Chapter Text
“Daeron has been wronged as well. Ser Duncan must pay for each one of his crimes against us. Or would we leave a matter of Targaryen honour in doubt?”
“Do not speak to me of honour, boy,” Prince Maekar snaps at Aerion, fury written in every line of his face. “This is fucking nonsense.”
“Enough,” Prince Baelor interrupts them. He turns to his brother, and whatever it is he tells him, Prince Maekar only responds with a sharp nod. Then he stands, grabs his son by the collar, and drags him from the room. Dunk does not turn to watch them go, but he can’t help but hear Maekar begin to berate the boy.
“My Lords,” Baelor says, once his brother’s shouting has faded. “I regret to take up any more of your evening than I must with this affair, but I must speak with Ser Duncan in private.”
Lord Ashford seems relieved to escape, but Lord Tyrell glowers at Dunk as he leaves the room. I want this no more than you, my Lord, Dunk wants to tell him, for all the good it would do.
“What does it mean, a trial of seven?” Dunk asks once the last of the servants has fled, the doors closing behind them with a dull thud. “Must I fight seven men?”
Baelor sighs. “I am afraid not,” he says, quieter now it’s just the two of them in the room. “For a trial of seven, the accused and the accuser must each find six other champions to fight alongside them. Seven against seven, like the Andals of old.”
Dunk feels like he had watching the jousting that first night, fear ringing in his ears. His heart is beating fast and hard enough to burst right out of his chest, thudding through bone and muscle and skin.
Big and stupid, Lord Ashford’s daughter had called him, and he certainly feels it now. Big and stupid, thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs.
The other brother — Daeron — hasn’t even bothered to show up for this trial, for all that it was his lie that has sealed Dunk’s fate. Dunk can barely recall the man’s face. “But I have no one else,” he says without thinking, and his voice sounds stricken, pained.
“And if you are unable to find six knights to take up your claim, you will be declared guilty of the crimes you are accused of,” Baelor says, rising to his feet. For the first time, he looks tired. “My brother has the right of it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “This is fucking nonsense.”
All this, Dunk thinks, somewhat hysterically, for a punch and a kick. If Aerion had grown up in Flea Bottom, he’d have been dealt worse than that on a daily basis. Then again, if Aerion had grown up in Flea Bottom, then he wouldn’t be a Prince at all, he’d be just Aerion, and he wouldn’t give a damn what some poor mummers did to a dragon puppet, beyond the spectacle of the thing. Like as not he’d still be an evil bastard, but he wouldn’t have the weight of a name behind him, and that would make all the difference in the world.
“It seems now it is my turn to beg your forgiveness, Ser,” Baelor tells him. “I gave you bad counsel, and for that,” he shakes his head a little, closing his eyes. “I am truly sorry.”
“What should I do?” Dunk manages, after a couple of deep breaths that aren’t nearly as calming as he hoped they would be. Baelor’s face may be controlled, but his scent is not — Dunk can smell the effect of stress on him from across the room. Otherwise, it’s unlikely he would be able to discern even a hint of the alpha’s personal scent, beneath that of his house. Woodsmoke and Iron, like all those of his blood. In retrospect, Dunk is amazed that he didn’t link the scent of his new squire to the princes sooner, especially since the boy is still young enough that he doesn’t have a personal scent yet. Still, Baelor’s version of his family’s scent somehow sweeter than that of his brother, and his nephews.
Baelor pauses for a beat, just long enough for Dunk to regret saying anything at all, before asking: “Is there truly no one else you might call on to fight alongside you?”
Dunk resists the urge to curse, but his expression must make his answer plain. Baelor’s face darkens, and he reaches for a goblet of wine, left undrunk on the table. For a moment, Dunk thinks that he means to drink, but then Baelor beckons him closer. When Dunk does so, Baelor presses the goblet into his hand. “Drink this,” he says kindly.
Dunk blinks. “Beg pardon, your Grace, but I don’t think getting drunk will help matters.”
This startles a brief laugh from Baelor, and for a moment that’s the only thought in Dunk’s head. I did that. I made Baelor Breakspear smile. The old man might have broken lances against him, but I’ve made him laugh. Even though there’s still the table between them, he seems very close, suddenly. Dunk’s arm is long enough that he could reach out and touch him, if he chose. Would they punish him for that, too? They can’t kill me twice.
“Likely not,” Baelor shakes his head. “Come closer to the fire, Ser. I assume hedge knights feel the cold like regular men?”
All that Dunk can think to say is the truth: “I dare say we do, your Grace.” He is cold. For all that spring supposedly began several months past, and the days are now warm enough, the nights are still bitterly cold without the comfort of a fire. Yet it is not the kind of thing that highborn generally think of, as least not as it relates to men like Dunk. He can count on one hand the number of lesser lords who would have made such an offer. As he moves to take the seat at Baelor’s left hand, the one vacated by Maekar only moments earlier, Dunk can feel himself flushing. It’s likely too much to hope for that the candlelight will preserve his dignity in that regard. “Thank you,” he manages to say.
“A seat by the fireside is the very least I can offer,” Baelor tells him, that smile Dunk had won fading like mist in the morning. He doesn’t look away though, not immediately, just looks at Dunk.
Lots of men stare at him. Lots of women, too, and children. No gaze has ever made him feel like Baelor’s does.
“There hasn’t been a trial of the seven fought in a hundred years,” Baelor says eventually.
“Why not?”
Baelor’s expression shifts a little, and Dunk gets the distinct impression that he’s surprised him somehow. “The last fought ended with the deaths of all but one of the participants,” he says, then shrugs. “And he was said to have never truly recovered from his injuries.”
Dunk feels his eyes widen. “Then why would Prince Aerion —”
“Likely because that man was Maegor the Cruel,” Baelor interrupts mildly. “He’s always been somewhat of an obsession for my nephew.” He frowns a little, then looks down at his hands, as if seeing them for the first time. “I love my brother,” he says in a hush. “And he loves his children. I did not come here to watch any of them die.”
There is nothing that Dunk can say in response to that, nothing at all, so he just sits there, silent and stupid. Which is, he supposes, a response in itself. Baelor certainly seems to take it as one. “You will forgive my bluntness, Ser,” he says, rising to his feet, an odd note in his voice that Dunk hasn’t heard before. “But am I right in thinking that you are not yet married?” Then, clearly remembering he’s only speaking to a hedge knight, he adds: “Or mated?”
“Gods, no,” Dunk could almost laugh at the thought. Instead, he turns to look into the fire. “Who would be mad or fool enough to want to tie themselves to a hedge knight like me? I suppose that’s one small mercy. Won’t be anyone left behind to grieve me when I die tomorrow.”
“That,” Baelor says, and his voice sounds strange, “is not what I meant.”
Oranges, Dunk realises. That’s Baelor’s scent, or the core of it. The last time Dunk had smelled an orange was years ago, in the Red Mountains with Ser Arlan. One of the landed knights had brought along a whole barrel and passed them out among the squires. No fruit had ever tasted so sweet. There’s a hint of spice there too, a note of comforting warmth underlying it. Dunk takes another breath without thinking. He can’t remember the last time he was close enough to scent someone like this, other than Ser Arlan, and the old man’s scent was always a faint one anyway.
“I… don’t understand,” Dunk says slowly, looking up at him.
“You laid hands on Aerion,” Baelor’s eyes are bright, and he seems to be choosing his words very carefully. “That much we cannot deny, and no matter how just the cause, that will be enough for the court to punish you harshly. If you remain as you are.”
“Well,” Dunk snorts. “I’m not like to become otherwise overnight.”
“You could.” Baelor says. “If you were to join the royal house, it would become a family matter, beyond the jurisdiction of the court. If you were to wed me —”
Dunk gasps. He’s not hearing this right. He can’t be. “You?”
Baelor hasn’t moved, is standing very still and very pale, but he speaks with certainty when he says, “My brother Maekar would not, nor would your two accusers. Aegon is too young, and my son Valarr is already wed.”
“But — your Grace, I could not,” Dunk splutters. “I am…” An alpha, he doesn’t say, since his scent must make that plain. “And you are —”
“Come, Ser,” Baelor cuts in, clearly amused in spite of himself. “You must have heard the stories. It is true that I was born an Alpha, but I need not remain as such.”
Of course, Dunk has heard the stories of the Targaryens. There can’t be a child in all the seven kingdoms who hasn’t been told stories about how they not only wed brother to sister, but do so in spite of how they present. For a dragon is neither one thing nor the other, as the saying goes, and neither are their masters. That’s what Ser Arlan had told him once, when Dunk had asked how it was that Daena the Defiant had both married her two omega brothers, and a decade later carried and birthed Daemon Blackfyre. For the dragonlords, even their very nature could be changed, though none could quite understand how. Even if they’d presented as either an alpha or an omega, everyone knew they could one day announce themselves the reverse, and prove it by birthing or siring children. Rafe had always said it had something to do with fucking. They ain’t like us. They just fuck each other, she’d said, and whichever one of ‘em finishes inside the other sires the babe.
But that surely can’t be what Baelor means. It’s not possible. Dunk must be hearing wrong, because he can’t be saying that. Not when he’s the Prince of Dragonstone, the Hand of the King, the Heir to the Iron Throne, and Dunk is… well, compared to all of that, he’s nothing at all. Barely worth mentioning. A hedge knight with no name, no friends, nothing at all to offer a mate, much less a husband.
“No, it’s not that,” Dunk says hurriedly, even though he knows he should stop talking, he should really truly stop, think, consider the words that are coming out of his mouth because once they’ve been said he can’t take them back. And if he says the wrong thing, then Baelor will think ill of him.
Dunk doesn’t want Baelor to think ill of him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, wretchedly, and he says it again so Baelor will know he means it, “I’m sorry, your Grace. Truly I do not mean to offend, I just…” he struggles for the right words, stumbling, blushing, his heart racing as fast as a warhorse in his chest. “I am only a hedge knight.”
“Believe me, I am well aware of your station, Ser,” Baelor says. “I make the offer regardless.”
“Why?” Dunk asks, because he can’t think of anything else to say, beyond I can’t marry you, I can’t mate with you, because I am a hedge knight and you are a prince. “You barely know me.”
“A true knight protects the innocent, however he can,” Baelor says, before taking a step towards Dunk, then another. This close, he has to look up to catch Dunk’s eyes. This close, Dunk can’t look away.
“I know that you are a man of honour,” Baelor says. “A good man.” Then he lifts his hand, and before Dunk knows what’s happening, Baelor’s palm is on his cheek. “I have need of good men, Ser Duncan,” Baelor tells him. “I should not like to lose one, when I have the power to prevent it.”
Once he remembers how to breathe, Dunk asks weakly, “Might people not object?” He can’t imagine himself being anyone’s idea of a fitting consort for the future king.
Baelor favours him with another half-smile, and nods. “Doubtless they will,” he says. “But my father swore to me, after I lost my wife, that my next marriage would be to one whom I chose for myself.”
“He probably didn’t have someone like me in mind,” Dunk points out.
“Let that be my concern,” Baelor dismisses. His hand is warm on Dunk’s face, and he is beautiful. Dunk had not allowed himself to notice that before now, but Baelor’s hand on his face feels like permission to have such thoughts.
“But such a sacrifice…” Dunk whispers. “Your Grace, would you not rather marry for —”
“For love?” Baelor finishes, then shakes his head. “My lady wife, Jena, came to Kings Landing only a month before our wedding. In that time, I must have spent less than a day alone with her.” He sighs, and Dunk forces himself not to press his cheek against Baelor’s palm. “I grew to love her dearly, and mourn her passing, but I was raised with the knowledge that I would marry for advantage, and I did not protest it. I married for love of my family, and the realm. That is the way of the world. Please, do not think that I make such a great sacrifice by offering you my hand,” Baelor tells him, letting his hand fall from Dunk’s cheek. “On the contrary, I fear that the greater sacrifice would be yours, if you chose to accept.
Dunk stares at Baelor for far longer than he needs to, and far longer than he should. “I have a choice?”
“Yes,” Baelor turns to retrieve the goblet Dunk had abandoned on the table, and takes a fortifying drink, before grimacing. “And I do not pretend that it is an easy one for you.”
“Between life and death?” Dunk fights the urge to laugh. If Baelor is in earnest — if he truly means to offer to allow Dunk to mate with him, to marry him, even — well, that’s no choice at all.
Yet when he turns back to Dunk, Baelor looks grave. “Your life, as you know it, would still be over.”
At Dunk’s look of confusion, he elaborates. “To wed the blood of the dragon is a perilous thing at the best of times, and these are not the best of times. My enemies would become yours. They are many and powerful, and would think nothing of killing you to harm me.” Baelor places the empty goblet on the table carefully, and keeps his eyes fixed on it as he continues. “Furthermore, there would be certain public obligations that you would be required to fulfil. In ten years or twenty, I will inherit the Iron Throne, and you would be the consort of the most powerful man in the realm. That is no easy thing. Lesser men, and women, have been crushed by the weight of it. Finally, there would be…” Baelor’s voice seems to fail him for a moment. He raises his hand to his forehead, as if to stave off a headache, before he continues. “…personal obligations.”
For a moment, Dunk doesn’t understand. Then he sees how Baelor’s fingers are gripping the table, tight enough that his knuckles have gone white, and he realises.
“I have lived my life as an alpha, without the burden of a regular heat cycle, but if you and I were to mate, that would change,” Baelor says, without looking up at Dunk, which is a relief, because the mere words heat cycle are ringing in his ears. “I would not compel you to my bed should you not wish to be there,” Baelor says carefully. “But I would require your presence when my time comes.”
Of course he would. Dunk knows little of how mated and unmated omegas manage their heats, since he has neither experienced one for himself nor shared one with a partner, but even he knows that a mated omega will suffer far longer heats if deprived of their mate. For the King’s Hand to be confined in his heat chambers for a sennight every time his season came upon him would be unthinkable, even if it were not for the pain it would cause him.
“I would have you think carefully before making your choice,” Baelor finishes quietly, still looking anywhere but Dunk.
Dunk looks down at his hands instead of saying anything, mostly because he doesn’t know what to say yet. They look just as they always have, his hands: strong and sure, and somewhat battered. Hardly fit to hold a prince.
You want a family, Rafe had told him, all those years ago, go out and get a family. If only she could see him now. Somehow, Dunk doubts this was what she had in mind. He hopes that she would be proud of him, nonetheless, though she never did like highborn folk.
“Your Grace…” Dunk says, finally. “When I came to Ashford, my greatest ambition was to prove myself a true knight, so that some great house might take me into its service. When I dared speculate that House Targaryen might consider me, Egg — Prince Aegon — thought me mad.”
Baelor is looking at him now, with something like hope in his eyes.
Dunk kneels. “I am your man, your Grace,” he swears. It’s as solemn an oath as he’s ever given. He’ll be Baelor’s mate, his husband, his sword and shield.
Again, Baelor reaches for him, this time taking Dunk’s hand in his and pulling him upright. “You will be more than that, Ser Duncan the Tall,” Baelor tells him.
“So… what happens now? How do you…” Dunk feels himself flush again. He doesn’t have the right words, can’t begin to guess them. Baelor still hasn’t released his hand, and he’s close enough that when he smiles, Dunk can see how his front teeth are slightly crooked.
The body is a strange and wondrous thing, an old castle maester told him once, while sewing up Ser Arlan’s latest battle wound. It has secrets that even the most learned among us cannot begin to fathom. The members of House Targaryen may be royal, but they are men and women like any other. Dunk has seen men’s bodies, both alpha and omega, and for the most part they are alike. Only one nature gives a man a knot, and the other gives him a cunt. Dunk cannot imagine how it would feel to lose one, and gain the other. Surely, it must hurt, to change one’s body in that way.
“Change my nature?” Baelor offers, taking pity on him. “It is a simple enough process. One bite from you should suffice.”
That makes sense. If a bite is enough to form a mating bond and tie an alpha and omega together, then why should it not be enough for this?
Baelor drops Dunk’s hand and moves to start unpinning the clasps holding his robes together.
“Let me help, your Grace," Dunk says quickly, because it can’t be right, a prince undressing himself like this while Dunk stands and watches.
Baelor glances up at him, something fragile and uncertain in his eyes. “You need not,” he says after a moment of silence, but his hands have stopped moving. “I’m quite capable.”
Dunk swallows. “I want to help,” he insists.
Baelor looks a bit lost, but when Dunk steps in close, he doesn’t move away. He allows Dunk’s shaking hands to unbuckle the fine leather swordbelt around his waist, followed by the soft cloth bands covering his stomach. Dunk has no idea what the material is, other than heavy and too fine for him to have dreamed of touching before today. Baelor shrugs out of his robe, letting Dunk fold it up before removing his jacket and removing that too, until he’s left wearing nothing but his underclothes. Dunk is surprised to see that these, too, are a deep, dark black.
“Just here,” Baelor tells him, unlacing the ties at the neck of his shirt and pulling it aside to expose the point where his neck meets his shoulder. Absent heat or rut, it’s barely distinguishable from the rest of Baelor’s skin, not yet darkened by blood and lust. Still, Dunk could hardly mistake it for anything else. The place where mating marks are given. The most sacred spot on a man’s body, according to the septons, reserved only for the touch of his mate. Baelor’s scent will be strongest there. With only their shirts between them, Dunk can feel the warmth of him, can see his chest rise and fall with each breath. As close as they are, Dunk can see the scars — a pair of perfect bite marks on his skin, clear and neat, neither overlapping.
Two marks, on a man who has only been married once. A man who has only had one mate.
One is what Dunk had expected, no more than the pale, faded shadow of a dead bond. This must have been the one given to Baelor by his lady wife. But the other…
Dunk has never seen a mark like it. Larger than the first of Baelor’s marks, this one is so dark it’s almost black. More like a brand than a scar.
“Avoid the scars,” Baelor murmurs, his words as firm as they are quiet.
Dunk risks catching Baelor’s gaze. “As you will, your Grace,” he says, because there’s nothing more he can say. Baelor has already offered him more than he deserves, more than he could ever hope to earn. If the prince wishes to keep a part of himself secret, private, then who is Dunk to question that?
“You will need to grow accustomed to using my name, Ser Duncan,” Baelor tells him, bringing his hand up to cup the back of Dunk’s head, holding him close. His eyes are clear, his voice is steady.
Dunk takes a deep breath, before bending and sinking his teeth into skin that smells of oranges in the afternoon sun.
This is not the first time Dunk has tasted blood, nor is it the second. Like most born and bred in Flea Bottom, it’s a taste he’s more familiar with than he’d like. Never before has the taste of blood hitting his tongue made him feel like this. Baelor cries out, arches beneath Dunk’s hands, pressing himself closer. Instinct or intent, it doesn’t matter, for the result is the same. Dunk doesn’t release Baelor’s shoulder until he’s forced to by the need to take air into his lungs.
For a second, neither of them move. Then, Baelor takes Dunk’s face between his hands and kisses him like he’s desperate, like he’ll die if he can’t lick the taste of his own blood from Dunk’s mouth and teeth and tongue. It’s sultry, open-mouthed and more consuming even than the goodbye kiss he’d been given by a whore that time in Lannisport, an alpha girl who’d fucked him until he cried, then sung a sweet song about sailors while teaching him to sew a patch on his shirt.
Baelor kisses and kisses and kisses him, each one blending into the next. Dunk can’t stop chasing his lips, his tongue, doesn’t know how to, will happily spend the rest of his life right here, being kissed by a prince, kissing him in return, basking in the sweetness of it.
When they finally break apart, Dunk asks, “Did it work?”
There’s a smear of blood on Baelor’s cheek that must be his own; Dunk reaches up to wipe it away, marvelling at his own boldness. Already, the prince’s scent is changing, deepening, mingling with elements of Dunk’s own scent and losing that distinctive edge that told the world his nature.
“Did you doubt me, Ser?” Baelor raises an eyebrow at him.
“Never, your Grace,” Dunk swears.
“That is not my name.”
“Sorry,” Dunk winces. “Ser?”
“Closer,” Baelor hums in consideration. “But still not accurate. Something to work on, I think.”
Still, there is something missing. “I can’t feel you,” Dunk confesses. He reaches for the bite mark still bleeding on Baelor’s shoulder, careful to avoid the open wound, even pressing as gently as he can. He should be able to feel this, physical contact should make him feel his mate’s emotions as if they were his own. That’s what all the songs say.
“The bond is not yet complete,” Baelor assures him calmly. “For that, I shall need to give you my bite as well.”
The thought of it sends a thrill down Dunk’s spine. “Now?”
For a moment, Baelor looks tempted. Dunk can see Baelor’s eyes flick to his shoulder, still covered by his shirt but easily accessible. But that moment passes. “No,” Baelor says, but he sounds regretful. “No, I cannot. We cannot. First, we must marry, and be seen to have been joined and blessed by a Septon, so that none can doubt the legality of our union.”
Dunk closes his eyes. Of course, Baelor knows best about these things. If he says it must be so, then Dunk will bear it, and he will try to follow Lyonel Baratheon’s advice to avoid agonising. Though that in itself might lead to more agonising.
“I will not have you wait long, Ser,” Baelor tells Dunk when he opens his eyes again. “I could not. The change has already begun.”
That much is obvious. Even Baelor’s family scent is changing: what was once a delicate, refined smell shared by all of his blood, is now something deeper, richer, altogether more complex. Dunk gives into the urge to bury his nose in Baelor’s shoulder, and takes a deep lungful of his scent.
“So what do we do now then?” Dunk asks eventually.
“First,” Baelor says, an odd note in his voice, “you might want to put me down.”
Dunk flushes, glances down, and sees that Baelor’s feet are indeed a few inches off the floor. He should have noticed that earlier. “Of course, your —” no wait, that’s not right, “—Ser.”
It takes their combined efforts to get Baelor dressed again, and once that task is completed, he rewards Dunk with a quick kiss, a warm hand on his cheek.
“Now, I shall need to talk with Lord Ashford and Lord Tyrell.”
Like the rest of House Targaryen, Baelor’s scent is one dominated by iron and wood smoke. Legend has it that this was the origin of their house words, that they had been bestowed upon Aenar the Exile and his kin by the first noble who came to pay their respects to him on his arrival at Dragonstone. You smell of fire, the noble is supposed to have said. Fire and blood. They all have different notes beneath that, of course, and Baelor will always remember how his grandsire had taunted both him and his father over his own when it finally emerged at his presentation as an alpha at four and ten. Dornish spices, the king had snarled, and desert fruit. Baelor, who had known well, even at that age, that King Aegon had never set foot in Dorne, had held out hope for days that he was lying, merely trying to hurt him and insult his father. Yet on his return to Dragonstone, his mother had confirmed it, though with kinder words. Baelor had hidden his face in her shoulder, breathed in her scent of lemons and Dornish strongwine, and tried not to cry. His personal scent, it seemed, would be yet another thing that would set him apart from his family, mark him out as no true Valyrian.
And now, it is changing, mellowing, losing that element that told the rest of the world his nature as an alpha. Within an hour, he’ll be identifiable as an omega to anyone with a functioning nose. By sunset tomorrow, he’ll most likely begin his first heat. The prospect makes him shiver, but it’s nothing like fear. Of slightly more concern are the anatomical changes that await him, but according to the accounts he’s read it shouldn’t be a painful process. His father had told him once, when Baelor had come to him to convey the concerns of Jena’s fathers about her own future presentation, that when he had undergone the change himself in order to wed Baelor’s mother, he had merely gone to sleep with one nature and woken up with another. No more difficult than growing another few inches taller, his father had said with a smile. It’s in our blood, my boy.
It may be in your blood, father, Baelor had wanted to say. But is it in mine?
But the fears of House Dondarrion had been proven wrong less than a year later, when Jena had presented as an omega. For the rest of her lifetime, Baelor’s thoughts had never strayed to those ancient scrolls hidden in the depths of Dragonstone, and the potential they held.
How strange it is, to finally be shown that his father was right. The gift of the dragonlords was in his blood after all. There is a part of him that wishes to thank Ser Duncan for it, wants to hold him close and kiss him again, to sink his teeth into that broad shoulder and complete the bond now, now.
But that is likely just the influence of the claiming bite that Duncan has given him, and so Baelor will ignore it. The realm has no use for a Hand, or an heir, who cannot control himself. By suggesting this plan, this marriage, to Duncan, Baelor will have put in motion events that could last a generation.
He cannot give people any more cause to doubt him. So even though his teeth ache with how much he longs to bite Duncan, Baelor lets him go, then follows him to the doors. Once opened, they find two of Maekar’s household guards stationed there, as they should be, along with Ser Donnel and Aegon. His shaved head, Baelor thinks ruefully, is going to take some getting used to. With how shocked Maekar was at the sight, Baelor thinks that the boy will have to resign himself to wearing some form of head covering until his hair has grown back.
Perhaps Baelor should have tried harder not to laugh when he’d first seen his nephew. In his own defence, he had looked astonishingly like an egg. Matters had not been helped by Kiera making that comparison under her breath to Valarr, who had also dissolved into a fit of giggles.
“Ser!” Aegon cries, squeezing between the two guards and darting forward, avoiding Ser Donnel’s grasp with practiced ease.
Apparently not used to Aegon’s ability to find his way into places he ought not to be, Duncan gasps. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m your squire, Ser,” Aegon says, looking up at him, serious as only a child can be. “I should be at your side!”
Honestly. The boy has known Duncan for less than a sennight, yet already he turns first to him, rather than the uncle he has known all his life. Then again, at least Aegon has the excuse of youth. Baelor has met the man only twice, yet already he has offered to mate with him and wed him, and has changed his very nature to allow it.
“Does your father know you’ve come?” Duncan demands, putting his hands on his hips, righteous as a septa.
Aegon is unmoved. “He’s busy shouting at Aerion and Daeron. Is it true you’re to fight a trial of seven?”
“No, Aegon, it is not,” Baelor steps forward, catching Ser Donnel’s eye to make sure that the knight understands this message is intended for him also.
Unfortunately, this seems to have also brought him within scenting distance.
“Uncle, I —” Egg begins eagerly, then stops, sniffs the air. Suspiciously, he asks, “Why do you smell like that?”
“Enough of that, boy,” Duncan says hurriedly. “You should know better than to ask such questions.” Yet Aegon is not the only one to have picked up on how Baelor’s scent has changed. Ser Donnel and the two household guards have also noticed the difference, and while Ser Donnel’s expression hasn’t shifted, the two guards both have wide eyes.
Omega. Aegon’s child senses may not be developed enough to interpret it correctly, but to a man grown, the scent cannot be mistaken for anything else.
Prince Baelor Targaryen, Hand and heir to King Daeron the Good, entered the room as an alpha, and leaves it as an omega. And so the legend of House Targaryen continues.
A moment to gather himself would be pleasant, but Baelor does not have that luxury. For now, only three men know of his change, not including Duncan and Aegon. By the morning, the whole castle will have heard, as will the hundreds who have come for the tourney. There will be no way of keeping Baelor’s new nature a secret. That is exactly what his plan relies upon.
“Ser Donnel,” Baelor says. “Please escort Ser Duncan to my solar. He is to be our guest, so rooms will need to be made ready for him.”
To his credit, Ser Donnel does not allow his surprise to show on his face, unlike Aegon, who is grinning. “At once, your Grace. I’ll have someone speak to the steward.”
“Perhaps your squire will keep you company, Ser,” Baelor turns to Duncan. “And see that you are given some refreshment in the meantime.”
Lord Ashford and Longthorn Tyrell are, in turns, stunned and relieved when Baelor summons them, and takes the issue of Duncan’s trial from their hands. As he suspected, neither of them were particularly keen to hold a trial of seven, though for different reasons. Longthorn clearly longs to return to the tourney field on the morrow, and Lord Ashford seems to have some sympathy for Duncan, matched only by his obvious desire to avoid cancelling first few jousts of his daughter’s nameday. Baelor thanks the foresight of his ancestors for keeping information about how Targaryens go about changing their nature a closely guarded secret, as it ensures that the two men before him accept his word on the matter, and do not question it.
It is only when Baelor makes his intentions to wed Duncan before leaving that Lord Ashford pales.
“Your Grace, surely you cannot mean — that is, would you not rather be wed in Kings Landing?”
“I am afraid the matter cannot be put off,” Baelor says firmly. “As you both will no doubt be aware from my scent.”
For all intents and purposes, Baelor is now an unmated omega in pre-heat. Of course they recognise the markers in his scent, though those will fade once he has bitten Duncan and a true bond has been established, diminishing with each heat. Within a year, only Baelor’s mate will be able to catch it in his scent this far in advance. For now, they serve to make his situation plain and undeniable.
“The crown will, of course, cover all costs incurred,” Baelor assures Lord Ashford, which seems to calm the man somewhat. “But there will be no need for an elaborate ceremony. My —” mate, my man, my alpha, mine, now and always, “— my betrothed, and I, wish only to ensure that takes place before my time is upon me.”
“There must be a feast,” Lord Ashford insists. “A wedding — a royal wedding — must be celebrated, your Grace. I would not have it said that my hospitality was found wanting.”
Baelor does not allow himself to sigh. Of course, there will be a feast, and a wedding pie, filled with whatever poor birds the servants are able to trap over the next few hours. It’s entirely possible that when he and Duncan cut into it on the morrow, they will be greeted by a flock of ravens from the castle maester’s rookery, and when he hears of it Brynden will laugh until he cries. Nonetheless, it cannot be helped. Lord Ashford is right, a wedding must be celebrated, and be seen to have been celebrated.
“Of course,” Baelor says, with a smile that he knows from experience can only be seen through by those who know him extremely well. “We have been most grateful your hospitality, Lord Ashford. You have been most gracious in accommodating us, despite unforeseen circumstances.”
While they await the return of Maekar and Aerion, Baelor and Lord Ashford begin the tedious process of planning the whole thing. For his last wedding, Baelor had been lucky enough to have all the arrangements handled by his parents and the small council. Yet here, he is the highest authority, and must needs say what is to be done, and how and where. The castle sept is ruled out almost immediately as insufficient to hold the number of people who will attend — even the lack of more than a day’s notice is no reason for the highborn attending the tourney not to be present. Likely there will be a large number of smallfolk there too.
The Great Hall of Ashford Castle, even if it were not too small, will be occupied preparing for the wedding feast, and the tourney ground is in no fit state after being churned up by the jousting of the previous two days. Lord Ashford quickly summons his steward, who suggests a nearby field, which Baelor quickly agrees will be acceptable. Benches can be moved from the tourney grounds after the conclusion of the morrow’s jousting to seat the nobles, and a low dais will be constructed overnight. Like the majority of noble houses, Ashford Castle has a heat chamber which will be made ready for the bedding, though as Lord Ashford’s children are all alphas, and the man himself is long past the age where he himself has to endure heats, Baelor imagines the room has not been used for some years.
In the end, it’s all rather bloodless, despite Baelor suspecting that the amount of coin Lord Ashford’s steward claims will be needed is somewhat excessive. He is in no mood to interrogate the issue — however much the crown ends up paying for this affair, it will still end up costing less than a wedding ceremony at court would do. Baelor can’t imagine that the expense will be the primary objection the rest of his father’s small council have with this marriage.
He hears his brother and nephew approaching before he sees them, still arguing, though apparently the nature of their disagreement is now about which knights Aerion should enlist to fight alongside him.
“He’s a fine sword,” Aerion is saying, “And fierce, too.”
“I don’t care what you think, boy. I’ll die before I fight alongside the Brute of Bracken,” Maekar retorts as they stride into view.
Lord Ashford winces, and Longthorn shifts in his seat uncomfortably as they approach. Mind your words, brother, Baelor thinks desperately. We are not among friends or family in this place, and reminding people of the enmity that remains between those houses who fought for the Black and the Red dragon will not help our cause.
Gods damn Aerion, for provoking this mess. Damn Maekar too, for not restraining his son before things came to this point. And damn the Gods themselves, for their cruelty, their indifference, for forcing Baelor to set himself against his own brother. Damn them for the look on Maekar’s face as he draws near enough to scent — for the faint glimmer of hope that Baelor sees in his eyes, before it gives way to horror.
Maekar freezes, suddenly enough that Aerion walks into his back.
“What,” Maekar whispers. “What have you done?”
Then in a flurry of motion, Baelor’s brother is gone, and all he can do is follow, and curse the Gods, Old and New.
“Maekar,” Baelor calls, urgent. “Brother, wait!”
But Maekar either doesn’t hear him, or doesn’t care, because he doesn’t stop until forced to by the immovable bulk of Ser Donnel, still stationed at the door to Baelor’s borrowed solar as he had been ordered. “Forgive me, my Prince,” Ser Donnel is saying, “but Prince Baelor ordered that none could enter.”
That was not, precisely, Baelor’s order, and he’s grateful to Ser Donnel for not revealing that he’d specifically asked him to keep Maekar away from Duncan. I must speak with my brother first, Baelor had said quietly, while Duncan was distracted by Egg.
Maekar’s face, pale to begin with, is now white as bone. He spins back to Baelor, spitting with rage. “Tell him to let me in,” he snaps. “Tell him!”
“First, swear you will not harm Ser Duncan,” Baelor retorts, because Maekar is actually clutching the hilt of his dagger, white-knuckled, and he looks as angry as Baelor has ever seen him, and the thought of him directing that anger at Duncan makes something go white-hot and furious in his chest.
Duncan is his, his man, his mate, his alpha. Baelor will not see him harmed, not by anyone. And Maekar… Baelor would not see him harmed either. The thought of the two men coming to blows is an awful one, and Baelor will do everything he can to prevent it.
Maekar’s eyes widen. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get any words out, the door opens behind them.
“You!” Maekar snarls at Duncan, who fills the doorway. “What the ever-loving fuck have you done to my brother?!”
“Nothing that I did not ask for,” Baelor says through gritted teeth. “Might we continue this conversation behind closed doors?” He doesn’t wait for a response, just marches forward. Duncan stands aside, and Maekar follows him in. Inside the room they find Aegon, which Baelor had expected, and Daeron, which he had not. Maekar too looks surprised to find his two sons in the solar, and he quickly moves to put himself between them and Duncan. Baelor thinks, for a moment, that his heart might break at the sight of it.
“This man —” Maekar starts. “This fucking hedge knight — attacked my son!”
Aegon grabs Maekar’s arm, voice shrill as he cries, “That’s not true! Aerion lied, so did Daeron!”
Baelor sighs. This is a message that Maekar must hear, it is true. But Aegon is not the right one to deliver it. Not now. “Enough, Aegon.”
“Tell him, Daeron,” Aegon turns to his brother. “You promised.”
Maekar looks down at Aegon, and at Daeron, who is still sitting. There is an empty glass in his hand. “Tell me what?” Maekar asks his oldest son.
Daeron at least has the courage to look up at his father. “I had to say something when you asked after Egg,” he shrugs, almost succeeding at looking casual. “So, I lied. I never meant for an innocent man to suffer for it.”
“Aerion lied too,” Aegon adds. “I saw the puppet show loads of times, it wasn’t treason at all, it was just Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. Aegon the Conquerer turns up at the end and gives him a new shield, and everyone cheers.”
Before Egg can go into further detail about the performance, Baelor slams his fist down on the table. Maekar starts, Daeron winces, Egg falls silent, eyes wide. Out of the corner of his eye, Baelor notices that Duncan has taken a step towards him, and is relieved in spite of himself. It feels good, right, to have Duncan close to him, and while that may only be the effect of their incomplete mating bond, right now Baelor will take all the comfort he can.
“Thank you, Aegon,” Baelor says, keeping his eyes fixed on Maekar. “Now, would you and your brother mind giving us a moment alone? It’s time you were both abed.”
Aegon glances quickly between the adults, before Daeron stands and puts a hand on his shoulder. “As you will, Uncle,” the boy says, a striking echo of the way he excused himself the last time Baelor dismissed him from this room. As much as he can, Baelor has tried to be uncle to Maekar’s children, before he is your Grace. It seems the least he can do.
Maekar doesn’t speak again until his sons have left the room, Ser Donnel closing the door behind them. He rounds on Baelor, snapping, “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Baelor answers coolly. “Have you?” It’s less a question than it is a warning, and Maekar knows him well enough to recognise the difference.
“Oh, fuck you,” Maekar retorts, like they’re children in the gutter, rather than princes of the realm.
Baelor doesn’t rise to the provocation. “I trust that I can count on your support in this matter.”
Maekar stares at him for a second, before laughing, though there’s only pain in his face. “You’ll have half the court calling for his blood before we reach Kings Landing. They’ll say you’ve gone mad, had your head turned by this man and forgotten your responsibilities as father’s heir,” Maekar barks at him, voice rising in volume, making Baelor glad that the walls of this solar are so thick. “Do you imagine the realm will accept a fucking hedge knight as the consort of their future king?”
They will have to, Baelor does not say. “I admit,” he says instead, “The… situation… is not ideal. But the realm has accepted far greater transgressions than mine. In any case,” he shifts uncomfortably. “I had no choice in the matter.”
Maekar’s eyes widen, fury turning to confusion. “No choice?”
Tilting his head, Baelor leans back on the table behind him. He is about to hurt Maekar deeply, and there is nothing he can do to prevent it. He is dimly aware of Duncan at his back, a few steps behind his left shoulder. Beneath his clothes, the claiming bite is a sweet ache.
“The forming of a scent bond between members of our blood is well-documented,” Baelor says. “And forms a key component of the doctrine of exceptionalism.”
A pause. Then, “That’s your excuse?” Maekar croaks, disbelief writ clear across his face. “A fucking scent bond?”
Because Maekar knows as well as he does, a scent bond cannot be denied, whether by law or by custom. It was a scent bond that gave Aegon the Conquerer just cause to marry his sister-wife Rhaenys, despite already having taken his sister Visenya as his mate. Generations later, it was by claiming to have formed a scent bond with both of his sisters that Jaehaerys had been allowed to take them both to wife, and that Daeron the young Dragon was permitted to wed both his alpha sister and his omega brother.
Baelor had believed such stories, once. So had Maekar. It had been their great uncle Aemon who had told them the truth of it: if a scent bond were to form between two of their blood, it would influence their presentation. There would be no need for a bite to induce the change after a pair had presented as incompatible, if a scent bond had already dictated that they were. They had taken comfort from that, for a while, had allowed themselves to believe that it mattered not that they had both presented as alphas, that the Gods did not mean to keep them apart.
A scent bond is a useful lie, one that allows the blood of the dragon to present matings brought about by desire, or politics, as the will of the Gods. Jaehaerys was canny when he designed the doctrine of exceptionalism, and it has served its purpose well. Already, Baelor has informed Lord Ashford and Longthorn Tyrell of the scent bond that has formed between himself and Duncan, a bond that has induced his body to change from alpha to omega. A bond that is beyond his control, his fate rather than his choice. It will protect them, and the crown, from accusations that by taking Duncan as his mate and husband, Baelor is forsaking his duty, or honour.
It may be that some of the recorded scent bonds claimed by members of House Targaryen were real. But of those that Baelor knows who have changed their nature, all had to accept a claiming bite to induce the change. None of them had ever known a bite to fail before.
That had been why, once Maekar’s mourning period for Dyanna had ended, he and Baelor had gone to their father, asking his permission, his blessing. For all the good that blessing did. Neither of their bites had taken, and neither of them changed. Not then, not for each other. They have not spoken of it in years, but Baelor can see that Maekar has no more forgotten it than Baelor has himself.
Maekar’s eyes are wet. He’s shaking.
“Would you call me a liar, brother?” Baelor asks, though he already knows the answer, because he knows Maekar too well to think he would ever, ever betray him like that.
When Maekar fails to respond, Baelor continues: “Aerion wished to see him dead, and we both know that in a just world, he would be the one on trial.” This is important, too important for their feelings for each other to get in the way. Maekar must understand this, Baelor cannot let him go on ignoring the monster his second son is becoming. “Has Aegon told you of what Aerion did to those puppeteers?” Maekar’s silence is a clear answer, and Baelor presses his advantage ruthlessly. “A girl’s finger was snapped in half, before dozens of witnesses. Any knight would have been duty bound to intervene.” He pauses, before landing the final blow. “You would have done as this man did, had you been there. Had Aerion not been your son.”
If Baelor had slapped him, Maekar could not have looked more shocked. “But he is my son,” he snarls, colour high in his cheeks, and Baelor thinks that Maekar might lunge at him. He almost wants to dare him to do it.
Then, in Valyrian, Maekar asks: “Why him? Of all the alphas in the world, if you would not take me, why choose him?”
The look on his face is the same one he had worn years ago, when they had both finally accepted that neither of them was capable of changing. Maekar had tried to persuade him that it didn’t matter, that they could still be together. Baelor had shaken his head, said: You would have had me play the omega for you? Or would you lie to the realm, hide your true scent for the rest of your life, suppressed your ruts until it kills you? And Maekar, bold and beautiful, had insisted that he would do anything, everything.
Baelor had wanted so badly to give in. But an alpha could not take an alpha as a mate, and even the doctrine of exceptionalism would not convince the faith to allow them to marry one who is not their mate. And someone would find out the truth, even if Maekar was able to pretend for a while. When his belly never swelled with child, the realm would take it as proof, as they did with the Dragonknight, despite all evidence to the contrary. They would call Baelor a second Maegor the Cruel, one alpha forcing another into a parody of mating, cursing himself and his false mate before gods and men.
“I am sorry,” Baelor says, as hopeless and helpless now as he was then.
There are times when a good ruler must lie to others, his father had told him once. But only a fool lies to himself.
The truth then: Baelor has known Ser Duncan the Tall for less than a day, but already he is captivated. The man is undeniably beautiful, and even if Baelor had only seen him from afar, he could want him. But in addition to his physical beauty, Baelor has found him to be kind, honourable, the kind of knight he had resigned himself to only meeting in songs and stories. And he is my mate, my alpha, my good man who has sworn himself to me. It will do Baelor no good to deny that he wants the man, and cares for him too.
But he loves Maekar, as he has for years. That will not change, not anytime soon.
“See that your hedge knight is kept away from my son,” Maekar says. “From all my sons.”