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The rain had begun as a dull gray mist at dusk, but by the third hour of the night, it was beating against the arched windows of Maegor’s Holdfast with the persistence of a siege. Outside, the Blackwater was a churning black pit, throwing up the brackish smell of the bay to mingle with the cold stone of the fortress.
Aerion lay back against the damp linen pillows, his knuckles white where he gripped the leather straps fastened to the headboard. His hair, usually kept in smooth braids that caught the light like spun silver, was now a wet, tangled ruin, plastered in snarls to his forehead and the hollows of his cheeks. A shuddering breath tore from his chest—not a sob, for Aerion Targaryen did not sob, but a low rattle that sounded like a dying beast in a ditch.
"Another cloth," the midwife muttered, her voice a harried drone that had scraped against Aerion’s frayed nerves. "The Prince is burning. Bring more water from the kitchens. Fresh-drawn, mind you."
Aerion’s eyes, a violet so dark they appeared almost bruised in the flickering firelight, followed the woman’s shadow as she hurried across the floor. He hated her. He hated the maester with his spotted, trembling hands and the nose-stinging herbal scent of his remedies. He hated the mattress that sank beneath him, and most of all, he hated the cramping maw deep in his belly that had spent the night ripping him apart from the inside out.
He was a prince of the House of Targaryen, the blood of the dragon, yet his body had betrayed him to the indignities of being an omega. He had spent his youth trying to outrun it, painting himself in the violent colors of a warrior, screaming his defiance at the heavens, but the presentation had settled into his bones regardless. It had bound him to Valarr—the dutiful heir, the pride of the realm who smelled of cedar, rain, and the unyielding weight of a crown he had not yet inherited.
They had been wed five years. Five years of stifling, teeth-aching peace. Five years of Valarr’s gentle hands, Valarr’s soft words, and Valarr’s infuriating, unshakeable patience.
And in those five years, Aerion had given him two daughters. Daenys, with her quiet, dreaming eyes, and little Jaehaera, a plump-cheeked girl with bright smiles and newly cut teeth. Both of them omegas. Both of them soft, useless things in the eyes of a court that demanded strong alpha sons to secure the line of Baelor Breakspear.
Now, he would bleed again.
"Push, my Prince," the maester coaxed, his voice grating, his eyes watery. "The head is near. Just a bit more."
Aerion’s fingers dug into the leather straps until the stitching creaked. He did not want to push. He wanted to close his legs and lock the child away inside him, safe from the cold, judging eyes of the Red Keep, safe from the silent scorn he knew was waiting for them both. But his body was no longer his own. It belonged to the pull of the labor, to the ancient, bloody tide of his ancestors. With a choked groan that tasted of bile, he heaved himself forward.
The pain was a white-hot spear, driven up through his spine and exploding behind his eyes. For a single, terrifying second, the world went dark, save for the phantom smell of copper and the distant, thundering beat of his own heart in his ears.
Then, a high, thin cry broke the silence of the chamber.
"A princess, my Lord," the midwife said, her voice dropping into that careful register that always signaled a disappointment in the birthing chamber. "Another beautiful omega."
Aerion’s head fell back against the pillows with a thud. He was panting, his chest rising and falling in shallow jerks. His skin felt cold now, the sweat drying to a tight, tacky crust on his brow.
Another.
The word hung in the humid air of the room, invisible but heavier than the iron circlet of Aegon the Conqueror. A third daughter. A third omega. Three vulnerable things born to a dam whose own mind was a storm of jagged glass.
The midwife began to clean the babe by the light of the hearth, her movements hurried, as if she wished to hide the child’s presentation beneath the wool before anyone could look too closely. Aerion watched her through half-closed lids, and a sudden, ugly swell of possessiveness—sharp and bitter as poison—rushed through his veins, burning away the exhaustion of the labor.
"Give her to me," Aerion rasped. His voice was a parched, ruined scrap, barely louder than the rustle of the rushes on the floor.
"My Prince, she must be bathed, and the afterbirth—"
"I said give her to me." His teeth bared in a feral, dangerous expression that made the midwife comply without further argument. With a trembling hand, she wrapped the damp, silver-capped infant in a flannel cloth and hurried to lay her against Aerion's bare chest.
As soon as the warm weight settled against his skin, Aerion’s arm snapped around her like a steel trap. He pulled her close, hiding her tiny body beneath the curve of his shoulder, shielding her from the room. She was so small—too small, her skin a delicate, translucent pink, her tiny fingers flailing blindly against his collarbone. She smelled of blood and milk and the scent of the womb.
"Leave me," Aerion muttered.
"But Prince Aerion, the maester must still—"
"I don’t care, get out!" Aerion snarled, the sound tearing at his throat until he choked on his own breath. "All of you! Out of my sight!"
The servants did not argue. They gathered their bloody linens, their basins of water, and their jars of ointment, scurrying from the room like mice fleeing a burning barn. The maester paused at the foot of the bed, his mouth opening as if to offer some heedless words, but one look from Aerion’s burning eyes sent him retreating into the shadows.
The door clicked shut, leaving only the crackle of the hearth and the drumming of the rain against the glass.
Aerion lay in the quiet, holding the babe so tight he feared he might bruise her fragile ribs. His mind was a chaotic whorl of dark thoughts. They will whisper, he thought, his jaw clenching until it ached. My father will look at me with that disdain he reserves for my worst failures. My uncle Baelor will offer his pitying smiles. And the court... the court will snicker behind their hands.
They would say the Brightflame was dry. They would say his blood was weak, that he could only produce soft, bleeding omegas instead of the fierce, golden alphas the realm demanded to secure the succession.
But most of all, he thought of Valarr.
The alpha would be angry this time, surely. He would storm into the room, look at the omega he had been granted, and search for the alpha heir he was denied. Finding himself left wanting, he would finally show Aerion what the omega had always known him to be.
Let him hate me, Aerion prayed to whatever silent gods were listening. Let him hate me this time.
Hours passed, and the babe suckled, and Aerion’s eyes had grown heavy by the time the door creaked open once more.
Valarr entered.
He still wore his riding leathers, sopped with rain and stiff with salt. He smelled of wool, saddle soap, horse sweat, and the cool, clean wind of the Kingswood. He had ridden hard to get back—he must have ridden through the night, ignoring the storm and the mud, his dark hair windblown. His cheeks were flushed and his steps grew cautious as he eyed Aerion and the babe.
Aerion braced himself. He did not move from the pillows, but his body went rigid as iron. He pulled the swaddled babe closer still, his arm forming a solid wall between the child and her sire. His chin lifted, his eyes flaring with a manic, defensive light.
"It is another girl, an omega," Aerion taunted. "The gods have cheated you yet again."
Valarr stopped a pace from the bed. For a moment he said nothing, simply stood there like a fool, staring with his mismatched eyes. The silence was grating at Aerion's temper, and he held the babe closer still—a little sound escaping her lips at the movement—until at last, Valarr said, "Aerion."
He let out a breath before dropping to his knees beside the mattress. And then he said nothing else, only knelt looking at him, his eyes so kind Aerion could not stand it. He tried to turn away, to free himself from the image, only to tense when he felt fingers gently grasp his chin, turning his face back around.
And Valarr's hand was warm. It was always so warm. Aerion hated it—how his body leaned into the touch.
"Get away from me," Aerion muttered, though he did not pull his head back, hesitating for reasons unknown. "Go tell your father that I have failed you once more. Go on. Tell the court. Let them mock me."
But Valarr did not rise to go, only brushed his thumb against Aerion's jaw.
"The gods are kind," Valarr murmured. "You are hale. When the messenger reached the wood, they said the labor was hard. They said... I thought the Stranger may have taken you. I thought I would find you cold."
Foreign words, too soft, not what Aerion expected—not the touch or the words—and he was unmoored. So he snapped, "You hoped for it, more like." And then, crueler: "I have given you another weak thing for your nursery. You still need an heir to sit your father's throne after you. Are you going to tell me you are not disappointed? Are you going to lie to me now?"
Valarr’s hand drifted down from Aerion’s jaw, his fingers careful as they traced the line of Aerion’s throat before settling against the side of his neck, his nail lightly scratching the scent gland. Aerion nearly shivered, fighting to keep himself still.
Valarr sighed then. "I am not disappointed," he said softly, "though I know you think my words false."
"Because they are," Aerion spat, the back of his eyes stinging as he continued, his voice raw and wounded. "You cannot be anything else."
"I can," Valarr said gently. "I can be pleased."
And Aerion did not believe him, could not. He opened his mouth to tell him so, only for the babe to let out a whimper, her tiny mouth opening to reveal her pink gums.
Slowly, Valarr shifted his weight, his gaze finally dropping to the small, silver-haired bundle tucked against Aerion’s collarbone. His face softened into an expression of such pure, unpolished tenderness that it made Aerion’s stomach twist.
Hesitantly, Valarr reached out. His hand hovered for a second—as if he were afraid his touch might shatter her—before settling lightly over the babe's head. His fingers were careful, his palm cupping her with a reverence that felt almost holy.
"She is perfect, Aerion.” He didn't look up, his eyes still fixed on the babe. "She looks just like Daenys did when she was born. The same nose. They all favor you."
"As they should," Aerion said defiantly, and Valarr cracked a smile.
"As they should," Valarr agreed.
He leaned down, his face pressing into the space between Aerion's shoulder and the babe's blanket. He placed a gentle kiss right upon her head, his breath puffing warm against her silver hair. Then, without breaking his gaze, he leaned closer still, his nose brushing Aerion's temple, before pressing his lips there.
He lingered for a moment, breathing in Aerion’s sour, exhausted scent as if it were the finest perfume in the Seven Kingdoms.
"I have three beautiful daughters," Valarr whispered, his hand sliding down to find Aerion's hand beneath the blankets. "And you are alive. How could I be anything but blessed?"
Aerion closed his eyes, his chest tightening so hard he could barely draw breath.
I hate you—the words a silent, desperate curse against the back of his teeth. I hate you for being gentle. I hate you for always being kind. I hate you for rooting yourself beneath my skin.
He wanted to push Valarr away. He wanted to claw at his handsome, earnest face, to remind him of the madness that ran in his blood, to tell him that he was a creature who would only bring ruin to their house. But as Valarr’s hand closed over his own stiff fingers—his grip firm and steady, holding him fast against the abyss—Aerion did not pull away.
He gripped Valarr’s hand back, holding on to the only warm thing in a world that had always been made of ice.
Tomorrow, the maesters would return. Tomorrow, the court would begin their whispers, and the king would send his polite, cold congratulations. Tomorrow, Aerion would have to put on his armor again—the bright, dangerous colors of the Brightflame—and find a way to hate his husband for the safety he offered.
But tonight, in the quiet, blood-warmed dark of the chamber, with the rain beating against the glass and his daughter sleeping against his chest, he simply let himself be held.