

“Hold your tongue before my betrothed.” He spat and Aegon smirked, seemingly untroubled by the threatening tone (if he had even heard Jace’s words properly through his impairing intoxication). He ungraciously lifted himself and waltzed towards the other side of the table, stumbling over his feet occasionally but arrived unscathed to the nearest jug of wine, which was coincidently placed right beside Baela. He poured from the pitcher and gradually lowered himself so he was near the Beta woman.

“I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever find yourself longing adequate satisfaction, I can direct you to more… proficient assistance.” The Omega had whispered but Jacaerys had heard and previous calm that had only just settled, dissipated and was overthrown by blinding rage.

He rose from his spot, slamming his heavy hands against the table that shook with the abrasive impact. He glared in Aegon’s direction who innocently backed away from the Beta as though he hadn’t just implied that he’d take a High-Born Lady to a brothel, as though he hadn’t just directly insulted the Alpha, his Lady and their relationship.

“Is anything the problem, nephew?” Aemond lifted himself and addressed the other Alpha, both Alphas challenging one another across the table, Alphan scents permeating the air with threatening pheromones. An uneasiness settled within the Dining Hall that seemed to have stilled, observing the precarious stand-off that Jacaerys and Aemond initiated.

Jacaerys looked across the many faces, some reflecting confusion other’s disappointment over his actions - unnatural for the characteristically level-headed and calm Alpha. Jacaerys bit his tongue, swallowed down his pride and ego and smiled through his teeth, humiliation itching his skin.

He would not be responsible for soiling such a momentous occasion amongst their family, especially not over pitiful quarrels from his youth…

“No, uncle. I do apologize for my immodest behavior.” He held onto his abandoned chalice and lifted it, eyes never leaving Aemond’s own. Despite his words, his eyes never ceased their challenge.

Aegon eventually found his seat, took one glance towards his brother and towards Jacaerys, shrinking in himself when Aemond had captured his gaze. Aegon deserved it, Jace knew this. Aegon was not innocent, he’d roused the Velaryon Alpha and provoked until he’d exploded and he deserved to be chastised – nevertheless, he despised seeing the Omega appear so small, scared, defenseless… and by his soon-to-be husband’s own doing.

It didn’t feel right.

He disregarded the pestering sentiment and addressed his family with a handsome grin.

“To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your families good health and to your marriage.” He finished.

Jacaerys hadn’t known what had compelled him to tenderly hold onto Aegon’s shoulder and caress it with unforeseen softness, but the moment their bodies met, touch intense and hot like wildfire, scorching, burning, devastating, overwhelming, feverish… comforting, warm, secure and safe. His previous unhinged nature was tamed and silenced, soothed and lulled into a state of serenity and calmness, his Alpha content and pleased.

For the first time that day something felt right.

“To yours as well.”  Aegon spoke in a quiet tone, though his eyes never looked up from the empty plate in his front. He lifted his own chalice and drank from it and shook off the calloused hand that hadn’t loosened from his shoulder.

Jacaerys sat back down and the table returned to it’s previously established cordiality.

“Let us have some music.” In an instance, symphonious music enchanted the room.

The momentary bliss from the contact evaporated as soon as the Omega retracted from his hold and the Alpha was condemned, once more, to his perturbed and unsettled state of mind, more confused and agitated than he had before. Why was everything regarding his uncle so confusing? Why was he allowing his uncle to cloud his every thought? Why couldn’t he ignore the man that had accused him of being a bastard six years ago? Why did he care so much?

Jace yearned for a distraction and the harmonious tones granted him just that.  

“May I?” He offered his hand to Baela who gingerly accepted his hand, both adolescents rising from the table, gleefully smiling as they tangled in an intricate dance, bodies moving in tune of the gorgeous orchestra of flutes, harps, drums and vielles.

Jacaerys and Baela laughed, steps becoming messier as the song intensified and quickened, though they cared not for their imprecise footwork or incongruous forms that had long lost the rhythm they’d once dominated; they simply allowed their bodies to sway as they pleased. In their disharmonious state, Jace took a chance to glance up at his family.

In the distance, Jace spotted Alicent and Rhaenrya join in a comfortable exchange, Daemon disinterested but relaxing in his seat, extending an arm behind his Mother’s seat; Otto conversed in delight with his granddaughter, content in hearing Heleana’s abstracts thoughts, looking the part of a proud Grandsire; Luce and Rhaena ate and mingled, though his younger brother seemed to take quick glances towards the Alpha across him who would interchange his focus from Lucerys to Aegon. The latter twirled the food in his plate without taking a single bite, opting to satiate his hunger with more wine.

Viserys’ hadn’t stayed for much longer, cursed to an abrupt onslaught of harsh coughs and painful cries, gasping for air and breathlessness. The Queen had swiftly ordered the Kings-Guards to lead the King out of the Dining Hall to his privates quarters. Once he’d been removed, Baela and Jace broke apart, after jokingly bowing and curtsying to one another and returned to the table, hungry from their intense dance. 

The Velaryon Alpha instead of taking his spot beside the Beta though had instead opted in approaching his imperturbable uncle. Aemond had spared him a few crude comments, Jace was eager to reciprocate. Jacaerys wasn’t above taunting Aemond – notably when the blond man had done nothing but incite and challenge him since he’d arrived at King’s Landing.  

“Do you have no interest in dancing with your own betrothed, uncle?” He questioned, tone light and teasing.

“Why are my affairs any of your concern?” Aemond lifted his eye towards Jacaerys, observing the other Alpha whilst taking a sip from his own glass. Aegon was only a short distance away, eating a small bit of bread from his plate; their conversation was effortlessly perceptible to the Omega if he so desired to eavesdrop. Jace was aware that Aegon adored scandals nearly as much as he did wine.

He would certainly listen. Jace smiled.

Jacaerys leaned down so he and Aemond were eye-to-eye, the other immediately reclining away from him, as though repulsed by his presence.

“Prince Aegon is to be your Lord Husband, is he not? I’d be wise to act accordingly.”  

“I do not understand your sudden concern over my betrothed and our relation. Are you perhaps disconsolate over your own intended, Lord Strong?” Aemond was starting to lose his temper. Good.

Jacaerys would not be responsible for soiling such a momentous occasion amongst their family, especially not over pitiful quarrels from his youth… but that doesn’t mean he’d simply allow for his uncles to do, say and act as they pleased without any retribution.

Jacaerys was a responsible, intelligent and wise man. But he was still just seven and ten years old, still adolescent and still an Alpha. An Alpha that abhorred being contested, degraded and humiliated. He was still an Alpha with instincts, primal impulses and animalistic inclinations… And since he’d seen Aegon, since he’d been in the presence of the Targaryen Omega, all his self-control and discipline in repressing his Alphan nature had been discarded, thrown out the window.

“I can assure you I have no qualms over marrying Lady Baela. She’ll make a fine wife and future Queen consort. I intend to honor her as her husband and her Alpha.” Jacaerys was aware he was tempting the blond Alpha. His behavior was far from civilized or orderly, but he wasn’t a god. He still held grudges, still held disdain for his two uncles, detested them for all the confusion that’d subject him to through most of the day… so could you blame him for his ruthless spitefulness?

“I merely wonder if you’ll be able to do the same for your own husband. Or if he’ll be able to do same for you. I’ve heard he visits the brothels of Flea Bottom quite regularly without a single care of the shame he inflicts on his Alpha.”

Could you blame him for his discourteous words against the Omega that had broken his heart?

Aemond rose from his seat. The warm atmosphere dampened and darkened with intensified and strong Alphan pheromones from both Velaryon and Targaryen men. Sea-salt and smoke clashing with eucalyptus and pinewood. Threatening, imposing. All eyes were on the two Alphas, Daemon rising from his own spot whilst Rhaenyra and Alicent beckoned their sons to settle.

Aegon observed silently.

“Watch your tongue, bastard.” Aemond fumed as did Jacaerys.

“Catch yourself, Uncle. Your first-born child might come to be a bastard themselves.”

The catalytic blow.

Aemond struck his nephew, heavy fist landing on his cheek, impact forceful, brute, murderous. Jacaerys recovered quickly, spitting thick, metallic crimson onto the tilled floor before landing his own fist against the other’s firm abdomen. In a moment of vulnerability, whilst his uncle caught his footing and his breath, the Velaryon Alpha held onto the collar of Aemond’s leather doublet and pulled him forward, choking him by the collar of his pompous leather doublet.

The blond man spat in his face and violently smashed his temple against the other Alpha. Knocking them both away from one another, grunting and growling like mad dogs.

“Aemond!” Alicent screamed, approaching her son and holding his form in her arms. He struggled in her hold but calmed down as to not hurt the woman. He felt fresh blood trickle down his temple. “Aemond, what is the matter with you?! What is the meaning behind these aggressions?”

“I was merely protecting the honor of my betrothed, Mother. Someone ought to remind Prince Jacaerys that speaking ill of someone’s mate is not how allies are gained nor how bonds are forged.” The Targaryen shook her hands away from his form and walked closer to Jace that was being held down by Lucerys, Rhaena and Baela. All struggling against the agitated Alpha.

Aegon looked amongst his brother and nephew, uncomfortable with the ominous aura that encompassed the two growling figures. He stood in silence. He’d been drunk, intoxicated past comprehension, but that hadn’t hindered the sting that burned and crushed his soul and heart over Jacaerys’ volatile accusations.

“Aemond, that is enough!” Alicent tried again, Otto stood beside his daughter, prepared to intervene but Daemon silently stepped forward. The Rogue Prince, the more experienced, murderous and ferocious of the Alphas present had quietened the thunderous growls into meager rumbles. Rhaenrya took her place beside her husband, clutching her swollen belly in one hand.

“To your quarters, all of you. We will discuss the matter at morrow.” She ordered and Jacaerys did as she demanded, her own Alphan presence just as potent and domineering as Daemon’s. He jerked away from the many hands that constrained him and turned to leave the Dining Hall.

Though he hadn’t won the confrontation and had sustained blooming bruises and an open wound during their altercation, nothing could take away the thrill and pleasure that came of provoking his Uncle past the point of explosion. It had felt good seeing him lose himself, abandon his impeccable front.

Aemond felt challenged by Jacaerys. The Velaryon Alpha was arrogantly boastful.

Nevertheless, before he’d abandoned the room, he’d tempted a glance back at his eldest uncle. Lilac eyes caught his own: void of emotion or warmth but they were wet, glistening with tears. Aegon bit his stained lips and his hands clenched beside his form, trembling and white; Aegon immediately averted his eyes away and towards the ground  – an obvious attempt at suppressing the need to sob, cry, break down over Jace’s words.

Jacaerys felt his heart crack and shatter at the piteous sight. New-found arrogance replaced with repentance.

He didn’t feel right.

Chapter Text

Aegon cherished rest. Not only due to his lackadaisical nature, but also because when he was abed, eased into his heavenly cushions that felt as though he were adrift in the clouds, embraced by refreshing silence and devoid of perpetual harassment, it was then he was at his most peaceful, dreaming of futile fantasies, content, sheltered, protected.

When he roused back into consciousness it felt as though he were damned into a nightmare.

And only days after the banquet, he had been reminded why he frequently desired to never rise from his rest and succumb to death whilst in his inconceivable illusions…

… On that very day, Aegon had been awaken by bright, radiant rays illuminating his once dark quarters, brightness irradiating on his exhausted features, eventually rousing him from his serene and sublime slumber.

He opened his pale fuchsia eyes to admire the gorgeous glow of morningtide, stretching his tense muscles whilst he sat up on his bed, enveloping his silk sheets around his body in a makeshift robe as a means to protect his barren form. The Omega lifted himself from his ostentatious mattress and looked around the expansive space. He was desolate, unaccompanied, alone. Aegon smiled.

Rare were the occasions where he’d awake before he was attended and pampered by ceaseless maidens and servants or by his own Mother’s ill-tempered condemnation and tirades; he savored those scarce opportunities as though they were an incomparable endowment from the Old and New Gods themselves – peaceful tranquility had become a concept foreign in his abysmal existence.

He parted his linen drapes and stepped onto the small balcony that protruded from the scarlet high towers of the Red Keep. He permitted himself a moment to relish in the silent symphony of sunrise and admire the empyrean horizon.

Day break was magnificent. The heavens were a canvas painted in passionate hues of warmth and opulence, skies dyed different and vibrant shades that transitioned from deep purples that resembled obsidian, gradually dwindling from timid ceruleans and periwinkle into opulent flushes of orange and pink. Twinkling stars were muted by the incandescent glow of dawn, the sun slowly rising from it’s own rest, peaking over the pacific tides of Blackwater Bay.

The Omega was lulled by Nature’s harmonious orchestra in conjunction with the pleasant breeze that smelt of sea, smelt of blooming blossoms from the luscious, lavish and flourishing Gardens of the Red Keep, smelt of the unremarkable stench of the city that Aegon had grown accustomed to; smelt of…

Sea-salt and smoke.

Aegon opened his eyes, prior meditative entrancement abruptly ravished due to the unanticipated aroma of confidence, strength, musk, protectiveness, imperium, intimidation, power, dominance, warmth, home, familiarity… Alpha.

And not just any common Alpha… no, the enrapturing fragrance was non-other than of his nephew’s, it was Jacaerys’.

The lightness that had soothed his body dissipated, muscles tensing and he subconsciously tugged the thin fabric that covered his body closer to his skin. His eyes glanced across the extensive scenery and attempted to follow the direction of the winds and, in a matter of moments, his eyes had fallen over the hunched silhouette of the Alpha.

Jace leaned over marble balustrades from a secluded veranda that overlooked the steep precipice that led to the rhythmical shores of Blackwater Bay that coasted Kings Landing. Aegon’s vision was conditioned by the distance and the sumptuous verdure of the Royal Gardens’, but even so and much to his distaste and dismay, he caught glimpse of Jacaerys holding another’s hand, a woman, a beta: Baela Targaryen, his betrothed, his mate.

He diverted his eyes, unable to look any longer at the gut-wrenching scene.

He had yet to comprehend his dissatisfaction for their engagement. He had yet to justify his revulsion for their public displays of mutual devotion and adoration. He had yet to accept the cold, hard truth that his former bond with the Alpha had long been severed, broken, desecrated. The string that joined their souls, their histories and their futures had been cut – Aegon concluded that it was in vain to sow the loose threads together, stubborn in his beliefs that Jacaerys held no desire to mend their relationship.

Aegon reminisced over his nephew’s speech for himself and for Aemond the night of the disastrous banquet, the words he’d professed had been all but sincere, resumed as a fraudulent response to avoid undesired confrontation over the Omega’s offensive provocation towards Baela…

He lifted his hand to caress the shoulder that Jacaerys had briefly held after his toast. In truth it was an insignificant gesture, impoverished of amorous implications, but Aegon couldn’t help but shiver, though, he was past cognizant during the grand majority of the event, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, forget the electric and overwhelming touch they’d shared.

He’d been groped, fondled, manhandled, ravished and destroyed by many Alphas. His body had been mapped and explored by innumerable hands in a plethora of different contexts – he’d been touched out of desire and passion; he’d been touched out of spite and hatred; he’d been touched as a form of discipline and chastisement; he’d been touched as a form of persecution and torment; he’d been touched to forget, to escape, to numb, to survive – and despite it all, non-had made him feel the same way Jacaerys’ meager touch had.

He'd felt simultaneously burnt and secure. He’d felt weightless and breathless, but he didn’t feel suffocated or overpowered, no, he had felt protected, safe within the Alphas tender hand. He remembered fighting every impulsive instinct that cried out for him to lean into Jacaerys’ calloused palm, relish in the warmth. And though he fought his body, his mind and his being, the Omega longed for more, longed to feel his arms embrace him, longed to feel his broiling fingertips on his unclothed skin, longed to feel the Alpha’s skin on his own… he longed, yearned, wanted, needed.

“Aegon!”

The Omega gasped and turned towards the vociferous growl. His chamber door opened unceremoniously, hitting the walls with a thunderous clash and from it emerged his Grandsire and Ser Criston Cole’s frightening figures, permeating his private quarters with their sour pungency and vile scents that reeked of hostility, malice, dread…

Aegon quivered and took one final glance at the small terrace where Jacaerys’ had stood. He hadn’t known for how long he’d disassociated for, how long he’d been caught within his own memories and grievances, but, in that brief time, the Alpha and his Lady had abandoned the balcony and they were nowhere to be found.

The Omega gripped the fabric to his form, sighing in exasperation and in dread before adorning the mask of irrefragable indifference and stepped back into his chambers, addressing the threatening arrivals that looked through him with deep scowls and knitted eyebrows, eyes glistening with revulsion and ire.

“I did not grant you nor Ser Criston permission to step into my chambers, Grandsire.” Aegon sighed, standing tall and strong despite feeling everything but. He was petrified, scared, apprehensive of what the two men would do to him. They always made him feel so weak, fragile, small, insignificant, unwanted, unloved.

Aegon had a grievous suspicion of what was about to transpire in the secrecy of his chambers.

“You’ve lost the privilege of privacy the moment you presented an Omega, My Prince.” Criston voiced unable to conceal the evident poisonous acrimony that trickled from his unpleasant tone, as though a snake leaking lethal venom from it’s fangs, each word intent to hurt, mar, kill.

Behind the armored Commander, Aegon saw Otto close the heavy door and lock it, pocketing the rusty key. It was just the three of them – an Omega trapped between two Alphas – and despite the Prince’s regal blood, his heritage, his title… the scale tipped exuberantly at the unjust power imbalance between them.

He was certain of what would unravel in the fiendish shadows of secrecy. It wouldn’t be the first nor the last time… Criston Cole and Otto Hightower did not visit him for cordial comradery.

“Why are you here?” Despite the disadvantageous circumstances, Aegon’s voice never faltered nor did his composure.

“Word has reached me you were spotted lurking Flea Bottom.” Otto joined the Alpha Knight’s side, looking over his grandson’s vulnerable appearance, meeting his lilac irises.  Aegon didn’t look away. “I was also informed that you were spotted frequenting a brothel… a brothel that provides… Alphan services.” 

Aegon noticed Otto step forward and he subconsciously took one back. The elder sniffed the air and the Targaryen tensed when he saw the other’s wrinkled and aged features twist and deform into disgust, aversion, repulsion. The aged Alpha abruptly stomped towards the Omega, disregarding personal space,  rooting his rogous and hideous fingers into Aegon’s scalp, violently pulling on platinum curls and forcing his head upwards.

“You still smell of Alpha…” He seethed, tugging roughly on Aegon’s fair hair as to emphasize his statement. His frown worsened, darkening with apathy, jaw clenching as his teeth grinded against one another. “You’re an Omega, Aegon!” He spat onto the young monarch’s face – the aforementioned prince didn’t move away from the brutal grip.

He wouldn’t give his Grandsire the satisfaction of savoring his agony. He would have to do worse, break him, tear him, maim him for Aegon to crack. (Otto would do worse, would break, tear, maim Aegon, it was foolish of him to think otherwise).

“As I am perpetually reminded.” He rolled his eyes and he smirked gleefully when he recognized a guttural rumble reverberate from the Hand of the King. Otto’s patience was wearing thin. “Do you not tire of reciting the same song over and over again?”

“Watch your tongue, Prince Aegon.” Criston snarled behind them and Aegon laughed boisterously at the fickle threat, laughed at his grandsire, at his own blood, laughed at the Knight and his words. And Criston had taken great offense over his amusement, face contracting into bitter rage – it only served to humor the Omega.

The Targaryen Prince had once thought the Alpha handsome, had even contemplated taking Cole to his bed, but his righteous arrogance and pathetic devoutness to the Hightowers (excluding Aegon, of course, because he was undeserving of any devotion) had incinerated that flame in an instant, that and one other devastating reason…

“Let him speak his quips. He cannot refute the accusations so he resorts to pitiful jests.” The Hand released his tyrannous grip and stepped back, crossing his hands behind his straight back, composure collected.  No one would have ever suspected him of assaulting the Omega. “You are betrothed, Aegon. You will be Aemond’s Omega. And if the Gods be good, Aemond will ascend the Iron Throne as King and you his King Consort.”

Aegon looked at the man with incredulity, previous humor metamorphizing into confusion. Aemond was not Viserys’ successor, he held no claim to the Realm.

“Rhaenyra is the rightful heir- fuck!“

In a curt second, he was thrown against the stone walls of his chambers, breath fleeing his lungs as his body twinged and shook with the violent assault. His head harshly hit the hard surface and he felt dizziness daze his consciousness for a moment, vision blinded by white and senses overpowered by raw pain. He begrudgingly focused his sight on Criston’s abominable face breathing over his; larger, broader form imprisoning Aegon in inescapable retention; nauseating scent, rotten and vile, imbued the ambience.

“Rhaenrya is a woman – an Alpha - but she is still a woman. Her claim to the Throne was dissolved the moment Aemond presented his Alphan nature.” Otto spoke as though his words were not treasonous accusations, as though he hadn’t just questioned Rhaenyra’s legitimacy, as if he weren’t declaring to have Aemond usurp her title, her rights. “Infidelity against the Crown is an act of treason. You’re inability to refrain from your scandalous endeavors has destroyed your virtue that was Aemond’s to claim. Such vile inconsideration cannot be pardoned…Ser Criston, please carry out Prince Aegon’s penance.” 

How fucking ironic.

Criston’s lips lifted into a wicked grin. He retracted his fist before callously clashing it into the Omega’s middle, forceful, brutal, monstrous, murderous. Aegon hadn’t a moment to catch his breath or even process the barbaric assault before he was thrown to the floor, knocked down with a torturous kick to his wobbly knees, legs giving underneath him and his body clashed and collapsed onto the cold floor, the satin sheet that had protected him loosening.

He was barren, defenseless and vulnerable.

“Fuck! What are you doing?!” His fiery tongue and quick quips were his sole defense and they did little to aid him in the torment he was forced to endure. He attempted to protect his intimacy, one hand rising to his chest, another to his cock. In truth he desired to shield all of himself from his Grandsire’s wrathful abhorrence and Criston’s sadistic temper…

But he alone could do no such thing.

“Merely upholding impartial justice.” Criston smiled and crouched next to the Targaryen Prince, grabbing onto his slim wrists, ripping them from their place, exposing vermillion bruises that freshly erupted on ivory skin and the other’s that had once been fading – Criston admired the fruit of his efforts, the mural he’d composed with his own two hands.

Each laceration, wound, bruise, scar and mark that blemished his flesh were gifted by the Commander’s grim generosity, a few Otto’s.

The evidence of their excruciating tradition was hidden beneath the naked eye and not a single soul cared whenever his lesions were visible: not the Alphas he’d take to bed, not his chambermaids that tended to him, not the Grand Maester, not even his own family… The pain he carried with him was just another persistent reminder that he was unlovable, he was unwanted, he was purposeless…

But even so… he fought.  

“Is defiling the blood of the dragon, the blood of Viserys Targaryen, not an act of treason? Or do you choose to close an eye to the lawlessness that does not support your belief-“ Aegon spat though he hadn’t been able to finish, as the Alpha twisted his wrists in an inhumane direction, crushing the muscles, tendons and veins with his fearsome grip. “You cunt…” Aegon cried, clenching his teeth, writhering under Criston’s physique.

“You are nothing to the Realm, Aegon. You were born blessed to bare your Father’s blood because had you not, you would have been sentenced to die long ago for your ceaseless incompetence as a son…” He heard Otto above him but his skull was pushed against the floor, cherry blood spilling from his temple down his cheeks, onto the dark tiles he was gruesomely crushed upon.  

“… a brother…” A heavy, armored knee struck his abdomen. Vile rose his throat. Tears burned his eyes, spilling freely, mixing with the warm blood that collected on his pale white cheeks.

“… a Prince…” Strong hands lifted him off the ground and he was, once again, thrown up against the wall. Aegon felt unconsciousness threaten him – he felt incapable of breathing, he felt unstable, heart spiking and hammering at the perceived thread.

“… an Omega.” One hand wrapped around his throat and squeezed and continued to squeeze harder, tighter, deadlier. Aegon immediately reached up to the large hand and tugged, scratched, pulled, did everything in his power to ease the constrictive hold that obstructed his airways. He gasped and coughed and he felt fog cloud his distressed mind.

“… if I am… of no use… why not just end… my insufferable existence?” He managed to rasp out, each word interrupted by an urgent inhale, body fighting to survive. Aegon didn’t know why he still fought, why he held onto dwindling resilience to live another day… but he did.

Criston released him once he’d seen the Prince adorn a somber shade of fuchsia, the Omega fell limp, motionless, numb. He was on the floor, face wet with blood and salty tears, his mouth tasted of acid and metal; his body burned and ached with darkening bruises and open wounds, flesh lacerated and torn; he trembled from shock and fear and all he could do was look above at the two men.

“The Gods protected you when you grew a womb. You will bear the strongest Targaryens since the age of Old Valyria, that is if you haven’t poisoned yourself with your perpetual cups. ” Otto recited like a cruel mantra. An excuse to justify sparing Aegon’s life – the man was power hungry, the promise of having his blood prophesied to conquer, control, rule: it the sole reason why he hadn’t yet killed his useless grandson.

“Congrats, My Prince, you’re worth the same as a common broodmare.” Criston leant down again and lifted Aegon’s head. His thumb played and toyed with his cracked and tinted lips, two other fingers held  his chin. With his other hand the Knight whipped away a crystalline tear that cascaded down his soiled face. Aegon shook away the insulting touch and glared up at both of them.

“One day... your heads… will sit on spikes.” He threatened and he repressed the urge to sob when the two Alphas laughed in his face, undaunted by his threat. He closed his eyes in defeat and rested his head against the wall, hoping it’s chilled coolness would ease the hammering pain, aches proving more and more difficult to ignore.

“And who will do such an act? Who will kill for you Aegon? No one. Not your Mother, not your betrothed, not your Father. No one cares about you. No one will protect you. No one will fight for you. No one will slaughter for you.” Criston cupped his cheek and made the Omega forcibly gaze up at him. Aegon looked past him, eyes unfocused and blank…

“Ser Criston, that is enough.” The Commander let go of the Targaryen Omega and they approached the locked door. Otto retrieved the pocketed key and unlocked the entryway. Criston exited first, Otto remained a second longer. “Prince Aegon, I do hope this punishment enough to repress any future disreputable behavior.”

He threw the key towards Aegon’s body and closed the door, abandoning him to desolate abandonment: bleeding profusely, weeping and inching closer and closer to deep unconsciousness, vision flickering from clear to darkness, ears deafened with thunderous madness and he was an inconsolable, incomprehensible mess.

He felt suffocated by the detestable residue of Alphan stench that lingered in the atmosphere. Aegon needed to free himself of the oppressive pheromones – he longed for fresh air, needed it like he needed water, urge desperate.

So, despite his sorrowful state, he’d unceremoniously lifted himself from the floor, enveloped his brutalized body in the discarded silk, dapped his scent gland with the scent blocker and escaped from his chambers, ignoring the pounding in his head, the sickening nausea, the pain, the blood, the agony, everything.

He guided himself by supporting his trembling hands along the tall walls, weak legs unable to carry his weight. Aegon attempted to focus on his surroundings, maneuvering around approaching shadows, avoiding locations that were usually overpopulate, turning once he’d hear the rattle of metal from pristine armor or the presumptuous mumbling of High-born Ladies and Lords gossiping in the halls – at one point he’d lost his perception of depth, he felt as though he were in an infinite tunnel, dark and bleak.

Through his disorientation and indisposition, he’d bumped into another body – one smaller than his own, but sturdy and strong, so much so, his knees caved under his weight and he’d fell to the floor. He allowed his body to collapse, weak and limp, depleted and defeated.

“Uncle?!” Uncle? Jacaerys? No… the tone was too high-pitched, too juvenile to be the Alpha’s. Sea-salt and smoke was imperceptible in the air. Though strenuous, Aegon looked through heavy, hooded eyes and attempted to put a name to the boy - curly, chocolate hair, not as long as Jacaerys but evidently similar; caramel eyes, innocent and emotional, pure and good-natured; button nose and abundant freckles dusting pale cheeks.

His other nephew… what was his name again? Luke? Luce? Yah, Lucerys – the new Lord of the Tides, Jacaerys younger brother.

 “Uncle?! What has happened to you? You should not be walking in your conditions.” The younger child bent over his debilitated uncle, darting his eyes from the multiple gashes and wounds towards the Omega’s unsettling gaze – it looked adrift, focusing on nothing at all, eyes red and blood-shot, face flushed and drenched in dried blood, sweat and tears.

Luce looked positively troubled, hands shaking in the air, unsure how to aid the Targaryen Omega through his detrimental state, his brow furrowed and sweat collected on his temple. Aegon groaned. He did not desire for anyone to observe him in such a state, especially not any of the Velaryon brothers.

“Leave…” He breathed out, his whisper incomprehensible with the roughness of his tone – shriveled and hoarse from Criston’s grim grip.

“I’ll call for Prince Aemond! Do not leave. ” Lucerys announced before rising and spurting. Aegon couldn’t help but crack a heart-wrenching smile. He was physically incapable of escaping, running away or hiding; not even able to refute the young boy’s idea, his body and mind drained from all its strength, resilience, resolve… exhausted, tired of fighting, of struggling, of surviving.

“No… no… not Aemond…” Aegon observed as his vision twinkled with dark stars obscuring his view, each blink welcoming more and more of the ebony specs. His mind was in perilous turmoil, unable to concentrate or structure a singular coherent thought, it was overpowered by a harrowing fog that pulsated with agonizing intensity.

Aegon felt himself drowning, losing his grip on reality. He felt the world turn and rotate around him. Darkness threatened to take him. His eyes grew heavier, more difficult to maintain open. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t feel. He was helpless, defenseless, vulnerable, afraid…

“Jace…” And at his lowest, he called out for a name that made him feel secure, protected, sheltered, safe… And with his final whisper, he allowed his body to succumb to senselessness.

Darkness.

Brightness.

Aegon closed his eyes as quickly as he had opened them, sight temporarily overwhelmed with excruciating lightness, blinding him of his surroundings. He tried again, one eye at a time, glancing through blond lashes, growing more and more accustomed to the cozy warmth that illuminated the space. With restored cognition, the Omega recognized many of the furniture, tapestries, decorations and architecture that encompassed his resting form.

He was back in his private quarters, body covered in plentiful silk and satin sheets. He melted into comfortable and plush pillows, though not any bit comfortable or assured. Dread daunted over Aegon. Barbaric visions of his Grandsire’s invidious eyes and Criston’s cruel castigation flooded the Prince’s thoughts; his eyes shifted across the spacious room, attentive for any sign of the two Alphas invading his privacy once more to prosecute him, punish him, kill him.

Aegon sighed with relief and relaxed his tense muscles. Otto and Criston were not there. However, he hadn’t been left unattended.

Beside his bedside, another figure loomed over him, settled on the mattress surrounded by various ointments, linen bindings and cleansing water. An Alpha was tending to an imbrued lesion on the Omega’s forearm, washing vivid, vibrant vermillion bloodstains with a stained crimson cloth. His unmarred eye, dark fuchsia – purple regal and imposing similar to the Alpha’s own nature - never lifted from his meticulous work, from his delicate craftsmanship that felt too tender, too careful.

“You’re awake?” Aemond questioned, voice low and quiet, sonorous and serene. His brother discarded the soiled cloth he’d held into a porcelain basin filled with water no longer transparent, rather dyed a pale red, other soiled cloths floating in the small pool, evidence of the Alpha’s strenuous attention and care.

Just how many wounds had Aemond tended to whilst Aegon had fallen victim to senseless somnolence? How much blood had Aegon shed, how many lesions had he suffered?

“Aemond? Why am I here? Why are you here?” Aegon tempted to rise but his chest flared and burned in acute, paralyzing pain. He groaned and resigned into the protective shelter of his nest, too exhausted and defeated to exert himself.

A small goblet was brought to his chapped lips, Aemond offering him the cup with disinterest, eye never meeting his betrothed’s own. Aegon brightened, earnestly sipping from the offered glass, assuming the liquid was rich wine but instantaneously deflated. In the golden chalice was not thick and aged wine nor delicious ale, but a cream-white, thick substance with a floral and herbal aroma. Milk of the poppy. The Omega accepted the potion and chugged it in a single gulp, grimacing at it’s distinctive flavor.

He would have much preferred wonderful wine…

“I carried you here after Lucerys brought me to you.” Aemond retrieved the cup and placed it on a nearby surface. His other hand hovered over the severe bruises that flourished around the Omega’s neck, pattern reminiscent of brutal fingers clawing and restricting, attacking. He didn’t touch the lesions. His hand lingered longer over the small protrusion, still smothered in scent blocker.

He didn’t touch Omega’s scent gland.

“You aided me?” Aegon laughed, incapable of concealing the perplexity from his tone.  

Aemond was no healer. Aemond was a warrior, a fighter, a ruler, an Alpha. He was no healer.

Aegon may have been a fool, but even he was sensible enough to comprehend that there were other ulterior motivations behind his younger brother’s inexplicable tenderness and careful protection. No one would ever grant Aegon such benevolence, he was undeserving.

“As any good mate would.” Cool-tempered, composed, controlled, recited, performed. Words manufactured from honorable falseness.

“You did no such act for me.” Aegon never diverted his attention from Aemond, though the same could not be said for the younger Targaryen who quickly averted his gaze onto the linen bandages near him, reaching for them and unravelling them.

“Who else would I had done this for?” His voice was smooth, authoritative, precise. He carried himself with undoubtable confidence and even if the Alpha had never once been instructed on curative techniques, had never tended to any wound other than his own minor ones – his posture reflected nothing short of self-assurance, rigor, perfection… as though he’d been trained and perfected the art of care at the Citadel…

Aegon had to remind himself that the attentiveness was a fabricated front, a theatrical performance.

“For Mother, for our Grandsire, our family… You protect them, not me, never me.” Aegon sighed and rested his aching cheek against sumptuous pillows, allowing his golden curls to tickle his nose and veil his dampened features. He hated how envious he felt of Aemond.

Aemond ‘One Eyed’ Targaryen – the perfect Prince, the perfect Knight, the perfect warrior, the perfect dragon rider, the perfect Alpha, the perfect son, brother, grandson.

“I could have let you bleed out and die.” Aemond finalized the treatment. Aegon retracted his forearm and placed it close to his face, admiring the meritorious and meticulous work.

Aemond hadn’t denied his comment. He couldn’t.

Everything he did for Aegon, it was never for Aegon.

He accepted his matrimonial alignment with the Targaryen Omega because it was beneficial to the Hightowers, favorable for Otto, for Alicent, for their blood, their tyrannous authority.

He performed the part of the indefectible Alpha, the devoting mate because it was what their Mother, their Grandsire, their family expected of him, it was what was needed of him.

He protected and tended to Aegon, cured his abrasions and soothed his pain, not born of fraternal nor romantic cause, but because if anyone were to discover the cruelties that Aegon had been condemned to endure – Aegon: the Prince of the Realm, the Targaryen’s sole Omega, the promise of a stronger, more powerful generation of Targaryens – Alicent, Otto and Criston Cole would have long had their heads on spikes adorning the great wall of the Red Keep.

He protected Aegon to protect the ones whom he cared for. He did not care for Aegon. No one did.

Aegon was not deserving of unconditional stability nor security; was not deserving of genuine generosity nor concern. The truth of his existence had been beaten into him since he became lesser than a man, lesser than a human; since he’d lost his ability to usurp the Throne and place the Hightower’s name in the Citadel’s Books of the Great Sovereign’s of the Realm…

Since then, Aegon had lost his passion for life, his love for breathing, for living, for existing. It was just a chore, an obligation, a damned cruelty.

“You should have. It would have been more merciful than having to endure another day of this torment.” The elder mumbled, a curt whisper that Aemond had caught.

“Perhaps I should have. But you are still my betrothed and my Omega and I have a duty to uphold, as do you, though it seems you are more concerned with your own selfish pleasures that protecting the image of your own blood.”

The Alpha rose, frame broad, intimidating and for a moment Aegon feared Aemond would recommence what their Grandsire and the Commander of the Kings-Guard had initiated. The Omega flinched from his brother whom, instead of inhumane sadism and volatile violence, had merely leaned over the extensive bedding, one knee leveraging his form over Aegon’s own, forearms secured on either side of the elder’s head.

His platinum blond hair, straight and pristine, curtained Aegon’s view of his quarters. His vision was limited to Aemond and solely Aemond. Their position was intimate, yet it evidently illustrated the power discrepancy within their bond – the Alpha loomed predatory and controlling, trapping the Omega to the bed.

Aegon raised his trembling hands and placed them on the Alpha’s sunken cheeks, holding him within his palms, rubbing soft circles into the smooth skin. He frowned and lamented that such a man, such an Alpha, had been condemned to wed him; had been condemned to abstinence for an Omega that had already indulged in his own desires…

“Perhaps it would do you good to do the same. You have quite the array of maidens to choose from in Court. Most would commit treason just to spend a night lying beside you.” Aegon regretted his proposition immediately as Aemond lowered his body onto Aegon’s until their chests were flush together, breaths mixing in between the curt space separating their mouths; their noses bumped and rubbed against one another.

It was all a search for dominance, control, power… Aemond was still an Alpha despite repressing his more primitive and primal urges, they were still imbued in his nature, in his soul, in his mind and in his body. Possessing, dominating, controlling an Omega came with his second nature, so Aegon did no fear nor fight off his brother…Aegon allowed Aemond to take what he needed.

“You’re pathetic Aegon.” Aemond whispered in his ear, voice imbedded with rancorous malice. Aegon smiled through tight lips.

“Thank you for you’re kind words, Lord Husband.” He attempted to humor his heaving betrothed, however, it had only served to further enrage the Alpha – guttural growls reverberating against his ear, low and intimidating.    

“Do not call me that.”

“We are promised to one another, are we not? Might as well act accordingly.”

Aemond scoffed and nosed at the Omega’s neck, sniffing at his scent gland and retracting his face once he’d caught a scent, though it was not the scent of sweet, honey-like Omegan pheromones – Aegon’s aroma was still a mysterious enigma – but instead he’d been subjugated to breathing in other Alphan stenches, musk, deep, robust and accentuated with indisputable desire and arousal.

Aemond raucously growled, teeth bared.

“Act accordingly? Spare me from fabricated properness. Aegon, you still reek of Alpha. An Alpha that isn’t your betrothed. An Alpha that isn’t me.” He closed his eye and exhaled deeply, nosing once more at the scent gland and succumbing to his instincts – he began scenting Aegon, rubbing his cheek against his marred flesh. “How many have you laid with?”

“Does it matter how many I have shared a bed with? I am no pure virgin, no matter if I have slept with one or with a thousand men.” Aegon knew it was a bitter response.

Aemond was honorable. Upheld tradition and duty with non-existent qualms or complaint. He was the second son, sentenced to wilt under the first-born son’s shadow. He had fought for everything – the glory, the control, the power, the praise. Yet, despite it all, even with his mate, his destined husband, he hadn’t the triumph of claiming Aegon’s purity.

“No other Alpha would accept this perfidious performance.” Aegon was aware. It was one of the reason’s why he had so few courtship solicitations despite his prestigious bloodline and rare presentation. No one wanted a soiled Omega.

“If it troubles you so much, why do you not ask Mother to annul our engagement, Aemond? She would do so for you, not for me.” Aegon placed a frail hand onto the back of Aemond’s hair, caressing blond strands and allowed his brother to infuse his strong fragrance of eucalyptus and pinewood onto his skin, washing away the appalling stench of Alphan whores.

Eucalyptus and pinewood was not sea-salt and smoke…

“You have been promised to me, it is now my obligation to carry out my marital duties. Unlike yourself, I accept the roles bestowed upon me with honor instead of fleeing them.” He whispered his words onto Aegon’s porcelain, pale skin. His mouth hovered, lingered, dawdled over the Omega’s unmarked, unclaimed scent gland – and for a moment, the older brother was petrified that Aemond could take him right then.

“That is where you are wrong, brother. I cannot flee this eternal torment, I can attempt to fly out of my cage, bask in the illusion of freedom, but all my efforts are in vain as I’ll always be chained to this prison. That is my destiny.”

His monologue had sufficed in removing Aemond from his proximity, the Alpha chuckling lowly as he rose off his brother.

“Do you think I give a shit about your pitiful laments?”

“You care enough to heal my wounds.” A pathetic retort

“Can you hold your tongue for one moment in your life?”

Aegon hadn’t known if the milk of the poppy was gradually influencing his sensibility or cognizance or if were the efforts of the Alpha’s scenting, the possessive demonstration and intense presence, the Targaryen was surrendering into welcoming peacefulness, lulled into the paradisical paradise of slumber, the promise of earnt rest resembled a beacon on hopefulness for the depressed, dejected and shiftless Omega.

“Aemond?”  He eventually spoke up from his lethargic quietness.

“Did I not just tell you to fuckin-“ Aemond stopped his rampageous response, eye momentarily softening once he’d looked directly into pale lavender eyes glistened with crystalline tears that resembled dire diamonds, cascading down reddened cheeks. The Omega sobbed and whined and whimpered.

Aegon’s lips quivered when he’d seen confusion and concern reflect off his brother’s deep fuchsia eye. He gingerly placed his hand over Aemond’s own and squeezed it with as much might and strength as his body, mind, soul and being could muster in the moment where he felt so impossibly lost and defeated, useless, unlovable, unwanted.

He just wanted some comfort, someone to help him, to save him, to notice his silent suffering, someone to dare peak within the curtain’s of his abysmal existence, observe and testify the horrors that he’d endured for years, someone to pull him from the dark, depths of his hell and just hold him, reassure him, save him.

It was all so unfair.

Otto was right.

Criston was right.

His Mother was right.

Jacaerys was right.

Aemond, for as much as he could be a pretentious cunt, deserved so much more than what Aegon could and would offer to him.

Aegon was worth nothing. He would never amount to anything. He served no purpose. He was a waste of Targaryen blood, a waste of an Omega, a waste of a man. He was worth nothing.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry you have been burdened to wed an Omega the likes of myself.” Aemond observed him aghast, his face was emotionless, impregnable, unperturbed.

He shook off Aegon’s hands and lifted himself off the Prince’s body and sheets. He stepped towards Aegon’s door but before he exited the Omega’s chambers, before he could excuse himself from enduring his brother’s loathsome snivels and sobs, before he could free himself from the burden anointed to him to endure – he glanced back at the deplorable corpse of a man laying in the bed.

And Aegon saw his mask crack. The Alpha’s eye dulled, displeasure morphing into forbearance, sadness, pity.

“I’ll take my leave. Rest.” And those were Aemond’s departing words before he’d closed the colossal door behind him, imprisoning Aegon to abandonment.

Aegon was gradually falling victim to fatigue – the days events had been tumultuous, disastrous and had deprived him of all energy, force and strength. And through his decrepit fragility, he wondered where he’d gone wrong, what he could have done to become someone better; someone who other’s could praise, love and respect; someone that could bring honor to the Targaryen bloodline.

He felt himself plunging further and further into the depressive darkness – his drive and resolve to fight back and live, survive, breath was wearing thin. He just wanted it all to end. He didn’t want to hurt any longer, he couldn’t endure it, he couldn’t.

He needed someone to save him, protect him, shield him, love him.

But no one would ever love Aegon Targaryen.

Chapter Text

Days had passed since the lamentable Dinner. Jacaerys had since endured Rhaenyra’s ire over his unbecoming behavior, though she seemed more displeased with his lesions more so than his violent confrontation with his uncle – his eye was dark and ugly, swollen and hard to look at; his temple was scarred with an open wound that the Maester had minimally stitched and his body was marked with brute bruises that had migrated from a deep fuchsia to a mild moss. He imagined Aemond carried scars similar to his own and he could not veil the pride he felt.

The Alpha had been confined to his quarters, not only to recover from his abrasions but also as a form of punishment. He hadn’t flown on Vermax since his arrival to the Capital nor had he been able to train with a sword. The Alpha was restless, exhausted of doing nothing but traveling through Maegor’s Holdfast suffering through tedium as perfect, bright days passed.

He’d also been informed during his confinement that Rhaenyra would extend their stay on King’s Landing in result of Viserys’ deteriorating health, their permanence indefinite.

The morning that Jacaerys had been permitted leave from his imprisonment, he’d desired nothing more than to dress in his riding leathers, dash towards the Dragon Pit and mount Vermax. He’d longed to feel the cool winds on his skin, yearned the addictive rush of flying his dragon. However, in his time confined to abandonment, he had deemed he had other significant matters to address before he could grant himself the privilege of freedom.

And that, was how Jacaerys had found himself parading the lavish Royal Gardens of the Red Keep with his arm linked with his betrothed, Baela Targaryen.

The Gardens were magnificent. Exquisite flowerage bloomed, blossoms and buds of different vibrant hues made the grounds a paradisiacal image to observe. Trees grew tall, providing shade from the heated rays, green leafage homed birds and other creatures that nested on their strong branches. Fruit hung heavy, fresh and ripe, appealing and delectable, plucked by the maidens that tended and cared for the ethereal oasis.

The newly betrothed couple walked on a stone path, admiring the shrubs and flora foreign to their homes. 

“The gardens are mesmerizing.” Baela spoke up, lifting the heavy layers of her aquamarine gown to step into the grassy patches, plucking a red rose and bringing it to her nose.

“They are. Lusher than when we used to live here in the Red Keep.” Jacaerys admired the aghast Beta. Baela was unaccustomed to opulent verdure. Driftmark was cold and damp, sandy and rainy, not much grew on the island beside grass, shrubs and saplings that were negligible to the colorful and resplendent flowers and blossoms that surrounded them.

He laughed boisterously when she’d nearly slipped whilst returning to her spot beside the Alpha, slapping him against his shoulder at his teasing, aggressively taking his arm in hers in defeat. They continued venturing the gardens.

 “I’ve heard word that it was the Princess Heleana’s desire to farm the Royal Gardens with flowers from every corner of Westeros. It’s known that many of the exotic plants are gifts from different Lords courting her hand.” She smiled down at the rose she held in her hand, sniffing it once more. Her tone had deepened and darkened by the end, displeasure and envy dripping off her tongue.

Jacaerys chuckled once more at the Beta that glared up at him.

“You do not appear happy.” He spoke with a brilliant smile gracing his handsome features.

“Hush, Jacaerys. You’re soiling my mood.” She turned forward with in indignant expression, huffing in annoyance by the man, though she held no malice towards him.

The foundation of their friendship had been mutual provocation and teasing since their early childhood, worsening with age. It bordered fraternal and through adolescence it hadn’t shifted into anything resembling romantic, as many had predicted. He was a brother to her as she was a sister to him. He’d never desired anything more from their bond.

But the Gods were cruel.

“As if it hadn’t already been soiled the day our betrothal was announced.” The Alpha watched on as Baela’s mood withered and metamorphosized from pitiful irritation to somber sadness.

“Is that why you invited me to walk with you this morningtide?” She eventually spoke up, looking up at the Alpha through thick, dark lashes and a deep scowl.

“We have yet to discuss our union.”

They had yet to properly discuss the unexpected betrothal. Neither adolescent had been advised of their matrimonial arrangement until the day it’d been declared and legitimized at Court. He’d only remembered looking and smiling at Baela through tight lips, relieved when she’d mirrored similar perplexity to his own.

That had been the extent of their discourse on the monumental change in both their lives and Jacaerys had been reflecting over the new-found development when he’d been abandoned with his thoughts in his chambers. And though he was willing to serve the Realm, fulfill his duties and responsibilities as Prince and Heir and comply to the inevitable sacrifices that rose with their engagement, he was unaware of Baela’s own personal opinions and feelings regarding the subject.

“What is there to discuss, Jacaerys? We must do our part without complaint, we have a role to fulfill whether we consent or not. ”

He stopped both their forms and turned so he was facing the Beta. He had expected the response, those exact words had been hammered and imprinted in his brain since before he could talk in coherent sentences. They served the Kingdom. Their marriage was to benefit their Houses, the Realm and the people. Baela and he were mere pawns to carry out the line of succession. Their marriage was not born of love, it was kindled by necessity, desire for power, strength and stability.

“You do not wish to marry me.” He concluded, smiling.

“I do not.” She held onto his hands and squeezed. “I do not see you as anything more than my childhood friend. Do not mistake my words, you are a fine Alpha and I’m sure any Omega and Beta would kill just to share a dance with you, but…” Her words were left unspoken.

“I do not suit your preferences.” She rolled her eyes and punched his chest lightly. Jacaerys knew her well.

“As I do not suit yours.” And Baela knew him well. His eyes opened wide and his mouth was pathetically agape. He had thought he did well at concealing his preferred inclinations. “Do not worry, your secret is safe. I have no intent in deceiving nor exposing my dear Lord Husband.”

“Nor do I you, my Lady wife.” He laughed at the repulsion that reflected off her expression in response to their newly established aliases.

They continued trudging through the luscious grounds until they entered a clearing that overlooked the calm tides of the Narrow Sea. The salty breeze and the cerulean ocean was comforting to the Beta and Alpha, either figure leaning on the marble railing in silence, lulled and calmed by the familiar sound of the sea pushing and pulling against the rocky shores below them.

Baela eventually opened her eyes and addressed Jacaerys.

“You comprehend we’ll have to lay together and produce little Princes so you too can have heirs once you ascend the Throne.” He cringed at the thought and supported his battered cheek in his palm whilst bending forward on the ivory balustrades, closing his eyes and focusing on the soothing symphony of the tides, dulling out the off-putting truth his betrothed was brutally uncovering.

“And we’ll have to perform for the bedding ceremony. Our marriage cannot be left unconsummated, you’re aware of that right?” Both grimaced at the realization, marital duties were expected, demanded. An obligation to guarantee that a succession crisis be prevented. There was no avoiding it.

He opened his eyes and gingerly grabbed onto Baela’s cold hand, squeezing it within his own. 

The Gods were cruel.

“I will drink my weight in wine that day. Enough so that I can’t even remember your face by the time they throw me on that fucking bed.” Baela admitted, deep chuckles reverberating in the quiet location. Jacaerys joined her.

Nothing quite bonded two souls as shared suffering.

“As will I. Perhaps the Gods will spare us and you’ll be with child the very next day.” She scoffed, turning to the rhythmical tides once more.

The golden shine of morning was breath-taking on Baela’s sublime features. She was a beauty, many had proclaimed she more beautiful than her Mother: Laena Velaryon; and the countless petitions and marital entreaties were evidence that Coryls Velaryon’s eldest granddaughter was highly coveted. Jacaerys was saddened that she was damned to an existence by his side - he who held no interest in savoring nor cherishing the woman; he who could not see her more than a friend, an ally, a sister; he who could never provide her with the unconditional love and adoration she deserved.

“And what if our first-born is a girl?” She eventually quirked. He had not thought of that perspective, in his delusions, they’d only need to bed once and she’d bare him a son, an heir and they’d be liberated from coupling again.

“Then Lucerys will sit the Throne.” He argued back as though it were obvious, an effortless and inconsequential solution to their predicament.

“Lucerys cannot, he is the future Lord of the Tides.” Baela huffed and punched his shoulder once more. “And do you sincerely have faith that the Small Council will be satisfied with you only producing one sole child, now when Targaryens are in an age of prosperity and amity? It never ceases to confuse me how people praise your intelligence.”

He took no offense to her harsh insults, accustomed to the brute taunts. He was a dragon, they fought fire with fire. His own tongue quip with humorous snark.

“Then, I suppose we’ll need assistance. We solicit Princess Helaena’s presence in our Chambers to aid your abysmal torture or laying with me.” Baela laughed at his elucidation and took his offered arm before they waltzed away from the picturesque balcony that overlooked the precipice and returned to walking through the Gardens.  

“It is no wonder you and Aegon were so compatible during our youth, you share the same irritating and antagonizing humor.” Her eyes glinted with mischief and her lips curled with a knowing smirk, turning to her betrothed with a wicked grin. “Perhaps we can call for Aegon to aid you, he seems quite… knowledgeable on pleasuring an Alpha.”

His neck snapped to face Baela with incredulous bewilderment.

“What? Aegon? What makes you think I’d ever view him as anything more than my traitorous uncle?”

His body betrayed his words. In an instantaneous second he felt a fervent flush take his cheeks and heat blaze his body at the implication behind the Beta’s suggestive proposition. Jace’s thoughts strayed wild with intimate visions of them: Aegon and Jacaerys, together; hypothetical illusions of their intertwined bodies overpowered the forefront of his imaginative mind and he shook his head, attempting to evade the intrusive delusions. 

Baela giggled at his humiliating reaction. The obnoxious laugh had anchored him back to reality and he forcibly condemned the lewd conceptions into repression, discarding and burying them deep in the depths of his consciousness. He felt mortification creep it’s gruesome claws into his flesh - he did not see his uncle in that light, would never do so. Those miserable thoughts had only been born in essence of the erogenous heat of rut, fruit of his crazed and unsatiable state and not of his own conscious.

So why were they resurfacing over a passing comment?

“Let’s not feign ignorance, Jace. You were undeniably enamored by Aegon when you were a little boy.”

“Precisely, I was. I no longer care for him in that matter or in any matter.” Baela’s nostrils flared and she groaned at Jacaerys’ stubbornness.

“And yet you could hardly keep your eyes away from him during Court or throughout dinner. I’m surprised no one else caught on, you looked as though you wanted to claim him on that very table.”

The Alpha wanted to defend his honor and argue his actions, however, his response was left hanging suspensefully once he’d caught an aphrodisiacal aroma, delicate and mild, tingling his nose. The slight scent had left the Targaryen Prince desiring more of it, sniffing the air for more of the delicious scent.

“Do you smell that?” He asked, loosening his hold on the woman beside him and walking absentmindedly, nosing at the ambience attempting to map the source behind the intoxicating scent that winded him, made him salivate as though a wild animal. He must have appeared maddened, acting similarly to a hunting hound instead of a prestigious and powerful monarch.

“If you are referring the overwhelming fragrance of flowers, yes, it’s practically inescapable.” Baela was caught off guard by the odd behavior, looking incredulous at the Alpha that trudged forward, guiding himself on his primitive instincts.

“No… It’s faint but it smells of citrus and…honey, I believe?”

In truth, his words had done little justice to illustrate the perfect amorous aroma. It smelt of freshly baked desserts on a cold winter day, the alluring scent cozy, warm and delectable. It smelt of ripened and fresh peaches, plums and citrus fruits, scent honey-like and sweet but not sickeningly overwhelming. It smelt of ambrosial flowers blossoming on a warm Spring day, refreshing and breathtaking. It smelt of home, it smelt of warmth, it smelt of… Omega.

“My Lord Husband has gone mad.” Baela teased, following the Alpha as he continued sniffing out the mysterious scent. Any on-lookers would assume the Alpha was every bit as deranged as his betrothed’s slanderous accusations. He didn’t care, all he concerned himself with was the titillating scent that smelt better than anything or anyone he’d ever smelt before.

“I’m serious, it’s absolutely heavenly. How do you not smelt it?” He argued.

Urgency and determination fueled his search and his efforts had been fruitful as a slight breeze, stronger and more potent than the faintness before captured his senses. His body’s response was automatic, physique moving in the direction of the transcendental fragrance before he could properly rationalize what he was doing and where he was going. He allowed his instincts to control him.

“I do not smell any-… Jacaerys?!” He heard Baela shout behind him, watching on as the Alpha dashed hurriedly away from her and she was left abandoned in the gorgeous gardens.

He didn’t know where he was going, how long he’d run for or why he felt such critical insentient to seek out the source of his infatuation, but his steps had eventually halted. He had diverged from the delineated path of the Royal Gardens, crossing through multiple shrubs and thick greenery until he stood in front of a large stone tower, alone. Despite the space being devoid and quiet, it was there that the scent was most intense.

Jacaerys looked up at the tumultuous monument and the sight that had greeted him left him speechless.

“Aegon…”

Atop the lithe balcony that protruded from the strong walls of the Red Keep, Aegon Targaryen stood, looking like a celestial being, beauty inhumane. Ethereal, exquisite, divine. His body was protected by a thin satin sheet that hung off his form graciously, covering his most intimate regions whilst still baring porcelain, pale skin and an adorably plump figure.

The Omega contemplated the scenic view granted from his tall chambers’. Lilac eyes as vibrant as the pretty blossoms Jacaerys had seen prior, though the flowerage could not rival the pureness and emotivity that reflected from the splendorous eyes that were unjustly weighed down by tired dark-circles - despite the marks of exhaustion, they were blessed with a beauty incomparable to any mortal or mundane being; pink lips were slightly parted, chapped and crestfallen in a saddened scowl. His face was illuminated by the splendid sun, morning glow bestowing the Omega a warm, wonderous aura.

Golden curls were thrown each and every way, disheveled and messy, yet Aegon managed to make it work, the uncontrollable strands framing his fair face perfectly. Jacaerys assumed the Omega had just awoken from slumber. And even the Alpha, cursed with vile aversion for the man, could not omit the evident truth that Aegon had no need for luxurious robes, ostentatious jewelry or long hours of pampering to be the definition of nobleness, he naturally looked like an other-worldly being.

A swift, sweet breeze submerged the Velaryon Alpha in the delicious perfume, and the enchanted adolescent – mind still stunned and dazed - had finally connected that his uncle was the source behind the alluring scent, the ambrosial aroma of honey-like sweetness and all that the Alpha could ever desire, long for and need.

The gods were unfathomably cruel to Jacaerys. 

From his position, he heard a thunderous clash come from the inside of Aegon’s quarters, followed by someone’s wrathful voice calling for the Omega who looked fearfully behind him, tugging the thin cloth closer to his form, as though shielding him from whomever had just entered his private chambers. Jace curiously observed as the Omega’s face fell into a deep, depressed expression, eyes void of any hint of wonderous color that they’d previously carried and he shifted back inside, towards the intimidating and frightening arrival.

As the Omega took his leave, so had the enrapturing scent. Jacaerys mourned the loss of the comfortable warmth and pleasant fog. He refused to accept that he too mourned the loss of the rapturous picture of the Omegan Prince, virtuous and delicate – descriptors he’d never once associated with his uncle.

He heard the sound of bustling leaves and heavy gasps behind him and he straightened at the intruder only to face his glaring and fatigued betrothed that bent over, clasping her knees as she caught her frantic breath. He approached her hunched form and smiled as she maliciously glared up at him, lifting herself and delivering a rather brute smack against his tender shoulder. He rubbed the sore muscle, accepting he’d adorn a fresh bruise from the aggressive ruthlessness from his companion.

“There is no denying that you are Daemon Targaryen’s first-born daughter. Can you treat your future King and husband with decency as opposed to violence?” She huffed and rolled her eyes.

“I would have no need to resort to such brutality had my imbecilic Alpha not deserted me and forced me to scuttle around in his pursuit.” She dusted filth and dust from her grandiose gown and patted her voluminous curls away from her temple.

“Have you determined the root behind the mysterious aroma?” She inquired looking around the barren clearing with no intrigue.

Jacaerys guided her back to the path, not before looking back up at the balcony where the Omega had just stood on, hopeful he’d see the familiar figure once more, but alas, it was empty, linen curtains veiling what was unfolding in the privacy of his chambers. A miniscule part of the Alpha worried that the Omega was in peril. He dropped his concerns shortly after though, not allowing for them to burrow in his brain and consume his being. He needn’t obsess over a man that thought of him as a mere bastard.

“Yes.” He eventually answered the woman that waited patiently. Despite his better judgement and resentment towards his uncle, the imperious, foreign tone and the image of Aegon’s troubled face wouldn’t dissipate from his thoughts.

“So why do you seem so grief-stricken?”

“I can no longer smell it, it’s gone.”

And he wasn’t being entirely untruthful. He did grieve the loss of the Omega’s scent. He had never smelt anything alike it before and he longed to smell more of it, the Alpha in him impossibly curious to discover every hint, every subtle change, every emotional cue that could be conveyed from the enchanting fragrance.

Nevertheless, that wasn’t all that ravished his mind. No, he himself was overwhelmed with his own emotions, thoughts, feelings. He’d believed for so long he’d grown to abhor the Omega that had questioned his legitimacy and parentage, the Omega that had broken his heart and shattered every delusional fantasy he’d dreamt of sharing beside him, the Omega that he’d struggled to keep out of his thoughts, out of his mind for years…

Yet, since he had arrived in King’s Landing, he hadn’t been spared a singular moment where he didn’t think of Aegon. It frustrated him as much as it confused him, and to worsen his perplexity, he had now been faced with the senseless fact that he was unquestionably attracted to his uncle’s scent (and his physical attributes, but that was not a discussion nor a thought he was willing to reflect on nor delve into just yet).

He didn’t know what to make of his feelings for Aegon.

“Do not allow yourself to drown in your own pities. I’m sure you’ll soon capture it once more.” Baela held onto his arm before they re-entered Maegor’s Holdfast, presenting themselves as the impeccable and infatuated mated pair. They had an image to present to the High Lords and Ladies as well as the people of the Realm. Despite how dysfunctional and fabricated their relationship was, the basis of a stable and prosperous Kingdom was dependent on the strength, loyalty and trust entangled in the union between their rulers.

He was grateful that Baela had remembered to act accordingly. Jacaerys simply lacked the capacity to faux pleasantness, preoccupied with other subjects too convoluted for his own personal understanding.

“I hope so… I truly hope so.”

In the midst of his inner turmoil, one uncertainty poised greater than any other: If Aegon’s scent had been so immediately intoxicating, how come Jacaerys hadn’t been able to detect it when they’d sat beside one another at dinner or at court when the Omega was troubled?

Nightfall eventually fell upon the Realm as did the eerie silence of darkness. Most of the Red Keep’s inhabitants were confided to their chambers and quarters, victims to slumber. However, lawless insubordination camouflaged within the shadows of the crimson palace; tension and revolt thickened; whispers of treasonous rebellion reverberated amongst the quietness of the Council Chamber, hushed murmurs momentarily ceasing once the final member of the Council arrived, disheveled and evidently enraged.

“What is of such urgent matter that the Council need be summoned?” Alicent demanded, waltzing to her spot at the head of the immense table. Her auburn locks were monstrous and uncontrollable, her emerald grown poorly laced, face devoid of blush or lipstick, barren and fatigued, slight wrinkles and dark circles blemishing her typically perfect image. 

She settled on her seat and the other occupants followed, Criston remained standing by her side – tall, threatening, authoritative.

Alicent had long accepted her role as Queen, had accustomed herself to enduring through her tumultuous responsibilities and securing the peace and prosperity of the Seven Kingdoms with Viserys’ absence at Court; nevertheless, she, an Omegan woman, had yet to adjust to commanding and dominating the Alphan men that sat with and beside her at the Council.

Despite her political position, her titles, her ascendence to the peak of Westeros rule… she still felt like the helpless, weak and fragile little girl she was when she’d accepted her fate to wed the King and permanently desecrate her former ties with her closest confidence and friend; she still felt like the child she was that listened and followed her Father’s every word without objection, without question, without hesitancy, without a voice of complaint.

And though a woman grown, a Queen, a Mother… she remained obedient to Otto.

“Your Grace, King Viserys’ health is wilting. The other Maesters and I predict he will not walk among us for many more seasons.” Grand Maester Orwyle was the first to speak up, eyes fidgeting from Otto to Alicent that sighed exasperated, nostrils flaring. She rubbed the bridge of her nose.

“The discussion of my Lord Husband’s health does not require the presence of the Council. Speak the truth clearly or this meeting will come to an early close.” Alicent fumed. She was disgusted that after years of a successful reign, governing alongside her Father and attending every Council meeting since Viserys’ condition worsened, the men of Court viewed her solely as an incompetent female, underestimated her comprehension capabilities and ability to handle grievous and serious discussions.

“With King Viserys’ passing… the Realm will enter a succession crisis once more. It is of upmost importance that we prevent political division and anarchy amongst the Seven Kingdoms.” Tyland Lannister rushed to ease the Queen’s hostility though his words did little to relieve her confusion and perturbation, quite the contrary, the Lannister had only kindled the flames, sparked the fire, worsened her temper.

Though the Golden Lion’s words were vague, Alicent comprehended the verity underlining the man’s statement. She’d grown wiser, more intelligent and experienced with her reality, her world, and what Tyland implied had been a tyrannical prophecy her own Father had engraved into her mind since she’d barren children.

A gullible, naïve and hopeful part of Alicent prayed to the Seven that her suspicions were simply illusive misinterpretations… that she was wrong.

“Princess Rhaenyra has already been declared Viserys’ heir. His mind over the matter hasn’t changed. Fielty from the Great Houses has already been sworn.” She spoke the honest truth, the facts over the matter, but it seemed to have displeased the Hand of the King that perceptibly scoffed and uncrossed his arms, finally leaning over the table, looming over his daughter, looking through his daughter, bore into her eyes, into her soul, into her very essence.

It made Alicent shiver, chills ripping across her skin. She felt exposed, unsafe, vulnerable, unguarded.

Otto addressed Alicent with the same imposing daunt and fright that he had when she was a young maiden. The tenacious indignation that sparked across the dark oceans irises had always made her tremble, more perilous than any physical strike and more mortifying than any insult – those ebony beads seemed to read her like a book, analyzed her every thought and her very being, broke her down from the inside out… With just one look, Alicent was silent and submissive.

Alicent was still that same powerless, little girl. No crown, no army, no amount of gold or supporters could deny the fact.

“That was before the birth of your children, Your Grace… before Prince Aemond’s presentation. Your son is a male, alphan-born Targaryen. By all rights, the Throne is Aemond’s to sit.” Otto refuted. His desire to have his blood stain the Iron Throne, have his name inked in the books of Westeros history, have his legacy sung through time, his aspirations were greater than his love for his daughter or the safety of his grandchildren.

“Prince Aemond is skilled with the swords as well as the books. He rides Vhagar, the last living testament of Aegon’s conquest. He will wed Prince Aegon, an Omega, their children will be the future of the Realm, fruit of Omegan and Alphan parentage, the strongest kin that possess the blood of the dragon.” Lord Jasper Wylde added on, supporting Aemond’s claim to the throne. Alicent felt vile rise to her throat and underneath the table she began tearing and clawing at her thin cuticles, mutilating her flesh.

“Rhaenyra has spent her days fleeing her duties. She has yet to taste the bitterness of ruling and ridicules her title and power by spawning bastards, flaunting the protection that King Viserys grants her. She has made a fool of the Crown, of the Realm, of the people… and they have caught on to her discourteous absence, they object her reign.” Otto finished and looked at his daughter expectingly.

The Queen glanced across the many eyes that anticipated her judgement, her opinion, her words, her approval or disapproval. She gulped down the bitter acidity that poisoned her palate, closed her exhausted eyes and rubbed her temples. How was she supposed to react to the treason that they had just implied? 

“Even if Aemond is favored, Rhaenyra’s claim is definitive. Rhaenyra may lack the knowledge or the wisdom of Court but certainly she will not allow the Realm to crumble under her rule.”

“That is where you are wrong, my dear daughter. Princess Rhaenyra not only possesses the blood of the Dragon but she has been poisoned by Daemon’s whispers, beliefs and morals. They are ruthless creatures, all they know is violence and bloodshed, fire and blood. They will stop at nothing to destroy their enemies… including your own children, Alicent.”

Alicent ripped a lose piece of skin off her thumb and felt warm blood trickle and spread. Her mouth dried and her heart spiked; her eyes left her Father and focused on the green lace that decorated her large gown. Her maternal instincts and her Omegan nature screamed and deafened her with the mere suggestion of her children being in harms way.

The Omegan woman was aware she was far from the perfect Mother. She was a child herself when she’d birthed her first and with her own maternal figure being taken by Death, Alicent had no one to aid her; she was void of guidance, support and empathy. She had to mature quicker than most, had to construct strong, impenetrable walls around her heart, had to conform to society’s expectation and through all her grievances and frustrations.. she had hurt her children, traumatized them, pushed them away.

Alicent was a poor parent but she loved her children unconditionally.

“I know of this, but Rhaenyra… Rhaenyra wouldn’t do such an act.” She couldn’t imagine the friend she had once cherished and adored capable of harming, maiming or murdering her siblings, Alicent’s children, her babies.

“She is no longer your childhood companion, Your Grace. May I remind you the heinous crime she committed just to be free to wed Prince Daemon? Or how Lady Rhae Royce, the best horse rider in The Vale, inexplicably died falling from her horse during Prince Daemon’s exile?” Lord Jasper protested against the Queen’s denial.

Alicent hyperventilated, breathing shifted into an arduous task because the panic-stricken Queen knew it was the undeniable truth. Lord Laenor had been murdered and not a month passed and Rhaenyra had taken Daemon as her new mate, had been with child not a fortnight after. Lady Rhae Royce was proclaimed as a strong, capable and strong-willed woman who’d bested many soldiers, and she’d died by falling off her horse, though it hadn’t been the fall that had taken her, no, her head had been pounded and brutalized by a stone… by Daemond’s own hands.

Alicent grimaced as images of Rhaenyra’s blood-stained figure from Aegon’s second name day came forth and center in her thoughts; visions of Daemon ruthlessly challenging Criston during the Tourney, intent on murdering the Knight due to embarrassment, shame, dishonor. Her mind flooded with distressing remembrances of the Rogue Prince slashing Lord Vaemond’s head merely because he had insulted his wife and her kin.

What would he do if word reached him that people, Lords and Ladies desired Aemond and Aegon to reign? What would Rhaenyra do to secure her place at the top? What boundaries would they surpass and abuse just to protect their succession and defend their right? How far would they go to silence the objection?

“So let them have the Crown, I do not desire for any of my children to bleed for these nonsensical political games.”  She growled and finally looked back at the Court. She felt her eyes glisten with tears, a feeling that the young woman had grown accustomed to over the years since she had been forced into the cruelties of the monarchy. Her cool-tempered composure was cracking.

Her Father’s words echoed in her ears, a torturous curse that had plagued Alicent since her adolescence, the damn prophecy he’d professed, unknowing how it’s haunt and torment his daughter:

“The time is coming, Alicent. Either you prepare Aegon to rule, or you cleave to Rhaenyra and pray for her mercy.”

“They will always be the challenge, Alicent! People know that Aemond deserves the Throne and Rhaenyra will silence those who speak against her by destroying the opposition, even if that means spilling her own blood, slaying her own siblings. The only way to protect your children is by denying the Princess the power to slaughter without consequence, denying her the Throne.” Otto roared and Alicent flinched.

“So, you expect me to pluck the Crown off the corpse of my husband and place it atop my son’s head and wait for those vultures to feast on their flesh until I am left with nothing?!” She stood up and slammed her fists on the wooden furniture, seethed and panicked, anxious, distraught and scared. In every excruciating hypothetical she conjured in her mind: surrender or resist, conform or revolt, submit or fight… every different scenario culminated in the same heart-wrenching conclusion, one where her children’s safety and protection was not certain.

“No, dear daughter. You will do no such thing. The Council will commence preparations, you need not worry.” She hadn’t time to interpret not question her Father’s words before Lord Tyland Lannister interrupted her inner turmoil.

“However, Rhaenyra has a male, alphan heir. To amplify the security of Aemond’s claim, the Prince must have an heir of his own. Aegon must be with child sooner than late. Our advice is to hasten the matrimony between the Princes and guarantee the bedding ceremony culminates in Aegon’s parturiency. “  

Everyone nodded in agreement, though a few appeared reluctant, hesitant, averse… but no one spoke against the Lords that composed the Council. Alicent breathed deeply and sat back on her seat, her vermillion blood splattered and pooled on the floor beneath her; Criston had noticed, offering her a clean cloth. She declined the offer, the Queen cared little for hemorrhaging finger – she was selfish, manipulative, egotistical for most causes, but in one matter her selflessness prevailed, that being the four babes she had conceived and given life too, fruit of her womb, flesh and blood; the four children she’d seen grow and blossom into deeply flawed and broken adults, her family, her kin, her everything.

Unlike Otto Hightower, Alicent’s love for her family knew no limits, was bounded by no ulterior motivations or aspirations; her love was pure, unadulterated, primitive, instinctual, maternal. And she would do the impossible to guard them from harm.

“Aemond’s kin, unlike Jacaerys, will be true born, honoring the Crown, the Faith of the Seven, the Law and the Realm. The populace will support his claim, will support and protect Aegon and Aemond and their children.” Criston Cole finally made his voice heard at the Council and his statement pleased those who supported Otto’s ambitions and Aemond’s ascension. Alicent knew Criston cared for her children as though they were his own and a part of her was relieved to hear his input on the subject, it eased her concerns and cemented her resolution.

“Alicent, you are a Mother. You hold no greater desire, no greater aspiration than to protect your children and to save them from devastation. Do as you are told.” Otto held her hand, squeezed with familiarized fury, strength almost painful. His words were stable and calm, but his tone was underlined with an undoubtable threat.

The Council Chambers was forsaken with uncomfortable silence as it’s inhabitants awaited the Queen’s inevitable verdict. The sole Omega in the room laced her fingers and supported her chin on her locked hands, eyes focused on the delicate carvings that adorned the immense table. She bit her lip and thought… but was there really much more to think over?

The Council had made their choice. She was the Queen but she was no King. And though they patiently anticipated her opinions and assessment, they did not matter. Their decision was made, engraved in stone, indisputable.

And Alicent was aware the usurpation of Rhaenyra’s Crown would have unfathomable repercussions and could potentially brew a war, could secure her head on a spike outside the Walls of the Red Keep…

“How soon do you foretell my children should wed?”

… but all she wanted was to save Aegon, Aemond, Helaena and Daeron from tragedy. She was not a good mother, she had failed them countless times before and continuously did so in the present. Howbeit, she’d stop at nothing to guarantee they live and would not die fruit of Rhaenyra and Daemon’s ruthlessness. They should not reap the consequences of the game of thrones when they were never willing participants.

“As soon as Spring’s end and Summer’s start, Your Grace.” The Grand Maester concluded after a pregnant pause.

“So, three months…” Aegon and Aemond’s matrimonial ceremony had been projected to take place in a year’s notice. Alicent had made it so to give her sons time to accept and accustom themselves to their discommodious alliance and, optimistically, forge strong bonds born of adoration and respect instead of repudiation and revulsion.

“Yes, your Grace. The King will pass before Summer’s end… by then, Aemond must be wed and Aegon must be with child, for their own protection.”

“Very well… I will do what I must to protect my children.”

The Council had been pardoned shortly after and when Alicent had finally arrived at her private chambers, abandoned to the solitude of silence, she finally looked at her injured figure – skin torn, pink flesh exposed, blood stained her hand, painted her nail, cascaded down her forearm as though a second, repulsive skin; the pain had dimmed into a mild sting, but it was insignificant to the shrilling burn that burdened her through a sleepless night.

All Alicent longed for was to hold her children close to her chest, feel their hearts beat and their lungs expand, see them survive, conquer, live a fulfilling, prosperous and happy live. But, had Alicent ever seen her children sincerely smile?

She felt she had just condemned them all to a miserable end and she feared she’d never experience their smiles or joy.

But she’d do what she must to protect them.

She wept through the night.

Chapter Text

The Royal Library.

An unknown division of the Red Keep, acknowledged solely by the Maesters, artisans and litterateurs of the grand castle. Despite it’s inconspicuous prominence, and though incomparable to the sumptuous archives held in the Citadel, the Royal Library homed knowledge ancient, rare and invaluable; infinite books, scriptures, writings and literature unique and restricted for the Targaryen dynasty that formed an ostentatious collection that expanded many subjects and dated from the age of Old Valyria to the present day. All the magnificent treasures and artifacts were compiled in ceiling high shelves, stalked neatly and organized.

Though the Royal Library represented an affluence of enlightenment and wisdom, very few frequented the immeasurable atheneum, none of whom were youthful or prolonged their stay within the grandiose study longer than a couple minutes…

… however, since Rhaenyra’s arrival at the Capital, the Library had been frequented by a foreign persona, one that spent hours upon hours hunched over countless Old Valyrian records, scrolls and manuscripts, pouring himself in the art of the ancient language, reciting the monarchical tongue until his mouth ran dry and his eyes weighed with fatigue. And the man was none other the eldest Velaryon Prince, Jacaerys Velaryon.

The Alpha had, once more, studied through a sleepless night. Resigned to a quiet and secluded corner of the Royal Library - an area enclosed by altitudinous shelves, with a small seating area and table set beside an immense window with a mesmerizing view of Blackwater Bay – that had become a space he’d grown accustomed and familiar with over the course of many weeks since he had disembarked in Kings Landing.

He reclined in his plush seat and observed the sun rise over the horizon, twilight’s darkness overthrown by morrow’s opulence, and the young monarch sighed in defeat and dejection, discarding crumpled up papers onto the wooden table stacked high with various documents, books and scrolls. Jacaerys stood and began pacing back and forth, combing his hazardous hair back, eyes closed in deep-rooted concentration, muttering under his breath the same few words over and over again: accent heavy, words ill-fitting and disagreeable against his tongue, almost imperceptible.

Old Valyrian.     

The stubborn Alpha had always struggled with Valyrian. Though swordsmanship, leadership and politics came natural to him, language was his greatest weakness. No matter the instructor – maesters, dragonkeepers or even Rhaenyra Targaryen herself – it did not alter the fact that he, Jacaerys Velaryon, conflicted and clashed with its rigorous precision and intricacy.

Nevertheless, Jacaerys, like his Mother, was unfathomably stubborn and obstinate in his resolve to improve and perfect his Old Valyrian. In his belief, if he were to sit the Iron Throne as Rhaenyra’s successor and heir, speaking the tongue of their ancestors, the tongue that bound them to their dragons, to their source of power and strength, was nothing but a mandatory desideratum.

“Zaldrīzoti issi p-perzys... Kustikāne se udrāzma issi āzma hen perzyssy, hen se perzyssy sīmontan Valyria, hen se perzyssy s-sīmantan Targārian (Dragons are fire. Strength and rule are born of flames, from the flames rose Valyria, from the flames rose Targaryen.)”

Jacaerys groaned, exasperated and disappointment by his own unsatisfactory eloquence and pronunciation, aware he’d botched and maimed most of the words he’d just memorized. Frustrated by his own incompetence, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and silently thanked the Old and New Gods that the Library was deserted during morningtide. He’d been spared the humiliation of someone witnessing his mediocrity.

“sīmontan Targārien.”

From the serene silence that had enveloped the irritated Alpha, a startling voice emerged and instantaneously Jacaerys halted his pacing, muscles tensing and he subconsciously reached for the dagger he carried on his waist; his scent darkened and permeated the ambience with heavy, suffocating pheromones, bitter, sour, threatening, alarming. An unspoken command for the intruder to surrender, submit, obey.

Jacaerys precariously stepped towards the direction of the oddly familiar voice and not too far away from where he’d once been dutifully studying he’d spotted a small figure settled on the cold, dusty ground, head rested against his knees, legs brought close to his chest, arms embracing and cradling his petite form. Platinum curls stuck out of the grim dimness like the celestial moon atop the darkness of crepuscule; lavender eyes observed the Alpha, gardens of purple paradise flashed with humorous mischief.

Delicate lilac contemplated deep chocolate – tempting inquisition looking into bewildered astonishment. Targaryen examined Velaryon. Omega inspected Alpha. Omega.

“Uncle?” That was all Jacaerys was capable of muttering, absent-minded and speechless, stupefied by Aegon’s unforeseen presence. Though the adrenaline of the perceived threat had dwindled, his heart still pounded against his chest and he felt his stomach twist and turn in result of their eyes locking even if it had just been for a brief moment.

“Nephew.” Aegon smiled, smirking at the Alpha’s incredulous expression. He stood, dusting his pants and adjusting his loose-fitting olive tunic. Jacaerys’ eyes never averted from Aegon’s form, fearful he were an apparition from his imagination, a mere hallucination conjured from his exhaustion. But Aegon was there, in front of him, staring up at him with his mesmerizing eyes and pretty pink lips turned into a cute, knowing smile, and smelling of…

…nothing.

Disappointment damned the Alpha.

The suffocating ominous alarm that had soiled Jacaerys’ scent dissolved back into the soothing aroma of ocean tides and warm, cozy smoke. His grip loosened off his dagger and his rigid muscles relaxed. Though he had overcome his initial dizzying stupor, his mind had yet to process how to proceed, how to address the Omega that he hadn’t seen in a fortnight… since he’d seen him atop the balcony appearing of aphrodisiacal splendor and smelling of libidinous etherealness.

The Alpha had hoped to smell nectareous peaches and ripe, honey-like plums, he’d desired to be enraptured by enchanting decadence, delicious and sweet, intoxicating. Since the infamous day he’d spotted Aegon not a single day had passed where he hadn’t obsessed over the spellbinding scent.

He contemplated the Omega that stood before him – loose-fitting tunic handing from his soft shoulders, exposing pale immaculate skin; though his blouse drowned and submerged his figure, his pants clung to his plush thighs, hugged them tightly and shaped around the sumptuous flesh, delineated luscious curves. Jace tore his eyes away, heart hammering against his chest, heat rising and flaming  across his face and to avoid disgracing his honor and composure he need to speak, eradicate the heavy quietude that surrounded them.

“What are you doing here, uncle?” Well, that was preferrable over the deafening and awkward silence that had installed whilst he was tempting to recollect his cognition and cognizance (and inhibit his erogenous appetite).

“I do reside within the Red Keep, and if I am not mistaken, the Royal Library is a part of the Red Keep, is it not?” Aegon retorted, tone humorous, lighthearted, ironic. The Omega’s smile widened as he took a few, tempting steps, forwards, towards the stiff Alpha. “I believe I have as much right to frequent the Royal Library as you do.”

Jacaerys took two steps back, and though he and Aegon were still separated by a rather significant distance, he felt as though their closeness was intimate, immodest, immoral (his titillating thoughts regarding his Omegan uncle did little to aid his conflicting sentiments). Aegon was too close yet not close enough. Jacaerys longed for closeness yet feared it; he yearned for the comfortability of Aegon’s warmth yet abhorred the thought; he needed to press their bodies together yet felt the urge to estrange himself further.

Why were his thoughts always condemned to paradoxical pandemonium whenever the Omega was near?

Though characterized as utter mayhem, Jacaerys’ mind predominantly focused on an intrusive image of his latest remembrance of the Targaryen Prince, one where he stood atop his balcony, ethereal and enrapturing, the figure of Valyrian elegance and Omegan allure – a mystical memory that had plagued his thoughts and dreams; mind numbed and poisoned by an idealistic illusion of his uncle, disregarding their perilous past and present, disregarding their severed bond, disregarding their irreconcilable relationship.

He violently shook his head to dissipate the inopportune obsession, attention focused back on Aegon that hadn’t moved nor spoken a single word – as a matter of fact, it appeared as though the Omega had come nearer - content with observing the Alpha’s mental exertion, no doubt finding some odd form of satisfaction with his nephew’s pathetic display.

“That is not what I meant. You have never shown interest in literacy or the arts. I would have never expected your presence in a place like this.

Aegon giggled and Jacaerys suppressed the blissful delight that had overcome his being over the bright pureness; Jacaerys neglected the vivacious flutter than condemned his heart, similar to the tingling lightness in the depths of his stomach; Jacaerys repressed the insatiable, intense urgency to make the Targaryen laugh again, he longed to listen to the brilliant, endearing snort over and over again, and… what truly frightened the Alpha, was that, he didn’t even attempt to refute his thoughts nor subdue his desires.

He liked Aegon’s laugh. He liked it a lot.

Jacaerys was surely falling into madness.

“No one does. That is why it is the perfect location to hide from everyone during daylight. No one would ever expect foolish Prince Aegon to even know of the Royal Library, much less frequent it.” He probed his finger into Jacaerys’ rich, burgundy doublet. The Alpha reluctantly shrugged it off. 

Aegon snorted at the Velaryon’s righteousness and turned his back to the younger Prince, trudging forward until he’d reached Jacaerys’ little nook. He settled on one of the chairs that surrounded the table piled with a copious clutter of papers, books and ancient scriptures. He picked one book in his hand and mindlessly flipped through the pages, eyes roaming across the Valyrian writings with little interest.

“It’s the first I have seen of you here.” He murmured. Allurement shifted into annoyance, yet no matter how infuriating, the Targaryen’s wits and remarks amused the Alpha more so than they irritated him.

“Hm, I must applaud your keen observation skills, Prince Jacaerys. It is only my second night fleeing my Mother’s informants here. The idea came to me only as of recent.” Jacaerys rolled his eyes, irony and sarcasm had been skills Aegon had mastered since he was a youthful child and it seems he’d only grown more proficient in the art as he’d grown older.

“Congrats on your paramount theorem, now, may you leave?” Jace stepped near the Omega and observed as he as nonchalantly skimmed across the fine poetry with no qualms nor impediments. Shameful envy fulminated.

“I may not.” Aegon did not look up towards the Alpha whilst he discarded the unappealing manuscript and reached for another old, aged piece of parchment blemished tan with time, dark ink inscriptions unsullied and pristine. Aegon briefly scrutinized the antique scroll than analyzed the disastrous disarray on the table, before finally glancing back up at the irritated Alpha.

“You are studying Valyrian?” He inquired, but, an answer was not needed, his suspicions corroborated by his astute observations and the vibrant crimson that tainted the Velaryon monarch’s cheeks.

Jacaerys huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He crudely ripped the paper from the Omega’s hands and returned it back atop the wooden surface. He glared down at the Omega who challenged him with unfazed boldness and faux innocence.

It was embarrassing to have Aegon uncover his humiliating inadequacies and misgivings. Realization had struck the Alpha that his uncle had unquestionably overheard his previous attempts and efforts at enunciating the complex tongue and he longingly desired for Death to take him away from his shameful circumstances. Embarrassment flushed his cheeks an intense scarlet hue, temper fragile and feverish with the mortification that had crushed his spirits.

He wasn’t certain if the shame was rooted from his own deficiencies or if it stemmed from the fact that it had been the Omega who had eavesdropped. Would he had been so disheartened if it had been his Mother? Daemon? The dragonkeepers or the maesters? It frightened him that he cared little if it had it been any other. In truth, he was concerned solely with Aegon’s perception of the Alpha – he craved to appear strong, dependable, confident, competent; he longed to be an unrivaled protector, provider, ruler, suitor for Aegon.

He did not comprehend why he yearned to present himself in such a manner for the Omega alone. Why did he concern himself with the Targaryen Prince’s perception of his competency and qualities?

It irked him. His feelings irked him. His sentiments were constructed of nonexistent ideals and were the result of his juvenile fantasies and certainly not of his own amorous hunger and greed.  

“It is none of your concern.” He spat and observed the Omega recline in the chain, crossing his leg over the other, as though he were settling comfortably back his spot examining the Alpha. Jacaerys felt defenseless and cornered, vulnerable and exposed, insecurities and ineptness laid out for Aegon to dissect and weaponize. Jacaerys felt threatened and ashamed, and his temper was bubbling and boiling over.  

“Do you not have anywhere else to be or anyone else to pester?” His words were brash, direct and thoughtless.  

Aegon frowned, smile dropping instantaneously at the Alpha’s bruteness and Jacaerys immediately felt himself panic and tense, unsure if it had been his defensive tone or his retaliation that had measurably disconcerted the Omega. No matter the cause, he had saddened the Omega, he had hurt the Omega (yet again) and his Alphan instincts roared at him to plea for forgiveness, beg for his pardon, hold his hands and do everything in his power and within his limitations to atone for his blunder.

“You mean to ask if I have any whores to fuck or any brothels to visit? Is that what you are implying?” Aegon laughed, yet it lacked any lightness or harmonious delightfulness that had formerly enthralled the Velaryon heir. It was fabricated, forced, pained and strained. His words seemed extraneous, almost disconnected from the original dispute: more hostile, vulgar, defensive (a part of Jacaerys felt he knew the cause behind Aegon’s abrupt acerbity).

“What do you mean with that?” He dared to question, though, Jacaerys was now certain he knew the cause behind Aegon’s abrupt dispiritedness and gloomy demeanor that the Omega did not suit. The grieve-stricken Alpha grimaced when fuchsia oceans stared through him icily, cold, apathetic, broken. 

“Well, you did make it evident at the Dining Hall that I do nothing more than whore myself at Flea Bottom, did you not? Do forgive me for assuming that was the intention behind your words.” He knew it. He deserved it.

Jacaerys deserved the volatile harshness. Jacaerys deserved far worse, much worse. He had dishonored the Omega with his malicious insolence; not only had he besmirched an Omega’s virtue but he also incriminated Aegon of barring bastards. He had weaponized the detestable insult capitalized to challenge his and Lucerys’ own legitimacy merely out of spite and envy of Aemond. Fruit of his own adolescent rivalry and abominable hatred for his youngest uncle, he’d hurt Aegon.

The Omega’s rancorous resentment was justly warranted. Jacaerys winced once he’d seen Aegon’s expression shatter from a serious scowl and morph into inconsolable sadness, violet pools glistening with a storm of complex fragility and vulnerability. He appeared tormented, miserable, betrayed.

“You said I would not honor Aemond in our union and that I’d father him a bastard… is that not what you spoke in front of Aemond, my Mother, my Grandsire, everyone?” Aegon whimpered, each syllable rough and raspy, emotional. Jacaerys’ heart tore and cracked, the Alpha struck and paralyzed with regret, grief and repentance.

He took in Aegon’s solemn disheartenment and he was faced with Aegon, not the man of one and twenty years, but the child of five and ten that had just presented, intoxicated and devastated over his secondary nature and his inescapable incarceration. Terror-stricken and isolated, who had only his nephew to mourn his lamentable fate. And Jace had abandoned him on that very same night, had deserted him when he most needed a confidant, an ally, a friend.

Jacaerys felt miserable, heartbroken, crestfallen, not only for his past actions a boyish sprout but his calamitous posture and behavior towards his uncle.

“I did not-“ He could not refute his heinous acts. He could not retract his past ruefulness nor would he be able to ail the dolor he’d inflicted on his uncle. Jace could only do one thing to amend for his disreputable belittlement.  “I apologize for my words from the night of the banquet. They were dishonorable, improper and odious. No matter our past, it is beneath me to slander an Omeg-.”

“Speak it in Valyrian.” Aegon swiftly interrupted the Alpha’s courteous declamation. The eldest retrieved an abandoned parchment, scanning over the prose inscribed on the historical archive of the ancient times of Old Valyrian, the Omega was nonchalant, calm, unbothered by Jacaerys’ thunderstruck state. 

“What?” Aegon lifted his lilac eyes to observe his nephew and sighed, scowl not as prominent as it had previously been yet still present. The Alpha found no delight and no pleasure in the other man’s deflated expression. Oh, how he desired to see his dazzling grin, his sublime slime, hell, he’d even accept the provocative smirk!

“You are studying Valyrian, are you not? Your apology will do little to console me, but if you speak it in Valyrian, at least it isn’t in vain.” Aegon flapped and waved the valuable vallum around mindlessly, disregarding it’s significance and rarity. His inadvertence tensed the Alpha who had yet to study the contents on the aged scripture, and he rushed to sit across Aegon and trapped the Omega’s hands within his own, fortuitously halting his erratic movements.

Warmth. Blissful contentment. Pleasant comfort.

His hands enclosed around Aegon’s own. Under his trembling touch he could feel the Omega’s skin on his own – soft, small, delicate, utterly opposing to his own larger, calloused, cold hands. Nevertheless, the rousing, irresistible heat that sparked from their entwined hands, ignited by the inimitable, transcendent touch, it was as though their hands had been sculpted out of the same marvelous marble, crafted to become a paralleled pair, differing but balanced, distant but destined to unite.

Jacaerys gulped down, his mouth dry and cotton-like, and focused on the man that observed him with unprecedent patience with a hint of perplexity – Jace opted to not indulge himself in the cute, crimson flush that had spontaneously taken the Omega’s cheeks and his nonsensical logic that he’d been the cause for such an adorable, ambrosial expression – and it was at that moment that he recalled what the Omega had solicited of him.

Shame stirred in his stomach. Subconsciously, his grip around Aegon tightened though he was still tender, gentle, careful. His focus returned to their coupled caress and his heart plummeted. The Omega’s fingertips were bitten raw, flesh macerate and wounded, dried metallic blood accumulated on the deeper wounds.

The Alpha remembered that ever since their youth, Aegon had a horrendous habit of mutilating his hands, nails and fingers whenever he was most anxious, petrified, stressed, nervous. He’d claw until bloodshed, he’d bite until he’d become senseless and damned with pain. Jacaerys could only assume his performative derogation at Dinner had been a predecessor if not the origin to the barbaric scabs.

Humiliation be damned, his respectable honor, chivalrous morality and Alphan aptitude rumbled, thundered, urged him to implore for their reconciliation, plea for his pardon. The Velaryon Prince - whether derived from his primitive impulses, his own righteous morals or his paradoxical sentiments towards the Omega he still held in his unyielding grasp – whatever the cause, it did not matter, Jacaerys missed Aegon’s smile, his ironic wittiness, his provocative nature. He missed him.

“Īles dōrī ñuha jaelagon naejot ōdrikagon ao.  Iksan vaoreznuni syt ñuha… udro? (It was never my wish to hurt you. I'm sorry for my words.)” His words stumbled, vowels strained and unnatural and his diction was beyond abysmal. The younger of the two men felt ripened mortification and disconcertion stun him; his own face mirrored Aegon’s own vehement vermillion and he would have deserted the Library to weep in his incompetence, had it not been for the Omega’s splendorous, sublime grin that stretched across his pretty features.

“Udra.” He corrected and laughed at the Alpha’s widened eyes and agape mouth, appearing the picture of thunderstruck bewilderment.

Jacaerys felt Aegon’s hands shake under his palms, saw the Omega’s figure rock with melodious laughter and attested to the bitter gloominess that had shadowed, condemned, tormented his uncle dissipate and blossom into an ethereal lightness. Jacaerys had been responsible for the heart-stirring metamorphosis and his chest filled with unparalleled pride, his heart soared, his mind, body and soul appeased with relief.

He had made Aegon smile.

He had made Aegon laugh.

He had made Aegon happy.

The Targaryen Prince’s fuchsia gaze fell onto their merged hands, contemplating the comforting warmth before his eyes migrated onto the speechless, awestruck and enchanted Velaryon. From Jacaerys’ perspective, it seemed as though Aegon was pondering his next words carefully, calculating the proper approach, mind feasibly flustered with their harmonized cordiality.

“Ñuha lēkia gaomas daor vōljes zȳhon dīnilūks naejot nyke. Kessa dōrī. Iksan daor vok. Ao gōntan daor pirtir.  (I am not pure. My brother does not celebrate his marriage to me. He will never. You did not lie.)

Jacaerys felt a growl threatened to reverberate throughout the silent Library due to the man’s words. The mere mention of Aemond and their conjugal engagement left a rancid, sour taste in his mouth. His mood plummeted not solely because of his one-eyed uncle but because Aegon had exempted his actions, excused his repulsive remarks and castigated himself with a smile on his face and with nonchalant indifference lining his tone.

He didn’t like that.

“Yn nyke gōntan ōdrikagon ao, gōntan nyke dor? (But I did hurt you, did I not?)” 

The Velaryon Alpha leaned further onto the table, a few manuscripts, scriptures and thick records crumpling onto the floor and whilst he flinched at the rambunctious disruption, his attention lingered on the Omega. Aegon’s grip on the aforementioned, invaluable testament loosened, joining the fallen books discarded and forgotten by the enthralled pair.

Jacaerys felt the Targaryen Omega’s fingers wriggle under his hold, intertwine and lace within his own, warmer fingers. Aegon rubbed the smooth pad of his thumb against the Alpha’s battered and rough knuckles in synchronized circles, and Jace had been unprepared for the genuine gentleness and intimate amiability his uncle was granting him. It was as though he was being comforted, soothed, consoled.

“Daor.” He corrected once more. Aegon’s rose lips spread into a slight smile and his eyes fell onto their conjoined hands and his eyes softened, admiring the alluring contrast between sun-kissed gold and porcelain white, before he directed his enrapturing gaze back on the Alpha. “As I said before, you said nothing but the truth so I have no need to pardon you nor you need to plea for my compassion or suffer with interminable guilt over the incident.”

The Targaryen Prince gasped when Jacaerys’ hands clasped around his own with fierce vigor and intensity, but despite the unexpected fervency, the Omega hadn’t winced nor had he withdrawn from the contact. On the contrary, Aegon indulged in the gentleness, basked in the tender attention, appeared… touch deprived.

“Do not excuse my actions Aegon. I hurt you. I should have controlled my emotions, held my words and prevented spilling senseless provocation.” Aegon stood motionless for a moment and once he’d recollected his thoughts and consciousness, he freed himself from the Alpha’s grasp.

Jacaerys mourned the loss of the incomparable warmth but Aegon caught his attention almost instantaneously.

“Let us deem it my atonement for what was spoken the night at Driftmark.”

Jacaerys wanted to argue, desired to demystify the self-flagellation instilled into the Omega’s spirits, but he knew his exertions were futile. Aegon was stubborn, headstrong and had an exasperating tendency to shrug off sensible arguments and reasoning. So, he’d accept with mutual comprise.

He retrieved the abandoned parchment that had once been held within the Omega’s grasp, glossing over the convoluted text and briefly glimpsing back up towards the content Omega mindlessly glancing out the window, admiring the picturesque view of the splendid horizon. He looked the picture of grace and elegance and Jacaerys yearned to hear his voice, longed to hear his express himself in Old Valyrian with dexterous confidence.

The Velaryon Prince halted his movements and his eyes remained on Aegon, struck by a delayed realization.

“Well, since you’re determined on accompanying me, may I question how you mastered Old Valyrian?” Aegon turned towards his nephew, eyebrows raised, pretty puzzlement reflected off him like the lustrous light of sun’s rise. Jacaerys had always known his uncle excessively expressive and he found the habit endearing, cute even. “Your Valyrian rivals my Mother and Daemon’s own. It comes natural to you, as though it were the common tongue. How did you learn?”

Aegon rested his elbows against the hard wooden surface and supported his chin within his palms, closing his eyes, basking in the resplendent rays of high, morning sun. He paused for a moment (and Jacaerys waited, spellbound and charmed by the Omega’s peaceful domesticity that encompassed him: warm, cozy, familiar, safe, pleasant).

Aegon opened his eyes once more and fidgeted with the emerald and diamond encrusted ring clung snug around his finger.   

“Sunfrye.” He whispered out and Jacaerys leaned in closer to hear his uncle, supporting his weight on his forearms, body leaning forward. “Sunfyre is all I have. Our bond is absolute, unconditional. I had no one else and as a troubled youth I poured my very being into studying Valyrian. Every day I’d rush to the Dragonpit and sharpen my expression until I need not rely on shitty literature or poetry, until it blossomed naturally from my own mind. I mastered our mother tongue so I could confide in Sunfyre, reveal my inner most thoughts and emotions, strengthen our trust.”

Aegon looked back out the window, entranced by the rhythmical push and pull of the tranquil waves that clashed on the sandy shores. The Omega was pensive, deliberative, sincere.  

“My Valyrian, it is the sole acclamation applauded in my name. Aemond and Helaena never quite picked it up as easily as I had, they still struggle with it to this day. But they’ve mastered many other subjects and skills in which I cannot compare.”

Raw. Vulnerable. Intimate.

There, they were no longer antagonistic; grudges and past unfaithfulness buried and silenced. There, they were two souls confiding in one another, coupled by kindred insecurities and doubts. There, Jacaerys felt safe, secure, anchored and unburdened by judgement, expectation, responsibility, duty. There, enveloped by lightened tranquility and illuminated by mild, morning incandescence, beside Aegon Targaryen, his uncle, his former friend, his juvenile infatuation, his newfound obsession; it was there that he felt most sheltered and protected to reveal his own disquieting anxieties.

“Lucerys has learnt Valyrian far after I begun. Mother commends his natural proficiency, the Maesters hymn his unparalleled acuity and intelligence. I still struggle to speak it.” He murmurs, folding the corners of an ancient, vellum record.

“Prince Jacaerys envious of his own kin?” Aegon teased but his jests were devoid of malice or incitement. Jacaerys took no offense to the provocation. In truth the Velaryon Alpha had been relieved by the Omega’s passive indifference with his inadequacies, rather, his interest had been peeked by other, trivial subjects: Jacaerys’ frivolous jealousy.

“I’m my Mother’s heir. I’m the blood of the dragon. Perfection is expected of me.” Jacaerys’ defended his prideful honor. Aegon snorted and his eyes lit up with curious endearment, glinting with childlike mischief and juvenile joy. They appeared to sparkle with effervescent liveliness, the brightest they’d appeared.

“iksā daor Jaes (You are no god).” The Omega fondled another ornate jewel that adorned another finger. This one was slick, silver, embellished with resplendent rubies, fiery, impassionate, Targaryen. Jacaerys had always believed Aegon far suited fervid crimson, rose and absolute ebony than the presumptuous green. A perverse voice in his mind pondered over the mirage of Aegon claimed in oceanic teals, glistening with opulent pearls and sumptuous sapphires, enveloped in ceruleans cloaks. He silenced the persuasive premise.

“Yn kesan sagon dārys (But I will be King).” Jacaerys was thriving with indulgence. Though his Valyrian was piss-poor and limited to simple, elementary responses, Aegon was challenging him, stimulating him towards improvement and he seemed disconcerted with the Velaryon’s ineptitude. Alongside the Omega, Jacaerys did not fear reprehension nor cruel criticism, he savored their discourses, yearned to improve and prove himself adept for himself and for Aegon.  

“If it bring you any merit, I, a fool, learnt Valyrian. You are far more capable than I, so I do not doubt you’ll soon master it. You’ve mastered comprehending it, all you lack is expression.”

And with Aegon, Jacaerys was just Jacaerys. His existence wasn’t limited to being Rhaenrya’s first-born son; his worth wasn’t solely summarized and reduced to his status and parentage; he wasn’t viewed solely as the future successor to the Iron Throne with inexhaustible, incongruous responsibilities, burdens. He wasn’t just a husk of a human, a symbol. With Aegon he could be just Jacaerys, he could be his boyish Alphan adolescent, he could tease and provoke, he could flounder and fail, he could laugh, complain, cry. He could be human.

Aegon viewed him as just Jacaerys. He had always viewed him as just Jacaerys.

He had missed Aegon.

“Iksā daor mittys (you are no fool).” He whispered, a ghost of his enigmatic emotions, a murmur of his tumultuous thoughts. His Valyrian did little to convey his honest sentiments but Aegon seemed pleased. Lifting himself from his seat, he leaned on the glass window and glanced down at Kings Landing, now vibrantly alive, bustling with life. His hair fell over his face, but Jace had caught sight of a shy smile.

Fuck, he had missed Aegon.

And though their shared time together was sparse, Jacaerys yearned to nurture, mend and heal their severed bond. The past was the past, and Jacaerys would not allow for their regrettable history to impede their present and their possible future as allies, friends, more.

He stood up and rested on the opposing side of Aegon’s silhouette, admiring not only the rambunctious Capital but also the Omega.

They remained in comfortable silence for an indefinite amount of time. Aegon seemed exhausted, his blond lashes fanning tiredly over intense, dark circles whilst his head weighed on the translucid glass. Jacaerys was content with the mere prospect of marveling over his companion, jubilated with his recently discovered acceptance towards the Omega and his eager ambition to rekindle the flames of amiableness between them.

Every molecule that composed his essence, his being, his persona hollered and vibrated with imperative desperation to embrace and seize the opportunity to stand beside Aegon, protect him, reassure and soothe him, to become someone Aegon could depend on, confide in, become someone with whom Aegon could be himself with no fear of castigation.

He had to start somewhere. He just had to speak.

He just had to take the frightening plunge and abandon his fear of rejection.

“May I ask a favor, uncle?” Aegon jolted from his silent thoughts and looked up towards the Alpha.

“Dāryssy gaomagon daor epagon. Pōnta udrāzma.” Jacaerys gulped, browsing and racking through his extensive knowledge of Valyrian to translate his uncle’s response.

“Kings do not ask. They… I’m not familiar with the last word.” Aegon smiled and crossed his arms, body leaning on the wooden frame of the large window, facing the Alpha, attention no longer on Kings Landing but now on the Velaryon monarch. Jacaerys subconsciously straightened his back, puffed his chest and crossed his own arms, in an instinctual form to appease the Omega, make himself look stronger, powerful, dominating.

A short curl fell over the Omega’s temple. It was a titillating temptation.

“Command. Kings command. You’ll be King. You do not ask, you command.” Gods, that loose curl was distracting.

“I will not demand nor order you to do anything you do not please.” Without another thought, Jacaerys reached to push the platinum strand away from porcelain skin, brushing the coil behind Aegon’s ear. Now, devoid of intrusive obstructions, Jace had a transpicuous picture of a shy, rose flush tainting the Omega’s face coupled with an expression of wonderment and disbelief that made the Alpha choke on his breath and retract his hand from the Targaryen as though he’d been burnt.   

“I do not wish to bother my Mother with this matter when she has Grandsire’s condition in her thoughts and since we will be prolonging our stay at King’s Landing, and I’m separated from our Maester and his teachings, I was wondering if you could aid me in my studies. ” Jacaerys stumbled over his syllables and internally cried out at his less-than-desirous display. Words betraying the confident assertiveness that his figure was conveying.

He felt as though he were back to being an infatuated boy, age of ten, trembling like a leaf in the wind, soliciting Aegon to duel with him during their combative training.

“And what benefit does it bring me?” Aegon provoked and crossed his own arms over his chest once he’d garnered his composure (though a vigorous, vermillion blush persisted, bashful and shameless, against his cheeks, painting him the prettiest shade of pink).

“I will not speak a word to the Queen or any Kings-Guard of your secret asylum.” Jace leaned down so he was eye-to-eye with the Omega. He recalled when Aegon had once been taller then he was, how the Targaryen Prince would gloat and boast about his superior build. He had to repress the urge to laugh in the Omega’s face, as he now had to bend down to meet his uncle’s eyes. His build had grown taller and stronger.

He reveled in their height difference.

“They’ll eventually find out, whether it be sooner or later.” Aegon leaned forward and they were so close, too close. Jace couldn’t say he didn’t relish in the natural intimacy and chemistry that bubbled with each passing second. His Alphan nature exulted and triumphed with each interaction, delighted that he was successfully revitalizing the shriveled blossom of their relation.

“I also believe, considering the circumstances, time shared together may ease forgiveness for your past betrayal on Driftmark and for my grotesque incivility. This can be a step into forging the broken ties of our friendship.” He tempted, not certain if was the right approach towards the Omega. Everything was so complicated with Aegon.

“Kesan dohaeragon ao. (I will help you.)” Jacaerys stifled every nerve and muscle in his form that craved nothing more than to embrace the Omega within his arms and twirl him in the air. Overzealous that he had successfully secured more time beside his Targaryen uncle. “But do spare me your fabricated formalities. I do not expect forgiveness nor cordiality from this agreement.”

His prior blissful exhilaration extinguished like a flame in the dark vastness of twilight. Though he had succeeded in persuading Aegon in liberating a fraction of his time to teach the Alphan boy the tongue of the Dragon, the Omega had effortlessly deflected his attempts at consolation and trampled the budding seeds of their weakened roots of cordiality.

“So why do you agree? Why do you not refuse me?” Nevertheless, he was of Rhaenyra’s blood, he was as perseverant and resolute as she was and he would not welcome defeat.

Aegon was rendered speechless, eyes drifting over the skylines of the populous, cramped landscape of  Kings Landing. Crystalline irises similar to aphrodisiacal amethysts reflected confused inquisition. His uncle must have been racking his mind to find a plausible justification, an excuse to liberate him from any constrictive ties with his nephew. Aegon was not above dishonesty to preserve himself, to protect himself.

“I do not know.” Aegon sighed and Jacaerys choked on his saliva. Honesty was a new flavor of Aegon Jace had yet to grow accustomed to. Despite the unfamiliarity of the Omega’s unforeseen truthfulness, he couldn’t deny the uncontrollable jubilation that possessed him knowing Aegon felt secure enough with the Alpha to negate deception.

The path of an alliance between the two men was a long one. And though both Omega and Alpha were far from attaining any form of agreeable reciprocation, Jacaerys knew the stones were placed, as though engraved by fate and destiny, a testament that the Velaryon and Targaryen were meant to stand beside one another. Jacaerys had mourned his uncle’s absence for long, had forced himself to believe he abhorred the Omega’s existence, however, his heart, his soul, his essence craved and needed Aegon like his body craved water and nourishment.

From his peripheral vision he observed Aegon stretch his aching muscles and turn away from Jace’s secluded desolation, waltzing in the direction of the impressive doors that led out of the Royal Library. The eldest of two readjusted his simple cloths and smiled one final time, reminiscent of a conceited smirk before faux curtsying at the Velaryon adolescent.

“I will extend my hospitable charitability and take my leave as you so urgently requested.” Aegon snorted and placed his hand on the cool handle. One push of the wooden gate and the Omega would be gone, consumed by the ominous shadows, spoken about but never seen, as though a rumor being murmured from one mouth to the next.

Jace wasn’t ready to part ways just yet. Jace wanted more time with Aegon. He had just awakened to the realization of how much he’d yearned for his companionship, it was too soon for his uncle to leave him. So, in a moment of urgent desperation, he flung towards the Omega and clasped the hand that laid over the handle within his own, imposing his stronger, larger build over Aegon.

“Uncle?” He breathed out. He longed to speak Aegon’s name without any honorifics, titles, positions. Aegon. The name tingled on his tongue, made his stomach flutter and twist and turn, made his heart skip a beat. Aegon.

It was too soon. Jacaerys couldn’t get ahead of himself. He had to go slow. He wouldn’t allow for Aegon to slip from his fingers, he wouldn’t waste the invaluable opportunity to emend what they had lost.

“Hm?” Aegon mumbled and glanced up at the younger boy. His hand never retracted, never trembled, never slipped away. It remained still in his palm, in his warmth. It felt right.

“Why is it that no matter how close you are I cannot catch your scent?” Jacaerys’ rich, caramel eyes slid downwards, searching across the Omega’s neck until he spotted the lithe nub that protruded off the perfect, pale skin, unmarked, unclaimed, virtuous, pure, Omegan. Jacaerys suppressed a primitive growl that bubbled in his core, possessiveness overcoming his nature and he flushed in embarrassment, humiliated by his animalistic behavior over a meager glimpse at Aegon’s scent gland.

“Are you unfamiliar with scent-blockers?” Hyperfixated on the tantalizing gland, the Alpha noticed an almost imperceptible shine varnishing the skin. So, the translucent lotion was obscuring him from smelling Aegon’s sublime fragrance?

“I have heard of them. Why do you use them?” He inquired again and ripped his vision off the Omega’s throat before he’d deservingly earn himself a kick to the groin and doubtlessly incinerate any small, semblance of a chance at nourishing and nurturing the wilted blossom of their bond.

Aegon huffed under him and he rolled his eyes, not too enthused by the topic of their discussion. Despite his irritation, he displayed no interest in fleeing from the Velaryon Prince, he stayed were he stood. He brushed his hair away from his face and looked at Jacaerys’ own scent gland, curious, interested.

“Because the Red Keep is plagued by Alphas. Despite popular belief, I am unmated Omega and my scent would… corrupt and ravish their Alphan minds, lead them to act out on their lewd desires. As if they wouldn’t do it by their own disposition.” He enunciated each word as though it were factual law, as though what he spoke wasn’t cruel, intolerable and unacceptable harassment. 

“You are the Prince…” Jace whispered, incredulous and perplexed.

“And an Omega.” Aegon shrugged as though his second nature was the explanation for the unjust system he’d been condemned into since his presentation. Why must Aegon protect those that should be protecting him? Why should he, the minority, be subjugated to dull down his scent to prevent himself from being assaulted by the majority - immoral and corrupted Alphas incapable of repressing their instincts?

“But you are still a Targaryen, no one should lay a hand on you unless you desire they do so!” Rage bubbled in his core, burning bright and dangerous with the thought of any undeserving Alpha touching the Omega. He hated the thought. Hated it. Loathed it.

“I could be a descendent of the Ancient Gods or even Aegon the First reborn, it would not matter. I am an Omega, Targaryen or not, it does not matter.” And though the Velaryon Prince was deranged with the desire to castrate every Alpha that resided within the Red Keep, he was aware that in their society, in their family, in their blood, Omegas were always deemed inferior creatures to Alphas.

Jacaerys gulped down the bitter truth and tempted to brightened up the somber ambience that encompassed the two figures.

“Do you know what you smell of?”

“Why are you suddenly so taken with my scent?” Aegon laughed and Jacaerys reeled in the heavenly sound, his hand clenched around Aegon’s lightly.

“Curious, is all. You should know I’ve always been an inquisitive pest.” He teased, tone hinted with provocation, deep and sultry. Aegon’s eyebrows rose in interest and his lips lifted into a tempting smirk.

“If it quenches your thirst, I am not familiar with my scent, even within my chambers I cannot perceive my own essence. I believe my scent blockers have dulled my scent over the years. Perhaps I was born deficient, perhaps I smell of nothing.” He rolled his words on his tongue, batted his eyelashes and got closer to Jacaerys’ statuesque form.

Jacaerys remembered the scent of ripened and fresh peaches, plums and citrus fruits, scent honey-like and sweet. The scent of nectareous blossoms on a warm Spring morning. The scent of domestic familiarity, of security and safety, of home. The scent of all things pure and sweet and Omegan. The scent that had enraptured and enchanted the Alpha, that had made him obsessed and addicted to it and solely it.

“I doubt that.”

“How so?” Aegon teased and sniffed the air. Jacaerys knew his own scent must have been flowing off of him like water from a dam. His mind momentarily wondered on the thought of his scent lingering on the Omega’s clothes, on his hair and skin; wondered if other’s would be able to percept his smokey ocean scent on the Targaryen, perceive his claim over Aegon. He did not allow himself to linger longer on those fanatical disillusionments.

“You’re a Targaryen Omega… the first since the ages of Old Valyria. You’re special, so, it is only natural that your scent be just as special.” Aegon smiled, not a smirk nor a fraudulent mask, but a genuine, whole-hearted smile, content with the soft reassurance and kindness. The sweet expression had lasted for a blink and was swiftly replaced with an arrogant façade.

“Save your flattery for your Lady Baela…” He teased and looked at the Targaryen sigil engraved onto the golden chain that hung from Jace’s neck. Aegon frowned.  “Once Aemond and I mate, I can restrain my usage of the blockers and then you can forge your own conclusions of my scent.”

The hand that had remained enveloped over Aegon’s own tightened and clenched possessively, forcible and vigorous and Aegon gasped with the unexpected bruteness. Jace relinquished his hold and was immediately regretful, but he had been blinded with momentary rage, disgusted at the notion of Aegon carrying Aemond’s nauseating stench like a scar, permanently imprisoning him to the one-eyed Alpha.

“Yn ao’ll yknagon hen zirȳla. Nyke jaelagon naejot yknagon ao (But you’ll smell of him. I want to smell you.)”

“Lord Jacaerys Velaryon has become bold.” Aegon patted Jacaerys’ cheek, allowing his hand to rest on the tan skin and caress the slight stubble. He seemed enchanted by rich auburn, hypnotized by the sharp, ardent gaze that was fixated on the Omega.

Aware of his humiliating reveal and display, Jacaerys fled from Aegon’s amorous touch and stepped backwards, turning his back to the Omega, unable to look him in the eye when his pounding heart was deafening his turbulent thoughts and his body felt as though it were being consumed by a perilous fever.

“Forget it, uncle.”

He heard the door creak open, followed by a pregnant pause where the world seemingly halted. He had believed the Omega had abandoned him to his miserable desolation.

“One day, I’ll indulge your intrigue.” The door closed shut and Jacaerys felt his knees nearly cave under his weight by the world-shattering statement spoken with incongruous casualness.

Everything was always so complicated with Aegon.

Everything felt right with Aegon.