Archive of Our Own

The hooves pounded against the earth, forming a steady rhythm, reminiscent of the deadly charge of gallant knights amid battle. Yet, this time there was no war to wage and no men to slaughter.

Crimson and gold banners fluttered loosely in the wind. The Lannister sigil posed around every corner. Red, the symbol of carnage and blood, the color of his very household, and of sticky blood that had once coated Maekar's armor as he sped into battle, with no guarantee of survival.

In the distance, the magnificent gate awaited their arrival, its wings open to greet the delegation of horses marked with the dragon sigil.

Joyous tunes, the kind of which Maekar had nearly forgotten existed, reverberated in the air, growing ever louder as they approached. 

They crossed the gate, riding past common folk and nobles alike who had gathered for the tourney, meant to commemorate the rise of a new, superior age, one rid of bastard aggression. Yet, for all his indifference, even Maekar was not blind to the immense unease which befell the people of the realm.

He could feel their despondency; his own despondency reflected in them.

The tournament consisted of gallant, beautiful knights who fought one another — a sight he had grown accustomed to — yet it was chivalrous, devoid of bloodshed. A game.

Such a thought conjured peculiar feelings within Maekar's heart. Both his skin and the spirit of the realm were still marked by the battle of the Redgrass Field.

So what was it with the innocent tourney that marred his heart so terribly?

“Are we there yet?” Maekar heard Rhaegal complain beside him. His frail body was hardly suited for the tedious journey.

Well, perhaps it was his inner self that had projected his malaise onto others. 

A long time had gone by since his twenty-third name day. To the majority, such a date was irrelevant, merely a moment in time that had elapsed. For an alpha, at least.

For omegas, it was considered a terrible omen not to be married off shortly after their fifteenth birthday. By their eighteenth name day, they were deemed fit to bear children, no sooner, however, as was the law established long ago by Queen Alysanne Targaryen to ensure the maturity of an omega's reproductive organs.

Maekar was far past that point. He ought to already have at least three of kin at his age, yet no child or husband had come along. Perhaps to blame was his biology, which concealed his second nature up to his sixteenth name day — an extraordinarily uncommon phenomenon — as most presented by their twelfth. 

By that point, the young prince was already excelling at the art of the sword, and the thought of allowing such talent to wither during the insurgent rebellion sent chills down even the least skilled knight's spine. 

Maekar looked down; the spot where his trusted mace had always rested was now hauntingly empty. 

The rebellion came and went, with Maekar earning the title of an Anvil and acquiring fame throughout all of the kingdom. At that time, his true gender had been kept secret, known only to the closest of advisors, so as not to stir outrage in the realm.

“An omega wielding a sword? A preposterous anomaly that defies the natural order established by the gods.” 

For that reason, it wasn't until months after the realm had stabilized that his true gender was made known. Of course, a small, short-lived spark of outrage rose among the scholars and the more traditional lords. Yet most chose to hold their tongues and instead leap at the opportunity.

Hundreds of candidates vied for his approval; however, to the surprise of even Maekar himself, no betrothals were arranged. Several lords raised their brows at the delay, but none spoke up for fear of upsetting the crown. 

Years had passed since then, and no matter the offer, his father always seemed hopeful at first, only for the proposal to be swept aside without adequate explanation that same evening.

It was not to say Maekar was not pleased with the freedom it granted him, but he still felt a tinge of sadness at the loneliness that came with it. It did not delight his father either, for before Maekar departed the castle walls, he heard him say, “Many will fight for your hand, and it is nigh time for you to wed. Do not let me down.”

Thus, what was meant to propagate peace and harmony was nothing but for Maekar. 

The horses rode into the heart of the festive grounds, the air buzzing with the melodious voices of the lords. They passed by the vast land filled with tents bursting with bright colors, swarmed by vibrant greens, shimmering yellows, and serene turquoises. 

Maekar had not taken the time to survey the rest of the ensemble, nor did he feel the need to. In his experience, tournaments — whether grand and luxurious or meagre —  always adhered to the same format. What was lacking in one could be found in dozens of others.

Puppet shows, dances, and fire demonstrations — he had witnessed it all before, and none of the performances riled his spirit as they once had. Well, all but one: the main event, the thunder of hooves and splintering lances in the jousts. 

As a younger lad, he had ridden in one or two himself, but his chances were swept away by the Blackfyre Rebellion and the identity he had later come into.

To the fates' cruel irony, of his four siblings, Maekar was the one who favored battle most. A natural warrior, they called him as a boy, stern and robust, as any knight is expected to be.

At least until those words softened into 'pretty' and 'captivating,' gentler praise meant to accentuate his omega nature.

“Lord Lannister humbly welcomes the great and honorable Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne!” 

Maekar almost rolled his eyes at the introduction. 

“And his royal brothers: Prince Aerys, Prince Rhaegel, and Prince Maekar Targaryen.”

That's all we get? Maekar nearly scoffed, his mouth twisting. Oh, for fuck's sake… .

The mighty castle presided over them in the distance, its long stature casting a long streak of darkness over the grounds.

Ahead of him, he heard his older brother dismount his horse and begin the pleasantries with their hosts, a diplomatic exchange Maekar had never had a shred of interest in.

He showed very little concern for the official, courteous exchange, as his mind was fixed on the sheer enormity of the fortress, an impenetrable mass, never once breached by man. 

A shame it was that they would not stay in the primary castle but in the one beside it, as its smooth surrounding terrain was better suited for the tourney grounds.

Maekar exhaled softly, trying to drown out the annoying sound of his brother Rhaegel speaking of strange, imaginary things.

He glanced to his right. Aerys was clearly not paying attention to his surroundings, looking as bored and unimpressed as ever.

A madman and a Stoic, perfect! His family might as well burn the grounds themselves if they don't catch fire from their madness in the first place.

Maekar reached out to pat his horse's hair, running his fingers through the white mane that matched his own.

From afar, he watched the chestnut brown of his brother's hair catch daylight, the strands glinting in the sun. He looked majestic. Baelor's frame was powerful and tall, his presence implicitly calling for attention and respect, the air surrounding him brimming with sophistication suited for a future ruler.

His wife trailed just behind him, the young boy's hand resting in hers. Her hair, long and curly, was covered by a magenta scarf, her glossy pale skin causing her to stand out even among the nobles.

Maekar exhaled sharply, as though something had crushed his lungs, and he fought to force the air out. With a fluid, practiced movement, he got off his horse.

His shoes hit the ground with a faint thud, the silver buckles and chains across his body clinking softly.

Even without looking, he could feel the people's eyes on him, watching his every move, planning their next course of action.

It was as though he were a lamb surrounded by a pack of wolves, their mouths salivating at the prospect of possessing him.

Little did they know, the presumed innocent lamb was in fact capable of breaking their skulls open.

By any standard, Maekar was far from a good match. He didn't fit the image of an ideal omega; his back was broad and muscular, maimed with scars, his face far too pronounced, and even the stern look in his eyes fell far from the expectations of a Westerosi omega.

He wouldn't consider himself unattractive, but the scars which ornamented his body weren't particularly pleasing to behold.

And yet, he bore the blood of the dragon and thus was of value to the lords who competed for his hand in marriage — not out of affection for him or even for the privilege of bragging about sinking their cocks into his cunt, but for the status that came with acquiring him.

Maekar cleared his throat, watching with utter dejection as his older brother continued to struggle to assert control over his horse.

His lips curved into a disgusted scowl.

Naturally, the possibility of him marrying one of his brothers remained.

After the disastrous force that was the rebellion, nearly bringing House Targaryen to extinction, it was only proper to secure the trust and allegiance of the powerful houses in Westeros through marriage.

But after Baelor, Aerys, and his aunts were married off, it became murky.

“Help Rhaegal off the horse, for God's sake!” He shouted to the king's guard, baring his canines, his voice exceedingly irritated.

Both knights hurried to obey the omega's orders like devoted dogs, clearly startled by his commanding tone.

Even if it was politically convenient to display their strength by bringing the family, it only deepened the sense of impending disaster within Maekar. The blatant hypocrisy of his father — dragging his mentally unsound brother to the tourney while remaining safely in the Red Keep himself — was beyond Maekar.

In the corner of his eye, he saw his brother gesture for them to move. They followed Baelor inside, trailing behind him like shadows.

There, they were welcomed by the Lannisters, the head of the family, a man whose name Maekar conveniently forgot, bowing to them and offering saccharine compliments.

After the exceedingly dull welcoming words, they were escorted to their chambers. The babe in Lady Dondarrion's arms gurgled softly as they passed, reaching curiously for the tapestries lining the walls.

Maekar was led to his own chamber, located on the opposite side of the castle from Baelor's.

The bedroom was nothing to write home about: a spacious room furnished in light-brown wood and accented with red. In the center stood a grand bed, easily fit for a pair that Maekar did not possess. Beside it stood the window, its frame decorated with star motifs.

He gazed out at the view, which led straight to the jousting grounds, forming before his eyes. The arena was impressive, befitting the status of the great House Lannister, who had taken it upon themselves to host the tourney despite losing much wealth during the rebellion.

Maekar chewed on his lower lip, his inner omega shaking with discomfort.

Oh, how he wished he could participate — to feel the weight of the lance in his grasp, the wind brushing against him as he rode against a champion, and the satisfaction of unhorsing them. 

But that was not the life an omega could lead.

If he had been born like his siblings, an alpha like Baelor and Aerys or a beta like Rhaegal, he might have made something of himself. His practice of the sword would not have been limited to secret meetings with Baelor or lonely duels in the dead of night.

But an omega did not ride.

His icy indigo eyes scanned the terrain. 

Knights crowded the area, their armor forged of the finest materials and embellished with hallmarks of exceptional craftsmanship. Admiring their beauty, Maekar couldn't help but feel a bit resentful.

Young and beautiful — almost otherworldly so — knights, whose honor was as pure as the white of the first snowfall. The young lion's curly locks shimmered like spun gold, while the red-and-blue stripes of Tully's cape swept across the yard as he marched. Beside them rested the deep apple-red of the Fossoways, the fruit imagery offset by fierce animals that rendered the sight nearly comical.

Maekar crossed his arms and sighed in annoyance.

He was a formidable competitor, second only to his brother Baelor, who was rightly hailed as the Breakspear. Despite his sex, he should have been allowed to participate. He could easily imagine the voyeuristic fascination alphas might feel watching an omega ride a horse at full tilt. But Maekar supposed the greatest obstacle was his father, who would certainly not appreciate him drilling lances into his prospective spouses, even if they secretly enjoyed it.

Once more, his eyes swept across the courtyard before returning to the castle doors, where he awaited his brothers' arrival.

It was but a subtle detail — something Maekar himself hadn't even noticed — until a vague inkling of anxiety stirred in his gut and prompted him to retrace the path with his eyes for the third time.

A huddle of knights, a stable boy that shuttled horses, and a lady who spoke to her cousin, bidding him her respects. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Maekar nearly rolled his eyes, cursing the paranoia that had taken root in his spirit after years on the battlefield.

That was until he saw it. Half-hidden in the far corner of the square, countless knights obscuring his obsidian-black armor, stood Baelor, his armor adorned with spikes as was his own.

Maekar nearly jumped as their eyes met.

His brother, noticing his surprise, merely offered a courteous smile and lifted a hand in a beckoning greeting.

Maekar furrowed his brows but mirrored the motion, slowly raising his stiff arm before swinging it to the side in the most awkward wave known to man.

Baelor's smile widened, his sharp, pearly teeth poking through as he held back a laugh. There was something unsettling behind his smile, but Maekar couldn't quite place the sentiment and, as such, opted to dismiss it.

Maekar stepped forward, his body already set on striding over to his brother to exchange a few words of praise before the tournament began. It had been hours since they last spoke; granted, the last conversation had been nothing more than a passing question of whether they were all right.

His omega almost purred at the thought; even minutes away from Baelor felt like hours. A fact he would rather drop dead than admit.

Yet scarcely had he crossed half the courtyard when three figures closed in around Baelor, busying him with their presence.

Maekar frowned, his inner omega hissing in frustration.

He ordered himself to overlook it, turning his attention back to the mighty doors in time to see them swing open and welcome forth the rest of his family.

His brother Aerys walked with Rhaegal, the younger man casting nervous glances about every few steps, as though he were petrified an adversary might emerge from the shadows and ambush them. 

Maekar chose not to linger on the scene. He turned his back on his family and, with brisk strides, made for the stands, where a special box had been prepared for the most powerful of nobles.

Yet as he walked, a bizarre question crept into his mind.

How long has he been staring at me?

Maekar's movements slowed down, a shudder of nervousness rushing down his spine.

Looking at your own family isn't odd, but… Maekar bit the inside of his lip, heat spilling onto his cheeks and wrapping around his heart. Why did it feel so… No, dwelling on it is not reasonable. He argued, pushing the thought aside.

He flopped onto his seat beside his brother Aerys, exhaling softly.

Jena Dondarrion was seated nearby, her baby boy at her side.

Around him, nobles gossiped about the recent scandals and placed their wagers on the victors, speaking in hushed tones they clearly believed were discreet, though none truly were. Maekar was not fond of gossip, yet from what he inadvertently gathered, his brother was the favored champion.

He nearly rolled his eyes. In his mind, there was no question of the victor's identity. Baelor was the pinnacle of knighthood: an honorable, beautiful, and, above all, formidable in strength warrior.

To consider any other outcome was, to Maekar, nothing short of absurd.

The long list of fences split the grounds cleanly in two, with the banners of House Lannister hanging proudly on either side.

Peasants gathered along the rails, fighting for a view of the jousting field. 

The first to emerge were Ser Hubald Hardyng and Ser Godfrey Templeton — strong, albeit mediocre knights.

Their horses pawed at the earth as they awaited the command to charge. Then precisely, just as the first chord of the trumpet rang out, they raced onward; knights' lances were drawn down and aimed for the breast area.

They clashed in a decisive blow. Ser Godfrey was hurled from his saddle and crashed to the ground with devastating force. The stands were scoured by a booming wave of cheers, whistles, and laughter.

Maekar leaned back in his chair, his eyes only partially open as the jousting went on. 

That was until a knight of House Lannister, freshly emerging from his victory over the heir of House Martell, rode toward the stands. He sat astride a pale horse, clad in golden armor with a red cape flowing softly behind him, a proud lion crested upon his helmet. 

He reined in before the stands and lifted his helmet, revealing his youthful, strong features. His jaw was square and chiseled, with a prominent brow ridge and high cheekbones.

To Maekar's surprise, instead of the knight's emerald-green landing on some beautiful young lady, his eyes settled upon his figure.

Before speaking, he bowed courteously.

“May I be granted the honor of bearing the token of your favor, my prince?” His voice was smooth as silk, sweet like caramel, yet deep and mature like that of a regal man.

Maekar's eyes widened, and he glanced around to confirm that indeed he was the one being spoken to. Soon after, he cleared his throat and hastily rose from his seat.

The unexpected compliment sent a jolt through his core, but Maekar knew better than to let his unpreparedness show.

He swiftly scrounged up a black handkerchief embroidered with red diamonds and offered it to the knight. As he leaned over the railing, their fingers brushed in passing. The brief, unexpected contact forced Maekar to withdraw his hand as though it had been struck by lightning.

A red blush, which he promptly rushed to hide, spread across his cheeks.

He returned to his seat, yet this time his body maintained an upright posture, and he kept his eyes open and alert.

The preceding bouts came and went in a flash, with the lances shattering upon impact and leaving behind splintered fragments scattered across the ground. On one occasion, three lances had to be shattered before one of the knights 'was finally unhorsed.

Several knights engaged in combat, but Baelor Targaryen stood out as the most impressive of them all.

His sleek, black armor easily tore through his opponents, the poise with which he carried himself separating him from even the most brilliant of knights.

He was simply breathtaking.

Just admiring him was a delight, Maekar's eyes picking up on the precision in his movements and reveling in it. 

His most formidable opponent was the very knight who had sought Maekar's favor several battles ago. He, who Maekar now recalled was named Ser Damon Lannister, had bested every challenger who came against him with exquisite grace.

His lustrous golden hair only exacerbated his attractiveness, making him a favorite of the audience. As the heir to House Lannister, he also represented the hosts of the tournament, and Maekar would be untruthful if he claimed it didn't impress him, even if just a tiny bit.

It was also clear what his motive was.

The Lannisters had long desired the crown, and with the fragility of human life, there always existed a slim chance that a future kinsman of theirs would one day sit on the Iron Throne. And even if that never came to pass, there were countless benefits to marrying into the royal family in its own right.

Of course, the very core of Maekar knew he would never learn to love the man, but such grace was not granted to most omegas. A life of harmony and stability was the greatest privilege many of them could hope for.

Love would never blossom between them, yet Maekar could endure that if it meant fulfilling his duty and bringing the fortune of House Lannister under royal command by blood.

That was what he told himself, at least. If it was a bitter lie, he didn't know.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of subpar jousts, the most anticipated match of the day arrived. The two favorites of the tournament stood waiting on opposite ends of the field, their lances resting firmly in their palms.

The audience held its breath, thick silence permeating the air as everyone waited for the champion to emerge.

Would the dragon devour the proud lion, or would the maned beast cast down the winged king with its roar?

Before the charge, the knights turned toward the audience for a final show of respect.

Maekar raised his hand, a smile far too wide to be appropriate threatening to slip across his lips as he cheered. Beside him, he heard the smooth voice of Baelor's wife calling to her husband, their baby boy mumbling softly, in his own way cheering for his father.

Maekar's smile fell, an ache he had no right to feel rising in his chest.

The knights lowered their helmets and settled into position, bracing for the clash.

At last, the long-awaited moment arrived. 

The trumpets rang out, and the horses raced forward toward one another.

The blow that followed was nothing short of horrific.

Baelor's lance struck Ser Damon Lannister with such force that it pierced through his armor and drew blood. The impact flung the lion from his saddle onto the grass, where crimson quickly marred the green.

A terse gasp echoed throughout the audience as several men rushed to Ser Damon's side.

Maekar rose from his seat, rushing to the guardrail to watch as the maesters treated the wound right there on the battlefield.

Thanks be to the gods, however, the wound did not appear to be mortal. Though blood soaked his lower belly, Damon Lannister was helped to his feet and was able to stand on his own.

At the sight of him standing upright, the audience erupted into passionate applause, hailing Baelor Targaryen as the undisputed champion of the tourney.

Maekar joined in the applause, a crooked smile lining his lips.

His mind itched with dread.

Baelor was a careful, measured man.

He had never before wounded a knight in a joust, as he was simply too skilled to deliver unintentional harm.

To the untrained eye, it had seemed an unfortunate accident. But Maekar knew his brother too well for such a naive belief.

In the final seconds before collision, Baelor had shifted his lance's course, angling it away from the shield to strike the thinner metal of the Lannister's thigh.

There had been no oversight.

But why?

Why would Baelor Targaryen — the honorable knight, masterful diplomat, and man so revered for his restraint — resort to such an unnecessary act of violence? Was it because he knew he could pass it off as an accident? After all, none would dare question him.

But Baelor had no grounds for animosity toward the Lannisters, nor was his nature corrupted by evil.

Yet Maekar had seen everything.

He bit the inside of his cheek. 

Baelor trotted over to the stands, then lifted his helmet; his deep chestnut brown hair clung damply to his temples as he turned his head. Their eyes met, and suddenly, there was no disputing it; a spark of malice lurked within those dazzling eyes, shrouded from view by a charismatic smile that adorned his lips.

Heat — so abrupt and fierce that it ripped away his equilibrium — flared throughout Maekar's body. His skin was flushed and feverish, his insides searing as though a flame had been ignited within him.

He shifted in his seat, rubbing his thighs together as tension gathered around his lower abdomen.

He cleared his throat but ultimately found himself unable to take his eyes off Baelor for even a second.

His hands rose to his neck and clamped around his pheromone glands.

He looked around, the silhouette of Jena Dondarrion as she smiled down at Baelor enough to make Maekar look away in utter shame.

He was all too aware of the disgrace and judgment that would descend upon him if anyone were to catch even the faintest of whiffs of his illicit desires.

The closing celebration soon came to its end, with Maekar being the first to flee.

At the final announcement, he sprang up from his seat as though it burned, and bearing no regard for his family or the strange looks thrown his way, he headed away at once.

He returned to his quarters, his heart palpitating and skin dripping with sweat. His inner voice roared at him to turn back, meet with Baelor, and—

Gods only know what he would do if he were to see Baelor at that precise moment.

He closed his eyes, rubbing them with the backs of his hands before he flung himself onto the grand bed.

A formal dinner was scheduled for later in the evening, with the Targaryen family and House Lannister in attendance. Or, well, most of the Lannister family.

That meant that he still had a few hours to collect himself. To bury his thoughts, as he always did, to push those vile, filthy emotions out of his mind.

Three consecutive knocks sounded at his door, the meek voice of a servant informing him of the upcoming celebration. Maekar grumbled and threw aside the book he'd been compelling himself to read for the past two hours and stood up.

His sturdy boots and metal fittings clinked with each step as he strode alone. Beside him was no one, as he had dismissed the servant moments before, unable to tolerate a single person near him. Inadvertently, he had condemned himself to total disorientation, yet his innate sense of pride would not allow him to ask for directions.

Tapestries of past family heads dotted the walls, interrupted here and there by tall windows, but Maekar paid them little mind. He wandered the long halls, insouciant about the feast to come. If it were his decision, he would not have attended at all.

As he rounded another corner, his amethyst eyes took in the space, his feet striding forward before… he froze.

The bodies of the pair who stood in the hall came into vivid detail. The lady faced away from him, and a tall man, whose face was half-hidden from view, leaned into her. 

He recognized him by scent before his sight confirmed it. His brother, Baelor, and his lady wife, Jena. Their bodies were pressed close together, Baelor's hands resting on her waist, their faces positioned so closely that it was evident they were locked in a romantic embrace.

Maekar's heart dropped into his stomach.

It felt as though a great chasm had opened beneath him and swallowed him whole. Maekar's whole world fell utterly silent, as if even a pin's drop would clang like an explosion.

His teeth clenched, and his fingernails bit into the soft flesh of his palms. He watched himself from somewhere beyond his own body; his feet moved on instinct, carrying him away from the scene. 

His mind was ripped in two.

One half — the rational, stone-cold part defined by logic and principle — reprimanded him for his meltdown, exhorting him to turn back, greet his brother properly, and make his way to the celebration as though nothing had happened.

The second half — the passionate, irrational side fostered by his omega nature — burned red with rage and petty jealousy.

Have you taken leave of your senses?! Your outburst is scandalous. Does Baelor not have every right to kiss his lady wife, the mother of his child?

The rational side fought nail and tooth.

It was a sound and reasonable argument, yet it stood no chance of defeating the insurgent inferno that was raging within him, the violent tornado of emotion that ripped through Maekar's chest and drowned out all common sense.

The air of denial could no longer encompass his repressed self. It broke, the durable strings of the bag ripping violently as the truth flooded his consciousness all at once. The hatred that had brewed in his heart ever since the dawn when he first heard of his brother's proposal finally spilled over.

He despised her.

Disdained her elegant and curvaceous body, the way Baelor's hand would rest at the dip in her waist when she stood beside him, their son snug in her arms.

Abhorred her alluring, fiery hair, which glistened in the sun, and her perfectly white teeth that she displayed with a genuine, heartwarming smile.

Most of all, he detested how exceedingly kind and joyful she was. Perhaps if she were a brainless, morally corrupt woman, the bitterness buried within his heart wouldn't have festered this much. But each time his eyes fell on her gracious figure and he smelled her honey-scented pheromones swirling beside Baelor, he felt like he was going to hurl. 

Deep down, Maekar felt like it should've been him.

Before he knew it, tears of frustration welled in his eyes but never escaped their cage. He hiccuped, slapping his cheeks to force his composure back. He blinked them away, the pain ripping through his chest so sharply it felt more lethal than any stab wound he had ever endured.

Worst of all, he knew he had no right to those feelings.

Maekar wiped his eyes, violently rubbing their swollen tissues in frustration. And when he was finally able to perceive the world, a sight so horrifying met him that he almost wished to return to the pitch darkness.

His feet had brought him to the opposite side of the castle, to the room Baelor resided in. Maekar whipped his head around. No servants lurked in the corridor, no watchful eyes to witness his reckless, frankly insane act.

His mind made the decision after a heartbeat. It was pure impulse that pushed him to grasp the handle and push the door open.

The fragrance of sandalwood rushed from the room, impinging on Maekar's senses.

It was so potent and commanding it brought a cough from his chest, the intensity puncturing through his haze of sorrow and jolting him back to himself.

Maekar licked his lips, the heavy scent seducing him deeper inside.

He glanced over his shoulder once more, paranoia driving him, turning every faint crackle of candlelight into the clang of approaching footsteps.

The chamber was large, akin to his but far more pleasant, with a grand bed to the right, hugging the wall. Red curtains, trimmed with deep orange-yellow tassels, largely covered the windows.

A writing desk faced the room adjacent to the window, light sweeping over its glossy surface. To the left of the desk lay a tall, thick, and dark brown bookshelf, each row filled with heavy books.

Maekar stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him and blocking it with his body. The sense of having crossed a deeply forbidden line, having trespassed into a space never meant to be contaminated by his presence, made him feel lightheaded. He drew in a slow breath, his omega instincts responding frustratingly strongly to the trace of alpha pheromones in the air.

His gaze drifted to the right, landing on the stand where Baelor's gold coat hung. He took a hesitant half step forward, reaching out to brush the fabric with his fingers before lifting them to his nose.

Warmth — the exact same warmth he had felt when his eyes met Baelor's hours prior — spilled over his insides, his lower abdomen twisting and trembling with pleasant shame.

He moved to stand beside the bed, the sheets pristine and undisturbed. At the sight, the weight pressing on Maekar's heart eased, if only a little.

However small, it was proof that Baelor and his wife had not shared any more intimate contact. He knew the thought was foolish, irrational at best, yet it consoled him all the same.

Slowly, he lowered himself onto the mattress. The sheets, though freshly laundered and untouched, had already collected Baelor's scent, ensnaring the rich fragrance deep within the fibers, emitting the alpha's presence.

What overtook him at that moment, Maekar could never ably explain, but the longing to feel Baelor, to touch his firm, muscular body, consumed him. 

He leaned down, pressing his full weight into the mattress, wedging his nose and mouth into the sheets, and breathing in the intoxicating scent.

The material enveloped his face, the ardent pheromones prompting Maekar to sink even deeper into the bedding.

His nails dug into the sheets, heat rushing through his veins at the thought of Baelor. He could not stop himself as he pressed his mouth to the fabric, his tongue tracing slow, worshipful paths across the cloth. It was as if he were a captive in a trance.

Heat flew to his cunt, his hole twitching in neediness. 

In his haze, he thought of those graceful yet oddly dissimilar eyes that had gazed right at him after he had injured the man who dared to compete for his attention.

Maekar inhaled shakily, moving his hand down, slipping it beneath the fabric of his pants, and reaching for his wet, leaking pussy. 

His fingers pressed into his clit, the contact sending electric ripples around his limbs. He massaged the clit, folding into himself, the fantasies increasingly darker and filthier.

He imagined himself as the one who stood beside Baelor, his mind replacing the image of a tall, female figure with his own. His fingers reached for his slit, delving inside, while he imagined Baelor splitting him open.

His wet, sensitive cunt pleaded for the attention of the alpha he could not possess. Maekar bit into the sheets, his filthy whimpers muffled by the bedding.

The memory of disgust and bitterness he had felt during their wedding, the sharp ache that had pierced his heart as they sealed their vows with a kiss, returned to him.

Baelor had assured him he did not fancy the girl, that for the good of the realm it had to be done, but—

But what?

On their wedding night, Maekar had drunk himself into a heavy sleep, hidden away in the darkest corners of the castle so no one would witness his resentment. He assured himself he was content to bury those feelings; after all, he had always known Baelor would never return his affection. 

The touches, the glances — he had always rationalized them as nothing more than the show of concern of an older alpha brother, despite deep down having known better.

But after what had happened today, there was no room left for excuses. 

He saw it clearly now; even an idiot would have seen through it.

It was possessiveness that drove Baelor.

Maekar moaned into the sheets; the sweet noises easily and shamelessly oozed out of him as tightness mounted around his leaking pussy. 

Yet even absorbed in the reverie of his desires, the instincts honed through years of battlefield training jolted him from his thoughts at the sound of rapid footsteps approaching.

Instantly, Maekar snapped back to himself, pulled his fingers away from his cunt, and turned to sit on the bed, just as the doors flew wide open.

He looked up to see a towering silhouette filling the doorway. The worst — and yet, the best — person it could be appeared before him: the center of his vile fantasies, Baelor.

His eyes were sharp, far darker than Maekar had ever seen them, with a strangely animalistic gleam on the inside. The warmth and goodness they usually held had vanished, leaving only an unfamiliar gaze.

A sheen of sweat ran down his brow, and for the briefest moment, Maekar thought he could see the faint tremor of anxiety in the man.

Maekar bit the inside of his cheek, already aware that any attempt to explain himself would be futile; the scent alone was enough to condemn him without doubt.

There was a certain comfort in that.

It meant no more lies could be held between them.

“Baelor—” He began to say but was cut off as the alpha spoke over him.

“You shouldn't be here.” Baelor said, his nose twitching as he took in the smell of an aroused omega.

Maekar crossed his legs, the wetness drifting around his pants. “… Is it forbidden to visit my own brother's quarters?” He answered in a dismissive, arrogant tone, the only defense left.

“Both of us know this is not what you are doing.” Baelor replied, but diverging from his exceptionally cautious tone, he stepped inside and shut the door. “The dinner is set to begin in less than ten minutes.” He pressed on, his gaze burning into Maekar.

“I'm afraid I'm in no condition to attend the celebration.” Maekar went on, his breathing strained and rapid, the presence of Baelor only worsening his restlessness.

Slowly, apprehensively, Baelor began to move. He kept a noticeable, almost absurdly wide distance between them, his eyes never leaving Maekar's figure.

It was as though he were prey trapped in an enclosure with a wild animal.

He circled the room, eventually reaching the veiled window, where he grasped the handle and turned it. The window swung open, and a sharp breeze rushed in, stirring the heavy air and diluting the alpha's pheromones into a fragrance more neutral, empty.

Maekar opened his mouth to argue, but he held his tongue. With a weak sigh, he tapped his fingers against the bed, irritation at the unnatural stillness perturbing him.

How dare he? He questioned. Devouring me with his eyes in public, yet when I stand in his chambers — wet and willing — he does nothing but make excuses and complain?

Maekar's attention snapped back to the man as he cleared his throat.

“You ought to return to your chambers,” Baelor stated, his figure partially turned away, remaining by the open window. “I'll escort you—” he began to say, but a loud, exasperated sigh interrupted him.

“Why?” Maekar demanded with a scoff. “Am I enticing you?”

Baelor's lips thinned into a straight line, his thick brows drawing together as his gaze flickered between the open window and Maekar. A tense beat of silence passed by, neither of them rushing to speak up.

As he gazed up at Baelor, his amethyst eyes picking up on the faintest of details, he felt certain his words had struck a nerve in Baelor that the other refused to acknowledge.

Baelor's fingers fidgeted with the rings he bore, an old habit of his worsened by the tense silence. Maekar's eyes settled there, noting how often his thumb tugged at the ruby wedding ring that sealed his royal marriage.

Maekar wet his lips, his insides tingling with eagerness. Letting go of any shame, he put his arms behind him and lowered himself onto the bed. 

“You should go.” Baelor repeated his demand, his tone more urgent.

“Do you want me to go?”

Baelor's movements stilled entirely, coming to a halt. His eyes sharpened, calculating.

“You were rather eager to speak with me earlier,” Maekar continued, craning his neck to stare Baelor down. “I do not take you for a hypocrite, brother, so pray tell — what was your purpose in such a violent attack upon the Lannister lad?”

“We will speak of it in due time.” Baelor turned to face him fully now, his jaw locked tight, veins bulging softly at his temple. “Our visit here is strictly political—”

“Oh, do not fucking patronize me, brother.” Maekar's voice turned into a rough grunt as he rolled his eyes. “If that were the case, you would have been ecstatic at Ser Damon's earlier display of affection toward me. Instead, you buried the tip of your lance in his stomach.”

He could feel patience slipping through his fingers like sand.

“I am thankful you do not take me for a hypocrite,” Baelor replied thoughtfully. “And I extend you the same courtesy. You are no fool, Maekar, which is why I choose to see your… conduct as simple crudeness rather than ignorance.”

He cleared his throat, his eyes drifting across the room as he evaluated his words. “You and I hold our house in the highest regard; we fought for it, after all. Our family nearly faced extinction. That is precisely why you should understand that any… Frivolous feelings cannot be indulged. The realm is unstable. It requires a steady, unyielding hand, and I cannot allow…”

“Then why not allow me to wed Ser Daemon Lannister?” Maekar repeated the question, watching as Baelor's composure crumbled at his words. 

His face, which had maintained the illusion of neutrality so effectively, hardened into a deep, acrimonious frown. His lips opened and then closed, squirming as though he had to force the words back down his throat. 

“I want you to be truthful with me, Baelor,” Maekar continued, his voice turning more delicate, pleading; a behavior so unlike himself, Maekar found himself taken aback by his very tone.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up, crossing the distance between them until he stood inches ahead of Baelor.

This time, however, Alpha did not return his gaze, but instead, he peered downward, fiddling with his rings.

Maekar was barely able to discern the whispered words. “I don't wish to dishonor you.” 

“Dishonor me?” Maekar furrowed his brows. “Why, solely because I was born an omega, I can't fuck whomever I want?” There it was, the unspoken truth voiced without shame after years of longing.

Baelor exhaled shakily, “I have a duty to the realm.” He strained to appear stern, but his pheromones reflected his true feelings. 

“A duty not to fuck me?”

“A duty to remain faithful. And not cast shame upon my own brother.” Baelor corrected him, his tone harsh and unyielding.

Maekar bit down on his lower lip, his body quivering in both humiliation and anguish. His inner omega cried out at the rejection, unable to suppress the pain of a wounded heart. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes, muddling his vision.

Baelor's expression softened at seeing Maekar's reaction, and he lifted his hand, reaching to offer comfort, but Maekar struck it away.

“Fine.” He hastily brushed away the tears before they could fall. “But you do not ever get the right to interfere with my life again. If you will not have me, then you do not get to look at me with those eyes nor touch me as though it is anything but brotherly.” His voice faltered despite his effort to remain collected.

He could feel himself breaking apart.

Maekar turned abruptly, heading straight for the door.

He heard Baelor's hurried footsteps following behind him, and all he could feel was bitter embarrassment.

“Where are you going?” The steel in Baelor's tone was sapped by concern.

But Maekar did not look back.

“If you will not choose me, then I shall find someone who will.”

He reached the door, his hand tightened around the handle, and he threw it open. His foot took another step forward, ready to leave it all behind and shut the door on his and Baelor's relationship. 

But, just as he was to achieve it, the door slammed shut in front of him, preventing his escape. 

Maekar let out a short, startled gasp. He tried to take a step back, but his exit was once again cut off, this time by Baelor's sturdy body. He could feel it draped over his back, a broad chest pressing against him.

His gaze drifted upward and found Baelor's hand placed above his head, his fingernails digging into the rough layer of wood.

A feather-light breath ghosted over the nape of Maekar's neck. And one more sensation suddenly made itself known to him: the firmness of Baelor's bulge snugging into his lower back.

Confusion flooded his mind, but more importantly, an even stronger surge of excitement followed.

“Must you mock me?” Baelor's raspy voice flew in from behind him, dropping to a chilling murmur. “You have no idea of the suffering I have endured for all these years. Even the thought of another's hand upon your skin is an unimaginable torment, yet you dare to stand before me and proclaim you'll find another?”

Maekar knew such vulgar words should insult him, that the sane response would be to shout and argue with Baelor, yet his body betrayed him utterly. His inner omega salivated over the possessive confession, his pussy twitching in eagerness.

“You belong to me, yet I can't possess you.” He felt Baelor press his lips to his neck, his fingertips drifting along his shoulder. “I guarantee that if it were my choice, I would have had you the very night you presented.” Maekar froze as jagged teeth brushed over his skin. “I would've painted your womb with my seed and marked your flesh as my own.”

It was as though the long years of rigorous education had all led to this single instant. Every word Baelor spoke was a perfectly woven trap, a sweet, sirenic song against which Maekar found himself completely defenseless.

The thick fragrance that arose behind him now constituted a heavy, lustful rush of passion. The pheromones stripped Maekar of conscience, with both his mind and body succumbing to the alpha.

“Baelor…” Maekar gasped for air.

He struggled to pry the words from his throat. As he strained to resist the heat and weakness flooding his body, Baelor's rigid hands seized his shoulders and spun him around, forcing Maekar to face him.

“You insist I have no feelings for you, but precisely why is it you think you're still devoid of a mate?” He took a step forward, pinning Maekar to the door.

Maekar's entire body shivered, the heat radiating from his abdomen nearly causing him to disregard the shameful admission. Yet, his body's efforts proved insufficient to quell the anger, as the implication of the admission stripped the warmth from his bones.

“If that is so, then it only exposes you as a cruel man! You wish to condemn me to a life of loneliness? You won't touch me, yet you won't let anyone else either!” Maekar shouted, baring his teeth despite his omega's horror.

Baelor hesitated at his words; his hand grasped his cheeks, his breathing was frail, and his eyes were heavy with sadness and desperation. “I can't,” he whispered. “I've been holding myself back, for I don't know if I'll be able to stop once I begin.”

Maekar huffed. “I don't want you to hold back.” His hands clasped Baelor's arm as he threw himself at the man. “Take me. Dishonor me, so no other man can have me.”

“You—” Baelor blinked, astonished. Then, completely unexpectedly, he glanced downward and cursed under his breath. He took a step back, his eyes bulging wide open, but crucially, considering.

“What are you doing to me…?” he whispered, his voice defeated, mortified.

It was the last thing he said before he reclaimed his control over Maekar, shoving him firmly across the room before throwing him onto the bed.

Maekar let out a gasp of shock as his chest hit the soft mattress, which groaned under him. For a heartbeat, he lay there, stunned. That was a side of his brother he had glimpsed only on the battlefield. 

His wet cunt throbbed, his instincts deeply aware of the sole cure for his affliction. 

“Very well. What kind of cruel man would dare to refuse you?” Baelor murmured from behind him, though there remained hesitancy in his voice.

The hollowness that now permeated him was more severe than any sensation he had ever known. Every fiber of his body ached with hunger for Baelor, for his thick cock to smash into his insides and at long last fill the void left in his heart.

It wasn't long before Maekar's freedom was forfeited once more, Baelor's body settling behind him, effortlessly pinning both of his wrists in a single hand. The mattress dipped under their combined weight, Maekar's head pushed into the sheets, his inner omega complaining at the dull view.

He exhaled sharply as Baelor practically tore his pants from him, his wet cunt twitching as the cold air drifted across it. He moaned into the sheets, biting into the pristine white.

Baelor's hold over him grew firmer, his fingers digging into his skin with such ferocity he was certain it would leave bruising. His movements were inconsistent, barely controlled, as if they were only the facade of a normal man, behind which lurked the ugly truth of insatiable desire.

Baelor's fingers slid over his cunt, the delicate ends lightly dipping into his hole, smearing them with fluids. 

His thumb traced the length of Maekar's pussy before it stopped and eased into his clit, enveloping its entirety. Maekar's legs trembled from the surreal sensation of Baelor reaching inside him, something he had only ever dreamed of and never thought could become reality.

As his thumb massaged Maekar's throbbing clit, his middle and index fingers slipped inside with ease, the inner walls Maekar had worked open easily accommodating for his size.

“Have you thought of me while you fingered yourself?” Baelor asked, his voice soft-spoken with a hint of amusement sneaking in.

Maekar shuddered at the touch, groaning into the sheets.

He refused to elaborate.

“Why silence yourself now? I thought you wanted everyone to know you're mine.” Baelor pressed, his fingers coiling inside his hole.

Maekar's slick coated the sheets beneath them, flowing out of his cunt in preparation for Baelor's knot.

“This won't do,” he heard Baelor murmur behind him. Then, once again — for the third time that evening — his body was handled as though he were a doll, turned at Baelor's will until he faced him. “I want to see you.”

“You do realize I can pick you up too?” Maekar grumbled, and if it weren't for the haze of incoming heat, his face would surely be painted by a sour frown. 

Maekar was forced into silence as Baelor leaned in, his tender, fervent lips meeting his own. Maekar's fingers grasped the back of Baelor's head and tugged at the delicate roots to deepen the embrace. 

His tongue slipped into Baelor's mouth, gliding along his inner cheek and tasting the alpha so shamelessly that he almost felt like some cheap whore. His hands toured the muscular frame of his brother, sliding down his neck, dipping into the crevices of his flesh, and dragging his fingernails across it to leave a possessive mark behind.

He crept beneath Baelor's robes and pulled them up, feeling the hard muscles beneath his skin.

They fumbled with the unnecessary clothing, resulting in a mess of tangled limbs, as neither wished to break the embrace for even a second. When they finally pulled apart, a thin string of saliva still connected them as they gasped for air.

Maekar peered down, the alpha's inflated knot propped against his entrance, desperate to enter. The tip of Baelor's long, thick cock slid over his pussy and reached his clit, eliciting a raspy moan from his throat. 

“Brother…” Baelor whispered, an expression of trepidation slowly morphing onto his features.

“Baelor, if you won't fuck me, I'm going after the Lannister.” Maekar barked in frustration.

There existed no reality in which Baelor would leave him at that moment. Damned be his moral dilemmas, and damned be the rules of this world. He needed Baelor to knot deep inside him.

A short hum of agreement followed as Baelor guided his cock into Maekar's entrance. Maekar drew in a sharp breath, his muscles tensing as his stomach fluttered with excitement.

“Relax…” Baelor cooed, his hand stroking Maekar's thigh.

Gradually, Baelor's cock disappeared inside his wetness, its sheer girth pushing aside his inner walls and making him feel as if he were being split apart. 

Their pheromones tangled together in a reckless, dishonorable dance of passion.

The base of Baelor's cock collided with his flesh, the shaft embedded deep inside him, its tip striking Maekar's cervix.

A part of him felt immense relief. After all, it had not been some hideous, rancid nobleman who had taken his innocence, but the man he had adored and lusted after since his earliest days, the only person who could ever truly satisfy him.

Somehow, impossibly, that secret wish had become reality in the most twisted of ways.

He had become worthless, no longer pure, and that was what delighted him most of all: to be ruined, claimed by his brother.

He met the crystalline eyes of his brother as a deep moan flowed out of his chest. Even in his most depraved of fantasies, such a sight was at most a muddy illusion, and yet there was tangible, breathing flesh before him, a heartbeat felt in Baelor's pulsating cock, which was twitching in satisfaction amid the moist embrace.

Baelor adjusted his hold over Maekar, grabbing his thighs before pulling back and reentering him with a wet thrust. His lips found Maekar's in yet another messy, hectic kiss.

As he lay under the alpha he had longed for all these years, Maekar felt almost awkward. Heat pooled across his chest, and his muscles coiled and uncoiled with every breath taken. Pheromones swirled around him — an intoxicating, erotic obsession that Baelor could no longer conceal behind even the thinnest veil of indifference.

Baelor's hips hit his inner thighs as he moved, keeping his grip on Maekar's thighs and spreading them wide enough to not let a single detail slip. 

Maekar's legs jerked with each thrust, the wet, splashing sounds filling the chamber, accompanied by their sharp breaths and raspy moans.

With each stroke of Baelor's cock ramming through his insides, the pressure bubbling up in his clit grew ever more pervasive. Yet, when he reached for it, Baelor's hand moved to push it away. Baelor met his eyes as he thrust deep inside his cunt, his left hand descending to Maekar's belly and putting pressure on the area.

“Fuck—” Maekar shouted, the walls of his compressed hole so tight that Baelor's knot pressed in all the right places.

While he kept his other fingers over his belly, Baelor lowered his thumb to rub his clit as his thick cock continued to ravage Maekar's insides. 

How could he have waited this long? He questioned. Pleasure made his eyes twinkle with stars, his legs trembling beneath him.

“It's okay; you're doing so well.” Baelor praised from above, his words punctuated by sharp breaths. 

Baelor felt closer than ever before, their affection overwhelming in a way he had craved for years; he never wanted it to stop.

Slick coated his thighs, Baelor's cock dripping wet from his juices.

Baelor threw Maekar's legs over his shoulders, slamming even deeper inside him, reaching spots Maekar hadn't even realized were possible to penetrate.

He shifted their positions, forcing Maekar deeper onto his back before settling between his thighs and plunging ever deeper inside him. Maekar was folded into himself, his arms reaching to dig into the pliable skin of Baelor's wide back, his hole shivering as it was stretched open from the new angle. 

“Baelor—” he whimpered, the man's name tasting sweet on his tongue.

Baelor's eyes were closed, sweat dripping down his forehead, his brows drawn into a deep furrow.

A devious thought crept into his mind, an envious, rancid sort of thought. The realization that he was not the only one. That Baelor's wife, Jena, had witnessed this very sight dozens of times before — perhaps hundreds. 

She had seen Baelor's delicious brown skin slick with sweat, the dark, drunken haze clouding his eyes as he lost himself in the pleasure of a wet cunt.

A dark, envious possessiveness guided Maekar's actions as he reached for Baelor's neck and sank his teeth into it.

Baelor's eyes flashed wide open, animalistic desire erupting within them. He pushed forward instinctively, his lower abdomen pressing into Maekar's clit as he mimicked the action by biting into Maekar's chest, missing the scent gland by mere inches.

His saliva spurted forth from his mouth, the thrusts becoming increasingly insistent, ferocious, and discordant, as if he were unable to bear the idea of not knotting Maekar at this very moment and spilling his seed inside him. 

He had reached a breaking point, it seemed.

“Mine,” he mumbled into Maekar's ear. “You're mine.” Baelor repeated the declaration of his ownership, the sentence continuing with each thrust, his mind and body crushed against Maekar's soaked pussy. “No one can satisfy you like I can.”

A loud knock reverberated inside the room, dread stealing the last remnants of air from their lungs. For a brief instant, they froze completely, akin to deer standing before the royal huntsmen.

Baelor was the first to respond; his pupils narrowed, his fangs extended, and his instincts sharpened as he moved to defend his partner. Yet instead of an attack, he shut his eyes and drew three deep, steady breaths.

His posture straightened, his hand clasping over Maekar's mouth as his head whipped toward the door. His cock deeply nested within Maekar's scorching cunt.

“Prince Baelor?” an unknown voice called from behind the door, a youthful, girlish sound — a maid, no doubt. “Lord Lannister has sent for you. The feast is about to begin. Is there an issue?”

Baelor's brows furrowed deeply.

“No, there are no issues, simply a minor inconvenience I am forced to deal with.” He spoke those words in a measured, calm tone, acting as if his cock weren't pulsating deep inside his own brother.

“I will be with you shortly. Please do not be concerned for me.”

Maekar's brows furrowed deeply. An inconvenience? Who does he think he is?!

“Are you certain, Your Grace? If there is anything I can assist you with, I would be—” The maid continued, but Maekar had had enough.

He raised his hip, and with a hard shove of his heel that he anchored against the bed frame, he pushed himself away from Baelor's cock, eliciting a thin whimper-hiss from the man towering over him.

His cock slammed back into him as Baelor surged forward, the full span of his length traversing his insides and striking Maekar's cervix. He pinned Maekar to the bed, a look of fervent hunger and frustration crossing his features.

Don't. His face commanded.

“Your Grace!?” the maid hollered, and the handle began to rattle.

“I am fine!” Baelor raised his voice enough to scare her away from further attempts. “Excuse me, I simply… leave at once,” he instructed, his voice deep and commanding, impossible to contend with.

Hurried footsteps followed as the girl didn't hesitate to carry out the royal command. 

“You are unbelievable…” Baelor hissed as he glared disapprovingly at Maekar, his hand clasped over the latter's mouth.

Maekar laughed meanly and, in the same breath, stuck out his tongue to coat Baelor's palm in saliva.

The grace he had been unknowingly granted dissipated before his very eyes as Baelor's cock shoved inside him. His hair was pulled backward, his back arching involuntarily as the mercilessly deep thrusts tore him apart.

Maekar clenched his teeth, the motion so intense that all he wanted was to sob and scream Baelor's name. Streaks of saliva ran from his mouth, his mind too overwhelmed by ecstasy to manage even the simplest functions.

At last, he could think of nothing; even the smallest self-deprecating thought was impossible to form, his mind wholly consumed by the sensation.

The wet slaps of Baelor's flesh colliding against his thighs were all that remained.

He knew it could have lasted only a few minutes, yet in the throes of pleasure, it felt as if they had been trapped in that moment for eternity.

Baelor loomed over him, his tongue tracing a path from Maekar's jaw to his lips before plunging deep inside him, consuming him completely. It was too much; his muscles seized, and sparkles flashed in his vision, his mind broken in two.

His body shook as he let out a prolonged moan muffled by Baelor's mouth. It took only a couple more thrusts until Maekar felt heat burst into his insides, Baelor's seed spilling inside him and coating his fertile cunt.

Baelor fell on top of him, their heaving bodies moving in rhythm, heartbeats merging into one. For a moment, nothing was real, and everything was. All that mattered was the man above him. 

His hand rose to trace along Baelor's back, his expression softening into a gentle, almost kitten-like tenderness. 

Baelor tilted his head to look at him, pressing tired kisses into his pale skin. His hands moved to Maekar's snow-colored hair, stroking it in slow, unhurried circles.

For a moment, everything was peaceful as the pair lay together after the frenzy of orgasm, years of bottled-up longing exploding into this reckless embrace.

Yet sooner than he expected, the scorn of reality sank in. As he lay there with Baelor pressed against his chest, everything he had ever wanted seemed within reach, and still it could not stay. 

His eyes stared at the ceiling, hands clutching Baelor's flesh, desperate to hold onto what he knew would vanish within minutes.

Would the kingdom fall for their treasonous act? What of Baelor's marriage?

So, what now? He almost asked but stopped himself at the last second. Ultimately, as he then realized, it was irrelevant — as long as Baelor stayed with him.

Yes, it didn't matter. Baelor was his, just as he was Baelor's, no matter the worthless marriage contract.

…

And yet the unease persisted.