Chapter Text
Maegor loved his muña with a ferocity that surprised even himself.
In his first life, Maegor’s parents had been… difficult. Aegon had been distant, cold, and utterly emotionally unavailable, viewing Maegor more as a spare blade than a son. Visenya, had been a suffocating inferno. Her love was a toxic, demanding thing, woven with blood magic, dark whispers, and the heavy burden of a crown he was never meant to wear.
Duncan was neither. Dunk was just… Dunk.
His muña didn't demand greatness. He didn't whisper of prophecies or poison his enemies. Dunk just smelled of rain, warm leather, and the soothing, earthy scent of a content omega. Dunk kissed the crown of Maegor’s silver head, held his hand when they walked the gardens, and looked at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. It was a simple, uncomplicated love, and Maegor, who had drowned in the toxic swamp of Targaryen family politics for a lifetime, drank it in like a man dying of thirst.
But if Dunk’s love was a steady, warm hearth, Prince Maekar’s love was an avalanche.
To say Maekar had been displeased by Dunk’s pregnancy would be the understatement of the century. When the news first broke that the towering, lowborn Flea Bottom hedge knight was carrying Prince Aerion’s pup, Maekar had nearly burned Summerhall down with his rage. He had spent months pacing the corridors like a caged panther, his scent a violent storm of crushed cloves and ozone, ready to murder Dunk at the drop of a hat for dragging House Targaryen into such a scandal. He had barred the doors, hissed at maesters, and threatened to geld his own alpha son, Aerion, on three separate occasions.
And then, Maegor was born.
Maegor vividly remembered the day he met his grandfather. He had been a few days old, swaddled tightly in Dunk’s massive arms. Maekar had stormed into the nursery, Baelor leaning heavily on a cane beside him. The Crown Prince was a striking departure from Valyrian norms, inheriting his mother’s Dornish blood—Baelor possessed rich, dark skin, dark hair, and a commanding, warm alpha presence that filled the room with the scent of oranges and smoke. Maekar’s face, however, was a thundercloud, his jaw set, fully prepared to look upon the "mistake" that had ruined his family's dignity.
Dunk had nervously offered the bundle forward.
Maekar had snatched the baby up, his violet eyes narrowing critically. Maegor had stared back, unblinking, his tiny, furious infant face already bearing the unmistakable, aristocratic scowl of his royal lineage.
For a long, tense moment, the room was silent. Baelor held his breath. Dunk shifted nervously from foot to foot.
Then, Maekar’s stern, battle-hardened face simply crumbled.
His rigid posture melted. The sharp, aggressive cloves of his scent instantly softened into something sweet, protective, and overwhelmingly warm. He pulled Maegor close to his chest, burying his nose in the baby's fine silver fuzz. Tears, actual tears, pooled in the famously harsh prince's eyes.
"A boy," Maekar whispered, his voice cracking with an emotion so profound it made Baelor blink in shock. Maekar looked up, his gaze sweeping over the room before settling back onto Maegor’s tiny face. "My grandson. Perhaps things will be better with you"
From that exact second onward, Prince Maekar of House Targaryen ceased to be a terrifying, strict military commander, and devolved entirely into a feral, spoiling grandfather.
Maekar effectively claimed joint custody of Maegor, and by "joint custody," he meant he shamelessly stole his grandson from everyone else at every given opportunity. If Dunk blinked, Maekar was there, scooping the silver-haired baby out of his arms and whisking him away to the royal solars. If Aerion even attempted to approach his son with a shiny bauble, Maekar would appear out of nowhere, physically shove his alpha son aside, and carry Maegor off with a triumphant huff.
Maegor, naturally, reveled in it. He was treated like a living god.
As Maegor grew into a robust, observant infant, his world at Summerhall expanded to include the rest of Maekar’s brood.
The most constant presence, aside from Dunk, was the painfully skinny, bald squire who followed his muña like a shadow. Aegon. Or "Egg," as Dunk fondly called him. Maegor found Egg utterly fascinating, mostly because he looked so incredibly strange without a single hair on his head. But more than that, Maegor found an endless source of dark, internal amusement in the boy's name.
Aegon, Maegor thought, watching the boy awkwardly scrub a saddle in the courtyard. The Conqueror. The Dragon. Reduced to a bald, scrawny pup fetching water for a hedge knight. Yet, Egg was an alright child. He was earnest, fiercely protective of Dunk, and he always made sure to pull funny faces at Maegor when the adults weren't looking. Maegor approved of him.
Then came Maekar’s daughters.
Rhae was a miniature hurricane. She possessed the classic Valyrian silver hair and striking purple eyes, but she had inherited every ounce of her father's aggressive, prickly omega temperament. She stomped around Summerhall demanding wooden swords, completely uninterested in embroidery. Maegor liked her immediately; she reminded him of Visenya, but without the terrifying blood magic.
Daella, on the other hand, was a shock. When she first leaned over Maegor’s crib, he blinked in surprise. She had soft, light brown hair and pale purple eyes. In his first life, any child born of Targaryen blood without the silver hair would have been viewed with suspicion. But here, the Targaryen bloodline was a wild tapestry of colors. Daella smelled of sweet wildflowers and baked apples, and she was impossibly kind. She spent hours weaving little grass flowers for Maegor, speaking to him in soft, soothing tones. Maegor allowed her to kiss his chubby cheeks, deciding she was an acceptable aunt.
But the most jarring encounter of his young life came with the arrival of Maekar’s eldest son.
Daeron visited Summerhall briefly on his way from King's Landing, where he had been staying with Baelor sons, Valarr and Matarys. He was a lanky young man who looked nothing like Aerion or Maekar. Daeron possessed a mop of unruly, sandy hair and pale violet eyes. He smelled perpetually of sour wine, sweet citrus, and a heavy, suffocating melancholy.
Yet, for all his drunken slouching, Daeron loved children.
One evening, while Dunk was distracted by a servant, Daeron wandered over to the thick rug where Maegor was sitting. The sandy-haired prince dropped to his knees, his pale eyes completely glassy, and scooped Maegor up into his arms.
Maegor scowled, preparing to unleash a warning wail—he did not like smelling wine on the person holding him.
But before Maegor could cry out, Daeron smiled. It was a sad, knowing, incredibly heavy smile. He tapped Maegor’s tiny nose.
"Well," Daeron slurred softly, his pale violet eyes seeming to peer straight through Maegor’s infant skull and directly into his ancient, blood-stained soul. "Let's hope this time your life goes better, little Maegor."
Maegor froze.
His tiny heart skipped a beat. What the fuck did you just say to me?
Maegor stared at the drunken prince in absolute, paralyzed horror. Did this man know? Did Daeron possess magic? Could this drunkard see the phantom blood of the Faith Militant dripping from Maegor's tiny hands?
Before Maegor could formulate a response—not that his vocal cords were capable of anything more than a babble—Dunk swooped in, gently but firmly plucking Maegor from Daeron’s arms.
"He needs a nap, my prince," Dunk said politely, though his earthy scent spiked with protective anxiety at the smell of wine.
Daeron merely giggled, staggering to his feet and wandering off toward the kitchens, leaving Maegor reeling with a profound, chilling paranoia.
One morning, Dunk walked into Maekar’s massive study. He needed his approval for the purchase of new training swords for the yard, and since Maekar rarely left his convalescing alpha's side, this was the place to go.
"Prince Maekar?" Dunk asked politely, stepping into the room.
Maekar, who had been sitting at his massive desk reviewing missives, looked up. His violet eyes widened with bright, immediate excitement. He eagerly looked behind Dunk, checking the giant’s massive legs, peering over his broad shoulders, his omega scent spiking with eager anticipation.
When he realized Dunk was alone, Maekar’s face fell instantly. His eager smile twisted into a vicious, deeply offended scowl.
"Where's my grandson, you giant donkey??" Maekar barked, slamming a fist on the desk.
"He's… he's taking a nap, my prince," Dunk stammered, taken aback. "I just needed a signature for the—"
"I don't care what you need!" Maekar hissed, pointing a quill at Dunk’s chest. "What is the point of you coming into my solar if you are not carrying the light of my life? Begone! Return only when you have my boy!"
Dunk sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, entirely used to this treatment by now. "Yes, Prince Maekar."
The blatant, unapologetic favoritism did not go unnoticed by Maekar's other children. Maekar had raised Daeron, Aerion, Aemon, Rhae, Daella, and Aegon with strictness. He was famously unyielding, demanding discipline and perfection.
Which made his treatment of Maegor all the more jarring to them.
It was mid-afternoon in the private family dining hall. Dinner was still three hours away. Maegor was perched proudly on the heavy oak table directly in front of Maekar’s chair. The little boy was currently honking down a massive, sugar-glazed lemoncake. His face was sticky, his silver hair slightly messy, and his little fat fist was curled tightly around a second lemoncake in reserve.
Maekar, the fearsome Prince of Summerhall, the commander who had held the line at the Redgrass Field, was sitting beside him, delicately wiping a stray crumb of frosting from Maegor’s chin with a silk handkerchief.
"There you are, my sweet dragon," Maekar cooed softly. "Is it good? Grandfather had the cooks use the fresh lemons from Dorne."
Maegor hummed happily, shoving more cake into his mouth.
The door to the hall swung open, and Princess Rhae walked in, followed closely by a dusty, sweaty Egg, who had just finished his chores with Dunk.
Rhae stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes darting from the powdered sugar all over the table to the sticky baby, and finally to her fearsome father holding a handkerchief.
"What is this??" Rhae demanded, aghast.
Maekar didn't even look up, carefully dabbing at Maegor’s cheek. "Hm? He wanted lemoncakes."
Egg’s jaw dropped. He stepped forward, pointing an accusatory finger at his nephew. "You never let us eat sweets before dinner! You said it bred weak teeth and weaker discipline!"
Maekar finally looked up, his eyes turning cold and dismissive as he looked at his youngest son. "You are not him."
"But—" Egg started.
"MY grandson wanted lemoncakes," Maekar stated, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. He patted Maegor’s silver head lovingly. "My grandson is a growing, perfect dragon who requires nourishment. You lot were just gluttons."
Egg looked like he was about to burst into tears of sheer injustice. Rhae simply threw her hands in the air and stormed out of the room.
Maekar rolled his eyes, ignoring them entirely. He picked up another lemoncake from the silver platter and held it out to Maegor.
"Ignore him, my sweet," Maekar muttered, kissing the boy's forehead. "Now, would you like a blackberry tart next, or should we go find Baelor and have him read to you?"
Maegor chewed his lemoncake, looking at his fiercely devoted grandfather, and then thought of his gentle, giant muña out in the yard.
Yes, Maegor the Cruel thought, licking sugar from his fingers, completely at peace with the universe. This second life is a vast improvement.