Archive of Our Own

The prince was born on the third day of spring. The heart tree in the Godswood garden stood tall and glorious, thick roots deeply intertwined to the earthy soil, its leaves redder than any time of year. A matching pair with the dark red dragon high in the sky above the The Red Keep, mirroring the euphoric panic coming from the bond with his rider through his loud screeches.

Lords, ladies, servants and low-borns alike, all wavering in anticipation for the official mark of a new reign, the birth of the heir of their King. 

The prince was said to be born with an exquisite beauty that resembled his Mother, the Queen, soft and pale skin rivaling the glow of the moon, his features so dainty it was to believe the Gods themselves stopped time to shape the lines of his face when still in the womb. Blessed by his Targaryens ancestors with a pair of amethysts in his eyes that shone brighter than the stars that decorated the dark sky.

His arrival was celebrated thoroughly for an entire week, bells ringing at every hour from sunrise to sunset on the first day, petals of baby’s breath and peonies decorating the uneven ground of the capital alongside a three day tourney. 

He would grow to be one of the most beautiful princes the realm had ever seen, called The Beauty of King's Landing by the smallfolk. 

Loved and cherished by all, but especially by his Father. Some said that the King had never smiled as bright as he did when he first held his son in his arms. 

Be that as it may, whatever powerful devotion the little prince inspired into most hearts, was not enough for some minds to forget how the King’s firstborn was, in fact, an Omega. 

“See you soon, lovely.” Carl whispers softly against the pearlescent purple scales of his friend, stroking her long neck, smiling when she turns her head to side, her happy chirps vibrating against his palm as she rubs herself back on him, affectionately. 

Shrykos’s egg hatched three months after Carl was born. Small as a newborn pup, she would be often seen curled around his neck, prompting twinkling giggles out of him, his most loyal companion to his daily naps. When old enough to walk, Carl would take her everywhere, cradling her in his small hands, or Shrykos herself would find home peering over his shoulder or on the crown of his head, waiting for Carl to feed her small pieces of meat stolen from the kitchen. 

It shattered his heart when his companion was no longer allowed to be inside the castle, growing larger and larger as years went by, and while it saddened him they could not sleep together anymore, they eventually switched places, with Shrykos being the one carrying him to places now, giving him her wings for him to fly. A whole life shared together, yet Carl still feels like he is dreaming when he looks at her. 

“Welcome back, my prince. I trust your ride was pleasant.” A voice behind him says. Carl snorts at the poor attempt of his sworn sword to maintain a blank face.

”Try not to look too relieved, Michonne.” 

The woman above the brown horse scowls, but her beautiful plush lips curl into a smirk.

“Every time you come back from flying with that purple beast in one piece, both my head and this entire kingdom are spared.” She says, sullen. 

It never loses its novelty to see how cautious and alert she gets every time they step close to the dragonpit, but Carl knows she would rather die than to admit she was afraid of them.

“Hello, Violet.” Carl sings happily to his horse, patting her side in the same way he did with his winged friend, looking over his shoulder to make sure his dragon already left before mounting her. “You know Shrykos is very possessive of me.” He answers the arched brow Michonne throws at him. 

“You spoil her too much. She is a dragon, not a kitten.” 

Carl sticks his tongue out, trying to rile her up so they can race back to the castle with a promise of stolen fresh chocolate for the winner.

“Her grace has asked for you to see her as soon as you come back.” 

Carl knows he had it coming for, once again, sneaking out when the castle was half asleep to fly, but the prospect of having a lecture with an empty stomach makes him annoyed. He gives Michonne an imploring look.

She shakes her head, long immune to his cheap attempts of exploit, and smiles smugly back at him. “That is your battle, my prince.” 

Traitor. “You are no friend of mine.” Carl huffs, dejected, before walking up the multiple hall stairs to the Queen’s chambers. 

Carl murmurs a low see you later to Michonne, getting a good luck and a wink in return.

Mother doesn’t even wait for him to step his two feet into the room. “Carl,” She breathes, fanning herself. “You know I don’t like you to go flying while I'm in this condition.” 

“You don’t like me to go flying while you're in any condition.” 

"Does your Father know?” 

“By now?” He looks around casually, the maidservants hurriedly striding out the room, one with an empty tray, another with a set of towels, bowing to the Queen and him before leaving. With his sixth sense when it comes to Carl, no doubt his Father is aware of his escapade. He shrugs. “Probably.”

Mother gives him a look. Carl doesn’t give her a chance for another pointless speech about why he shouldn’t do the things they don’t want him to.

“How are you feeling?” He sits on the sole chair in front of the settee she lays on. There are a bunch of small pillows on her back, another one under her swollen feet. The robe covering her body is intentionally large, dark beige detailed in gold and red, matching beautifully her pale skin and dark hair.

The dark shadows under her eyes denounce how undeniably exhausted Mother is. Carl is sure she was pacing around the room before he came, as she often does of late now that her pregnancy is reaching its end, no matter how many times the maesters advise her to rest.

Carl feels sympathy for her, though, he can only imagine how much having another being stealing space from your organs to grow inside of your body is the farthest thing from comfortable. 

“Enormous” She grunts, left hand absentmindedly rubbing her—truly enormous—stomach.

“You should rest. Properly. Have you slept?”

“I don’t need mothering, Carl.” She wrinkles her nose. “Gods, you reek of dragon.”

Carl frowns. “And yet someone needs to be here, mothering you. The attendants surround you worried about the babe, someone needs to worry about you.” 

Mother shakes her head, and Carl can’t wait for her to give birth. Not only because he is excited to become an older brother, but for her to finally have proper rest, something he knows she will only have when the babe is born. He swallows the familiar bitterness down. Sadly, it feels like she has been pregnant forever.

He steals a grape from the bowl in the small table positioned a hand away from Mother, chewing on it distractedly as he listens to her talk about her morning until the doors open again. 

Carl turns his head when a guard announces the new person in the room. 

His Father is a vision. Since Carl was old enough to understand the world and form his own opinions, there’s never been a moment where Richaerys Targaryen struggled with looking imposing. Even without the crown above his brow, anyone could sense his powerful presence from miles away. Just by his posture, chest out and chin high, gaze clear and confident. 

He is dressed with the colors of their house, black boots and pants, his doublet a beautiful deep shade of maroon, accompanied with gold dragon head shaped clasps in the front and a black belt above his hips. Striking like a King should be. 

“Your Mother I understand, but you not getting up to welcome me? Is that how you treat your Father?” he sighs in mock-sadness. 

Carl rolls his eyes to his dramatic stances, but eagerness starts to burn gradually at the pit of his stomach. A dark satisfaction that hums inside his chest, the knowledge that he is the only one allowed that type of closeness with Father. To put his hands on him, to kiss his cheek and most of all, be the sole focus of his undivided attention. 

Reported in tomes, Father would be known as another King, a leader whose determination and resilience could not be recreated, a fierce protector of those who are under his care. To others, the only thing who would stick into their minds were the stories about how brutal and savage the man was when it came to combat. 

The whispers about how he had torn apart his enemies in the most vicious way without hesitation, regardless if it was with a sword or his bare hands. Feral and bloodthirsty like the beasts hiding beneath the castle, the perfect portrayal of what a Targaryen should be in its purest form. 

Even mother, the one who he shares a life and a bed with, was not physically affectionate as often as Carl—although he's aware it would not be proper for a King and his Queen to act like lascivious young lovers in public, it doesn't change the immutable fact the whole world seems universes away from the man that wears the crown. 

Carl can barely contain his glee, almost jumping as he runs to his Father. He throws his arms around his torso, warmth immediately engulfing his body, strong arms covering his nape and shoulders. 

Father lets out a pleased hum, dragging his nose over the shell of his ear to his hair, affectionately nuzzling and scenting Carl. His skin buzzes in contentment, the warmth bubble of safety his Father’s arms brings always leaves him breathless. Almost like his blood senses his Father’s presence, identifies him as his creator, and wants to depart from his veins to come back to where it first belonged to. 

Carl shamelessly scents him back, rubbing his cheek on his chest.       

“You smell like dragon.” Father says. By his tone alone Carl knows he is likely frowning, but he is distracted by how High Valyrian curls on his tongue, voice so smooth and low it sends an involuntary shiver down his spine. “Do not tell me you were flying with Shrykos without telling anyone. Again.” 

“I shall not, then.” He lifts his head from where it was hidden and rests his chin over Father’s solid chest, “Shrykos is the one who was flying with me.” he replies cheekily. Father pinches his ear in retaliation, smirking when Carl squeaks. 

“You're impossible. Maybe I shall start chaining you instead of her. At least this way I will know where you are at all times.” 

Carl ignores the sudden sharp spike of agitation in his guts at the thought of Father putting a chain around his neck, and pouts exaggeratedly. “I would not have to sneak out by myself if my ludicrous Father kept up with his promises and came flying with me.”

Father pulls away, narrowing his eyes. It is playful, but a pool of saliva still gathers inside his mouth at the way purple eyes gaze down at him, always so knowing. “Ludicrous, you say? Is that a way to speak of me?” 

“Richaerys Targaryen, first of his name, protector of the realm and stony-hearted man who pays no mind to his own son–” Carl squeals loudly when long fingers dip into his sides, body thrashing instinctively. Father is merciless as Carl throws his head back, his laughter reverberating through the room.

“Hm? What were you saying?” 

“Nothing! I am s–sorry, stop Father, p–please!” 

“Forgive me my prince, I can’t hear you. I reckon you were complaining about your King? Something about a heartless man? Won't you beg for mercy?” He asks, feigning sympathy, fingers doubling down in speed over his torso. 

Carl screams even louder. “Mercy! Please have m–mercy, Father! Mother, h–help me–” 

“Enough, you two.” Mother interrupts. Father finally relents and stops the attack, allowing Carl to sag his body against his as he catches his breath, red in the face. Carl turns his head back and sees Mother shaking her head at them, her fringe following the movement. 

Father takes them to the settee, sitting beside Mother's legs and pulling Carl to his lap. He purrs happily, his thighs more comfortable than any other seat. 

“My two favorite boys.” Mother caresses their faces with each of her hands. 

Carl lets her play with his hair and takes one hand to the bump, fascinated by the way Mother’s stomach curves, stretching to its limit, holding a new life. He has seen her pregnant before, but the memory of her nine full moons stomach got lost in his mind with time. The flutter under his palm is light, gentle like little flaps of butterfly's wings. Her pained grimace tells a different story. 

The laugh spills from his lips before he has a chance to hide. 

Mother scoffs, “Yeah, keep laughing at your Mother’s pain, you imp.” She pinches the sensitive spot on his thigh, making him jiggle further into Father’s arms. “Soon it will be you in this bed.” 

The effect is immediate. Father tenses, tightening his hold on him as if someone is about to burst into the room and take him away. Carl is both too close to his neck and naturally aware of anything and everything related to his Father to notice the subtle change, how his scent spikes sourly under his nose, even when he tries to hide it. 

“What?” Mother asks, after a tense pause, “You know that, Carl is almost of age–”

“Like you said, almost, not there yet.” Father cuts, cooly, with an edge in his voice. He plays with the hair in the back of his nape, the tip of his fingers tracing invisible circles around his mating gland absentmindedly. 

Carl slackens under the touch. 

She speaks truth. Like it or not, as the King’s son, he is considered the most eligible and valuable Omega in the realm, with every high born Alpha trying their luck through letters and sumptuous propositions for his hand. It is only a matter of time until Father is forced to stop refusing them and choose a match for him, or be kind enough to allow Carl to decide for himself. 

His fate has been set in stone since the moment he was born, but knowing does not make it easier to overcome the uneasiness of leaving the only home he knows to be handed to a stranger with the sole purpose to be a broodmare.

Growing up being forced to watch his Mother have tons of trials with her pregnancies certainly doesn’t make him as enthusiastic as he could regarding his acceptance of what the Gods have planned for him. 

“Rick,” Mother starts again, voice rising in bewilderment. “You cannot keep doing this.”

“I am not doing anything.”

“Carl won’t be a child forever.”

“I am well aware.” 

“Gods, he is not y–”

“Lori.” Father snaps, and Mother closes his mouth shut with a clink of teeth.

The exhaustion in their voices sounds almost ancient—it was not the first time they have had this conversation. 

Carl watches at the two of them cautiously.

Mother stares at Father attentively, something inquisitive and poorly veiled accusatory in her eyes. He holds eye contact, and for a few seconds they seem to have a silent conversation only the two of them can understand before Father cracks, looking away with a sigh. 

This is not something new either. Nowadays, they do this every time Carl is nearby. One could imagine that experience would lead to discretion, but Mother and Father are not as subtle as they might think they are, sloppy with how they speak of him as if he is not in the room, listening every word. The blatant disregard of his intellect makes him want to scorn at their faces. 

Swiftly, the air in the room becomes awkward. Carl squirms in place uncertainly, biting his tongue not to blurt anything that will make his parent’s nerves even more elevated.  

Father breaks the silence first, clearing his throat.

“I only came here to make sure you were okay, and that you,” he pointedly gives Carl a side eye, “came back safely. I shall leave you to rest.” 

Mother only shakes her head, not looking at him, the line of her jaw set tight.  

Carl knows their conversation is not over. 

“Go take a bath.” Father says, serious.

Carl rolls his eyes. He gets up and looks over his shoulders, batting his eyelashes with a radiant—and evidently fake—smile. “Shall we meet in my bathtub next time?”

The last thing he hears before bolting out of the room with a satisfied grin is a strangled sound coming out of Father’s throat. 

Carl’s first brother was born when he was six. He was a tiny little thing, pink and wrinkled from leaving his Mother’s belly half a moon earlier than expected. She had spent almost two days in labour, screaming in pain, and Carl was on the edge of climbing the walls with the sheer power of his small fingers and nerves alone. His maids were not allowed to let Carl get close to his Mother’s chambers, Father was nowhere in sight and no one seemed to care about the increasing panic hallowing him from the inside.  

It didn’t matter that he was polite, charmed even the rugged and the cynical with his shy demure and endearing face, Father’s subjects didn’t want him. Not really. Something that Carl didn’t really understand even after receiving countless explanations. 

He knew he was not exactly the most well behaved child, always ready to run from behind his nursemaid’s skirts when they looked the other way in search of a new adventure. Shamelessly bargained with the cooks to get sweets and pastries before meals, pouting and joining his hands in a pleading—not even Father could resist that. Failed to pay attention to the maesters from time to time when the lessons got too boring and his brain would float away thinking about what would it take to convince Father to let him fly with Shrykos now that she was bigger than him, or at least to take him to the skies with Draxtar again, or thinking about the tales he had read previously in the thick books he got as gifts. Thinking of himself as a skilled knight whose sword was made of indestructible valyrian steel or as a fearless pirate, navigating through the wild sea with only a map and the stars to guide him. 

Carl could be better, but he could be worse too. So why the only thing they cared about was for Father to have another child? Why was there such a commotion every time Mother announced she was expecting? 

Babes were annoying, anyway. They can’t do anything but sleep and cry, why would they want a thing like that instead of Carl? At least he already knew how to look after himself, even if he liked it when others did that for him. 

Mother said it was because of his scent. An Omega scent. That in the world that they lived in, with Father being King, he needed an heir. An Alpha heir. 

It was the silliest thing Carl had ever heard. All the Alpha children he had met in court were rude and snobbish, could barely keep up with him in a conversation, and honestly, smelt really bad. Regardless of their age, child or grown adult, his nose wrinkled in disgust every time one of them got too close with their imposing pheromones and presumptuous attitude, trying to dig their fingers into business that were not theirs. 

He much rather preferred Father’s scent. cedarwood, warm and sweet and a tad smoky, like a fireplace or the hot puffs of Shrykos’s breaths. He loved to shove his face in the crock of his neck and breathe him in. His favorite place to hide.

But Father was Father, so it made sense. 

Cal wondered for a while if there was something wrong with his own scent, for people to prefer the alternative, but Father was very adamant about how he was perfect, that he smelled like the sweetest thing in the world. That he shouldn’t worry his pretty little head about it. That his scent was his favorite and nothing could compare.

At the time, no one had explained to him that Alphas were favored for what they had in between their legs. 

Father’s constant reassurance soon became ineffective when the babe finally arrived, and he had to throw the most embarrassing tantrum until the King showed up at his door, his hair disheveled like he messed it up with his fingers multiple times and a tired looking face.

“Kepa!” Carl exclaimed, bouncing on his heels and giggling as he threw himself on his arms. Father was strong enough to carry him even with the constant growth of his body. 

The maids in the room all sighed in relief. 

“Carl.” He reprimanded, irritation melting away to his usual fondness when Carl kissed him. “You know better than to be difficult.” 

Carl sagged down on his hold with a happy wiggle, rubbing his small nose on his neck, taking deep breaths where he smelled the strongest, before settling his head on his broad shoulders. After two days of being deprived of Father's comforting scent, he finally felt the knot on his belly loosening.  

“Want to meet your brother?” Father whispers, rubbing his back up and down.

Carl bit his lip. He was ready to scream empty threats about throwing himself out of the window minutes ago if that meant seeing his Father, and now that he was being taken to the Queen’s room, he was not sure on what to do. 

“What if he doesn’t like me?” He asked with a small voice, tiny finger twirling one of the curls of Father's nape.

They stopped in the middle of the corridor, Carl whining when Father pulled him away so he could see his face. “Hey, look at me.” The violet in his eyes shone like crystals against the light, “He will love you, Carl. Just like we do. Just like I do. Okay?” 

Carl pouted but nodded, getting a sweet kiss as consolation. 

Mother looked exhausted lying on the nest of pillows against the headboard, skin paler than usual and hair stuck to her forehead, but she had a serene expression on her face.

Father left him on the bed, going for the cradle as Carl went to Mother, kissing her cheek in greeting and murmuring worried questions. 

Her smile was blinding, “I am okay, my sweet boy. Want to meet him?” 

He took a look at the small bundle in Father’s arms, wrinkling his nose at how ugly it looked. His brother was really eager to leave Mother’s womb. His eyes were closed, but Carl hoped they were purple just like his own and Father’s. 

“Big brother Carl.” Father drawls with a smile.

Carl snorted, puffing out his chest. “Pretty cool, huh?” 

The babe died two days later.

Another two of his siblings went through the same fate. Coming into the world too weak to keep breathing on their own. Many of Mother’s pregnancies didn’t last moons enough for her belly to grow. Some believed it was a curse from the Gods above. And yet, none of them stopped demanding, again and again, for a child that visibly would never come. 

To them, Mother was not a person, but a babe machine. Was of no consequence if all that effort caused irreversible damage, if her health was declining and her body getting weaker, like a flower slowly fading, decaying until there was nothing left but a shriveled grey petals and a dry stem. 

The Gods seemed to like his siblings, taking them away from Carl before he even got the chance to meet them, to see who they would become.

Perhaps in the meantime, they have started to grow fond of Mother too. 

The taste of bile is still fresh in his mouth no matter how many times he had washed it, acrid and bitter. Deadly, flooding the back of his mouth, ready to poison him. 

Father didn’t bother to give him the news, standing in silence while one of the masters stole the ground underneath his feet. Something about the babe’s position, a tremendous amount of blood loss. She would not leave the bed she lied on, with a babe or not. 

The maester said that Mother chose to let go of her last breath to give the babe a chance to live. 

She was cut open like a pig, and his brother didn’t even open his eyes before his heart stopped a few hours later. 

A sudden flow of resentment hits him like an arrow aimed straight to his chest, so powerful like nothing he has felt before—towards anyone, but even less towards his Father—it scares him for a moment. His fingers curl tighter and tighter until his knuckles are aching and the prickle of his nails leave reddish crescent moon shapes in his palms. 

Carl is used to it. Had an entire life to learn how to handle the sneer, the pitying looks and complaisant words that held no meaning. But the disappointment was crystal clear even to the ones with no eye to see. The inevitable end of House Targaryen was a topic persistently discussed since the dance of the dragons, that fateful event his house never recovered from. The dance took everything that set them apart from common humans, their dragons, their silver locks, his own people. And now, with the last Targaryen’s first born being an omega, and his wife’s pathetic inability to give him an heir—late wife, Carl thinks, nauseous, late wife—certainly leaves space to wonder if the end of a dynasty has finally come. 

If it was not for Father’s and the realm's incessant insistence for an Alpha heir, maybe his Mother would be alive by now. If they did not hold themselves to antiquated and outdated rules that Omegas should not rule, Carl would be the heir and all this bother would be done. 

Worse than worn out annoyance born of all the disdain that has always been directed to his second gender from unknown and known mouths, is Father’s evident lack of faith in him. Maybe he would never wield a blade like the bravest Alpha warriors that sat on the sea of sharp steel since The Conquest, but it is not only strength that makes a person a good ruler. 

With the right guidance and incentive, he could have been a great heir. Deep down, Carl did not even wanted to be the one bearing the weight of the crown—he has watched his Father for a life, only a fool who has been blind by the hunger of power would put himself in that position willingly—but to see how easily he was rejected and disposed as nothing but a broodmare who could only contribute with perpetuating his line was a wound that would always bleed. Were he born a woman but an Alpha, while still not the ideal to the most traditionalist, would have been slightly better than his current reality. 

It frustrates him, drives him mad. Sometimes, Carl entertains this fantasy, where he grabs Father by the shoulders and shakes him until his golden crown falls off. Screams at his face and punches his chest, desperate in his need for him to finally see Carl for who he is entirely, and not just his second gender. 

His Mother nurtured his growing body and kept him safe in her womb for nine months, the only babe she brought to the world healthy, with enough fat in his pink cheeks to pinch. She had always said that he was a child made with love. He wonders if the fate of his deceased and unborn siblings were doomed by the slow deterioration of their marriage throughout the years, if the love was not there anymore. 

Or maybe they are truly cursed. 

Carl feels a soft nudge against his arm. It is Ser Daryl. 

“He’s counting on you.” He whispers for him only.

Carl doesn't want to. He wants to scream, throw himself and curse at every person who is present, make a scene and give them something they will never forget. Let the venom that pools under his tongue spill and order an explanation on how they are able to hold their own weight on their feet and expect him to do the same when his Mother and brother are dead.  

Their relationship was far from perfect. Mother was overbearing, wanted Carl to live inside of a glass dome, was condescending and made mistakes when attempting to make things right. But she was still his Mother. She was the one who took care of him when Father was away, the one who fed him from her own bosom, who told him he was capable of doing anything he wanted, that she would always be proud of him. No magic or God can grow him another one. 

Helpless, exposed, bleeding and throbbing, he feels like an open wound. Carl looks at the unmoving body that used to be his Mother, wrapped head to toe in funeral cloths, a smaller frame clad in the same way by her side, and Carl once again fights the bile rising all the way up in his throat.

Shrykos will open her mouth, spill a stream of fire so potent it could burn cities, but Carl feels that when he opens his, the only thing that will come out are his guts. 

His voice is coarse, and the word sounds strange even to himself. Shrykos, ever in tune with his emotions, can feel his inner turmoil. She hesitates to follow his command, tilts her head to the side, almost like a question. Are you sure? There’s so much intelligence and understanding in her eyes, Carl desperately wants to jump on her back and fly far away from King’s Landing. Wants to jump in the ocean to see if the salt and water can seep through his skin and wash the suffering from his muscles and bones. If he can swim deeper and deeper, until he resurfaces in a different universe, a place where his Mother has not yet been taken from him.

Carl bites his tongue, and with a final huff, Shrykos opens her maw, spurting fire in his Mother’s direction, the flames consuming her and the babe. 

Father doesn’t expect it to end before walking away without a word or a look back, and for once, Carl doesn’t have it in himself to run after him. He just watches him leave, his figure getting smaller and smaller as his legs carry him away from the dead body of his late wife burning and the sounds of his son’s soul breaking. 

When he is out of sight, Carl finally feels the emptiness that settles itself within his heart with full force, hard and heavy, pulling him down into a bottomless pit of nothing, with no one to stop his fall.

It was only a matter of time until the whispers about a new consort go from harmless inquisitiveness to resolute ultimatums that can't be subdued. Three fortnights flew away in a blink of an eye, with Carl scarcely leaving his room—if not for the occasional visits to the dragonpit—the only people he made contact with being Michonne and the servants. 

He and Father haven’t talked. The few times he has seen him, Father was quick on his steps like a mad man—with dark spots under his eyes, thinner underneath his garments, sunken cheeks and paleness stealing the sunny glow of his skin, he looked like a tormented ghost haunting the walls of the Keep. Carl tried to find him alone, since he was always in the company of others when outside of his cave, but Father would hardly spare him a look. 

Carl knows it is a King’s duty to wed again if the need rises, especially when the current ruler has no heir. Father is no exception. On the contrary, after the poor performance his deceased lady wife bestowed upon in the past years, the realm is elated by the prospect of a new consort.  

Even if House Targaryen is not what it used to be, now more than ever, on the verge of extinction, none of the lords or ladies would waste the opportunity to throw their Omega sons and daughters at Father’s feet like a piece of meat, salivating at the possibility of an alliance with the dragon King, for a chance of their grandchildren having dragon eggs inside their cradles. 

Their greed sickenens him. But deep down, Carl can’t help but feel pity for those Omegas. Not solely for the poor treatment they were victims of but because, in all honesty, Carl couldn’t see Father taking a real and genuine interest in any of them. 

In all the years Mother and Father had been married, Carl was there, watching from the sidelines. They undermined him because of his youth, thinking he wouldn't understand or even bother to pay attention, but if acting clueless was the price he had to pay to pry into his parents’ business without being noticed, he would happily do so. 

Over time, their differences became more noticeable. When it mattered, it seemed that Father and Mother spoke two completely different languages. 

Their irrevocable inability to communicate—and consequently, to truly connect with each other on a personal level, stood in between them like a wall, their words getting lost in the wind. 

He had the feeling that Mother often waited for Father to give her something—she was always looking, wordless attempts of begging with her eyes alone. Carl didn't know exactly what it was, could not put a name to it, but it looked like Father was incapable of giving.

Anyone else would criticize her for it. What more could someone in Mother’s position want? but Carl could understand her. Father was committed to their needs, thoughtful and compassionate in a way only a few men were, but he was also uncommunicative. Often to his detriment.  

Had a tiresome predisposition to lock himself up in his own head, with no spare key left to uninvited guests. Carl could see it was not intentional, Father would rather cut his own hand off than to purposefully hurt the ones he loved, but old habits died hard. When the need called, he would flee, high enough and far away, to somewhere no one could reach. 

From the outside, Father and Mother looked like the perfect match, the type of couple that would make those who yearned for romance sigh dreamily, even if their union came around merely for duty rather than love. They didn't despise each other, which in a scenario where many have to wed people they held no affection for, it was already a victory for itself. 

But the cracks were there for anyone who dared to look a little closer to see. 

Father had a darkness inside of him, a willingness to strike back that went beyond simple self preservation. An ugly and dangerous thing that all around him knew, but none of them were made enough to speak out loud about it or to try to push back against. It was not uncommon for a Targaryen, or any man of war, but instead of embracing it, learn how to balance it, he tried his hardest to lock it away. 

It manifested itself in the tension that emerged when the King and Queen were in the same room, their smiles a bit too placid and strained at the corners, trying to pretend everything was fine—undeniably, for Carl’s sake. Or in the constant looks full of anguish and desperation Mother used to give Father when he was not looking; like she was considering sticking her hand on the flames and pushing his buttons to have him to finally speak his mind, but was scared of the words that could leave his mouth.

Father was broken, no less beautiful and no less good, but broken nonetheless. Time only hardened the walls that protected his torn pieces. 

Based on all of those things, Carl thinks Mother craved to have access to that side of Father —his anger, his words, his passion—without fully compromising, because in the end, the truth she didn’t want to face was that she could not handle it. She wanted to understand him, to be his equal and be his rock, but she feared whatever was hidden behind his fortress, and therefore, was incapable of accepting him as who he is. Father, as a result, tried his best to be solicitous like he has always been, but the emotional distance kept him from standing with both feet in the room, like he was never fully there in the first place. 

In spite of being confined into a spider-web of discomfort, Mother was still gracious, bearing all the weight of their marriage on her shoulders, but there was only so much she could carry without breaking down when Father refused to meet her in the midst. 

Notwithstanding all the avid lessons and someone's endurance on how to be the perfect husband or wife, Carl is still uncertain about the prospect of another marriage, how long it will take for the next Omega to see past the illusory mist of passion and notice the shaky ground they would be forced to walk through with a frozen smile and a heavy belly. 

It was quite strange, the contradiction. The closest he has ever felt from divinity was when he is with his Father. Carl worshipped the myth he made of him. He felt his presence inside of him like a closed fist around his heart, and on the outside, after him, following him everywhere he goes. He would pray, ask for guidance, hear the low and soft timbre of his voice in his ears, feel all the weight of Father's love for him down to his bones. But then there were days where Carl would be in the same room with him and nothing would be able to cease the waves of loneliness from crashing over him, knocking him down without lenience. Where all his prayers would be left unheard, and the only thing left behind was the sting caused by the corners and bumps of betrayal he tried to force down his throat with his fingers, because one should never turn their back to the God they devote themselves for. 

Perhaps that is exactly who Father was made to be. The representation of divinity on earth, sculpted in marble for him to pray to, but always cold to touch. Stars away from the truth in his heart. 

He can feel that abyss now. Excruciatingly, it pulls him down by his feet like shackles around his ankles. He didn’t know he was capable of feeling that miserable until now. 

Carl sits on a wooden bench a few meters away from the room where The Small Council reunions take form, patiently waiting while distracting himself with the soothing movement of his legs swinging back and forth, unfocused eyes to the sky. They definitely will rattle on about the urgency of a new consort, for the birth of the new heir and to remind Carl of his uselessness as a son. Nothing out of the ordinary.  

There’s still time for him to run away from his responsibilities—as if being a cupbearer was something to be proud of—to the dragonpit and take Shrykos for a ride, for certain she will be more of a pleasant company than what awaits him behind the doors. 

Carl made Father order a giant collar that connects with her saddle, with a silver heart pendant held by leathers that will sparkle along the bluish purple of her thick skin. He got a necklace for himself too so they could match, the pendant decorated with some of her scales. Michonne might be right, Carl does treat her like a kitten, but he can’t help himself. She is his most treasured friend, a princess as much as he is a prince, and deserves to be treated and spoiled as such. It is good that there was no other female dragons around, otherwise they would feel jealous of— 

His ears perk up to footsteps and he blinks to his right, watching dark and polished boots take one step after another until the man takes notice of Carl’s presence and halts. 

“Carl,” His Father starts. It is disturbingly fascinating to see a man who is always so sure of himself squirming in place, hesitant in his own words. It is petty, but Carl appreciates his visible discomfort. “You are early.” 

Carl only gives him a blank face and his silence, staring at him wondering if he is being dense on purpose or if he simply wishes to irk Carl even more. At least he seems to know better than to try his luck and sit besides Carl, opting to lean his hip on the stone railing in front of his bench. He looks so grumpy Carl wants to laugh.

“How have you been?” Father tries again.

And then all his mirth is gone

“Oh, so now you are talking to me? Forgive me, Your Grace, I thought you were no longer aware of my existence.” 

Father opens his mouth, glowering like he wants to lash out but bites his tongue at the last minute. He sighs instead, unclenching his fists and forcing his body to relax. He should be thankful Carl didn’t try to make a scene in front of the court and scream at him about how he has been a horrible father. 

His purple gaze burns heavily on Carl’s face, unblinking, both present and distant. It is enough to make Carl see red.

“What?” He snaps.

“Nothing, it is just.. you look so much like her.”

At once, the knot that has been around his throat every day for Gods knows how long gets bigger. Tighter. Ready to bust his windpipe.

The week after Mother’s funeral, Carl felt like a walking-dead. Dragging his body around like it was nothing but a sack of bones. Dressing, brushing his hair, eating, everything in a fugue. When he finally snapped out of it, Carl studied himself in the looking glass. Eye bags and blood shot eyes. His skin—now looking even paler than usual—juxtaposed with his black clothing played its part and made him look like something that was forgotten to be buried. He felt like the prey and its own hunter, tormenting himself with his own reflection, all the lines Mother left from her face into his as a goodbye gift. 

They have always looked alike. Mother’s jaw was more defined than his, and her eyes were pale blue instead of purple, but other than that, there was no doubt they were related.

It was lovely to think he was as pretty as her, and now it feels like a mockery. The loud crash of the looking glass against the floor felt gratifying, shattering in tiniest pieces like a million stars. 

It was a shame the object was replaced for a brand new one when he returned to his room hours later.

“I presume this is why you have been avoiding me, then.” Carl sighs, retracting his claws, resigned and hurt. 

Father’s silence is loud like thunder.

“Mother used to tell me I was a mini you.” Carl tells, hesitant, fidgeting with his fingers. “What use would I have of her features if I’d act like my stubborn Father.”

Father snorts. His upper lip curls over his teeth, a tiny little thing, but the sight makes a small flame of tenderness light up in his heart, his spine minimally relaxes for the first time in weeks. He was aware of the distance between them, but to see the first sight of happiness in his Father’s face since the funeral—because of him, directed at him— made him realize how unbearably desperate he was to have the affection he had his entire life back. 

“Do you agree?” 

Father hums questioningly.  

“That we are similar.” Carl explains.

“No.” Father turns his head to look at him. Carl wonders if the way his body deflates was too visible.“You take after me in a lot of ways, but in the end, You are the best of me. I could live a hundred lives and  would still not be worthy of said comparison.”

Carl wants to protest, wants to say how he can go for hours about how Father is the most incredible man he has ever seen, how there’s nothing he could do that would make Carl see him differently. But for some reason, the words get trapped in his throat. 

His mouth opens and closes fruitlessly, and he frowns unhappily. Father takes pity on him, offering his hand. Carl could sob in relief as he grabs his fingers, getting up to stand between his thighs. Father is a whole head taller than Carl, usually he has to crane his neck up to look at him, but in this position their height difference is almost inexistent. He holds himself still as Father trails his fingers over the lines of his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, touch so tender it makes him want to weep again. 

“People say Targaryens are closer to gods than men,” Father says, in the same low tone he used to tell Carl bedtime stories before sleep. His long fingers in his hair and the same bewitched look that—Carl had no idea, at the time, being much too young to recognize—belonged to him and him only. “Whereas I know it holds no truth, part of it might be. Only a God could shape a miracle into flesh as I did to you. My greatest creation.” 

A small sob rips out of him without permission. Father immediately pulls him to his embrace, to where he belongs, cradling him with so much force as if he was trying to merge their bodies together, to physically transfer whatever discomfort Carl has to himself.

The first time Carl flew, it was not Shrykos, his baby too small to carry him on her back, but with Father’s dragon, Draxtar. He sat in his saddle, with Father as a vast and firm wall in his back. He grabbed the reins with all the force his tiny hands possessed—at Father’s request, as well as the leather strap attaching him to the dragon—and watched with a great amount of exhilaration as the red beast took them from the ground. The feeling was indescribable. Carl was overflowing with glee, screaming to Father to fly them higher, to fly them faster, a mix of giggling and coughing due to the wind choking his lungs. In that moment, all the rules, etiquette classes, scolding, heavy itchy fabrics and expectations that were too heavy for a child were gone. Carl was free. The only thing that made it all even better was the security and solace his Father’s arms brought, unmovable from both sides of his small torso. 

Instinctively, Carl tries to make himself smaller in Father’s hold, stomach quickly flooded with dread at the thought of one day not being able to fit in his arms anymore. The only place he knew where to go when the heaviness and uncertainty of the world weighed him down. Where else would he go? Who would dry his tears, hold his hand, break his own back just to make Carl break a smile? Who was he if not his Father’s sweet boy? 

Carl clings to him with the same enthusiasm. Father shoves his face into Carl’s neck without regard for the public space they are in and plainly sniffs Carl, inhaling his scent. Father’s beard is longer than usual, the coarse hair rubs against the sensitive part of his throat, simultaneously making him laugh and shiver.

“It tickles.” He gasps, still weak on Father’s hands. 

Father pulls back and scratches his chin, sweet in his bashfulness. “Perhaps it is time to shav–”

“No!” 

Father arches one brow, curious. Carl’s face burns.

“I mean– There is no need for that Father. You shall only trim it, if you must.” 

“I will take your word for it.” 

“Yes. You look– good. Really good. With the beard.”  

Father hums, amusement glinting in his eyes. 

“I mean it.” Carl insists.

“Okay, okay.” Father coincides, his hands in the air and a gloating grin on his handsome face. “I am nothing but a servant to my prince’s wishes.” 

There it was. After numerous days, the same treacherous spark is back, heating the blood underneath his skin.  

“Speaking of wishes.” He sobers, unaware of Carl’s turmoil. “I owe an apology. I know I have been… distant, in the last weeks.” distant is an euphemism “It is not fair to you, as you are grieving as well.”

“Yes, it is not fair. Just–” Carl licks his lips, shrugging. “Don’t forget about me.” 

“Hey.” Father says, serious in a way he only is when he is wearing his crown. “Never, okay? There is not a moment in my days, in my life, where you are not in my thoughts. You are always the first and the last thing I think about. Do not think for a second I would ever want or even be capable of forgetting about you. Okay?” 

Carl can only nod, struggling not to tear up. 

“Good. Never forget that. It is not your fault, anyway. I just did not wish to be a bother to you, sweet boy, as I am far from an enjoyable company right now.” 

“That is not true, not to me. You are always lovely.” a pause. “Well, most of the time.”

“Not many would agree with you. Come here.” Father pulls him close again, one hand in the middle of his back and the other on his face, thumb caressing the dip on his chin. He sighs, “Always so thoughtful with your old man, what did I do to deserve someone as marvelous as you, hm?” 

“Not every man was blessed with me as their son.” Carl agrees solemnly, aiming to calm down the storm of butterflies inside his tummy with fake nonchalance. “You shall make up to me if you want to be forgiven for your crimes.”

“Oh, I must do my best to earn your royal highness’ forgiveness then.”

“Precisely. I am the prince, in case you forgot, I could have you thrown in the dungeons for all the distress you have caused me if I wish so. The King would agree.” He sniffs. 

Father barks a laugh. “He definitely would.” He gently strokes Carl’s cheek, putting a lock of hair behind his ear. “What can I do to compensate you for the inconvenience, my prince? You name it and it is yours.”

Carl perks up like a pup.

“Anything?” 

“Anything.” 

He studies Father, face open and eyes honest, his facial bone structure perfect and stance at ease. Carl drinks the sight of him like a man lost in the desert dying of thirst. His eyes flicker momentarily to his mouth, teeth nibbling at his own bottom lip, another set of violet following the motion. His palms sweaty as he takes them to Father’s sturdy chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady, beautiful and alive and finally on Carl’s reach. It’s been so long, maybe he could, just this once–

“Father,” Carl breathes, ready to beg if he has to. “I want–” 

“Your Grace.” A third voice says.

Carl jumps in his place, and Father’s posture instantly tenses, the playful and intimate moment gone. He gets up and clears his throat, leaving his personal space. Carl bites a whine, mourning the loss of contact, and turns around, almost snarling when he sees the face whose voice belongs.

Lord Negan.

The master of ships stands a few feet away, tall and proud with his hands resting behind his back, cheek crinkling by the customary nasty smirk on his lips. 

Carl swallows, nervous under his stare. Father made it clear multiple times his absolute distaste for the man, the only reason why he was in court and a part of the small council was that he was, unfortunately for anyone who had to be in his presence, useful and sharp. Sharper than most.  

Sometimes you need to keep your enemies close, Father said to him once. 

Carl wishes Father would simply kill him instead. Shrykos would love to have insolent men for dinner. 

“We are ready for you, Your Grace.” Negan says, with the usual amusement in his tone as he extends his arm in the door’s direction, like everything to him is a jest. Carl scrunches his nose in clear distastefulness. Negan looks down at him and tilts his head, “Little prince.”

Father nods and squeezes his arm before walking away. Carl wants to pull him back, craving him more and more after being deprived for so long.

Lord Negan is not much different from other Alphas and the stereotypes that follow them around. He is almost theatrical in his loudness and arrogance, acts like he owns the ground he walks in and looks at other people like he is always one step ahead and they are nothing but dirt under his fingernails.

But there is something about him, a maniac glint in his eyes, close to true madness. 

Carl knows a dangerous man when he sees one. 

Usually, like any other Omega being victim of an Alpha’s attention, Carl doesn't like the way the man looks at him, something overconfident and malicious flashing in his eye that never fails to make the hairs in the back of his nape stand up.

Now, there is curiosity mixed with the habitual mischief, and something even more presumptuous, like he knows something Carl doesn't. 

Like he is scheming.

Carl doesn’t like that look. At all.

He turns away from him and enters the room, with a bad feeling in his chest. 

“Your grace, I fear we are forgetting the most obvious suitor.” 

Carl struggles not to roll his eyes in a blatant show of annoyance at Lord Negan's ominous tone, gaze still locked to the three headed dragon tapestry displayed in the far wall across him. The Small Council chamber is half gloomy, only a few candelabras lit alongside the spikes of light coming from the holes carved on the walls, a thin and transparent veil separating the room from the balcony. 

In its center, sitting across from each other in the weirwood table, there's Father’s advisors, the large marbles placed in the middle of their respective circular dish to testify their attendance. 

For the past twenty minutes, they have been confabulating about potential matches for the King. Carl has filled each of their cups already, getting small smiles and polite nods of acknowledgment for his service. Grand maester Renee catches his eye and he gives him a wink, probably seeing through his placid expression. Carl stifles a snort and turns around, making himself busy by fidgeting with the wine jar and cups left, reorganizing it in different positions. 

 “And who would that be?” Father asks. He too sounds like wishes to be anywhere else but here. 

“His royal highness, the prince, of course.”

The whole room stops. Carl feels his muscles freezing so violently it is a wonder the silver jar doesn't slip his hold. He knows they are looking back and forth between each other, the King, and Carl. The weight of their gazes makes him want to shrink, and he holds his breath before slowly peering over his shoulder.

“What.” The King says flatly. He fondles the colored round stone with his right hand absentmindedly, no emotion in his face, but the lines of his shoulders are a bit too strained, his spine as straight as the back of the chair he sits on. “You suggest I marry my son of four-and-ten?”

“Why not? You were only a few years older when you became King. He'll be five-and-ten soon and will flower, the ripe age for mating. He's a royal, and officially or not, the heir of the iron throne, has all the necessary capacity to rule beside you as consort and one day, as the King of the seven kingdoms, if Your Grace wishes so. And if it is not the case, the prince is young and healthy, and will have no trouble with giving you an heir. Multiples.” Lord Negan gives Father that infatuating smirk of his. “It doesn’t hurt that the prince is a stunning omega who grows more beautiful everyday. Not that it is a struggle to notice that, I am sure, Your Grace has eyes.” 

Carl bites his tongue, wanting to cover his flushed face. Or perhaps to throw the jar against Negan’s head. The wine was dark enough to pass as blood if he squinted, he could pretend if that meant appeasing his heart and its wish to watch the man bleed. Was everything a jest to him? How could one be so insolent? Even in the King’s presence?

“And what makes him different from the others,” Lord Negan keeps going, mindless of the looks being thrown at him. “He has the blood of the dragon. We shall be honest, your marriage with the late Queen would not have been the first option if your late father had left you any omega siblings. But the prince is a Targaryen through and through. If he were to bear your children, there would be no doubt about securing your lineage and your claim to the throne.” 

”I am sure you are also aware of the realm's.. distaste for this tradition. It is distasteful as it is for them to see a marriage between brothers and sisters, how do you think they would react with their King marrying his own son? A large number would not hang back from showing their discontentment.”  

“Since when was someone else's discontentment ever stopped Targaryens from doing anything?” Negan waves a hand, unconcerned. “Put whomever is foolish enough to say a thing in front of Your Grace's dragon to see if they will have a problem holding their tongues.”  

The inside walls of the Red keep were a place Carl knew all the cricks, curves and secrets like the lines of the palm of his hand. His favorite pastime as a kid was to play—and force others to follow his whims—hide and seek. He loved to see how long it would take for one of his maids to find him, running through the hallways calling his name with urgency in their tones. When some of them were clever enough to find him, they were out of breath and distressed, scolding him about how that was no proper behavior of a prince, but Carl would only scrunch his nose cutely and giggle and giggle until his tummy hurt, giving them apologies they all knew he did not really meant, and that he would probably do it again as soon as he had the chance.

Now, only muscle memory stops him from turning to the wrong corridor as he pathetically stumbles his way to his room. Carl can barely hear the sound of his own steps. It feels like someone invaded his brain and scraped it from the inside, altering his capacity to form coherent thoughts. Like he is trying to hold on onto sand but it keeps slipping through his fingers.

Marriage. Marriage. Marriage. The word keeps repeating itself in his head, taunting him.

Marriage. With his Father. 

He feels foolish. Carl knows he is.. overly enraptured by Father. Is aware there's a myriad of emotions swirling inside the enclosures of his heart, ready to flare up just by the mere mention of Father's name, but to him, that was just the way things are. Just another part of him, rooted down his body like deep veins located within muscle tissue. He had never stopped to put much thought into what those feelings truly were, because loving his Father was like wanting to go somewhere, knowing he can because he has two legs that can support his weight. Like standing in front of Shrykos, admiring her majestic beauty and strength, touching her scaly skin without an inch of fear because they spoke the same language, and the unspoken trust that his touch would never bring her any harm. Like blinking, hearing and breathing. It all came naturally to him. 

How dense could he have been all this time? To really believe that all affection and worship was something exclusively platonic? Pure admiration from a son to a father?

The marble wall is cold under his touch, his window presenting him the view of the castle’s garden; the sole of his feet prickle with the memory of green grass and he thinks of Mother. What would she say if she was there? Worse, had she ever noticed anything odd about the way Carl acted around Father? Did she ever notice how Carl opened up in full bloom like a rose under the sun for Father? How thousand petals could be gathered in the garden of his heart just by the very sight of him? Was one look enough for her to immediately know there was something fundamentally wrong with him? That she had given birth to an aberration? 

Father had this habit since when Carl was a babe, of kissing him on the mouth. It was a simple peck on his lips, chaste, sweet and innocent like any other type of affection Father would often show him, and just one of the many things Father would do to cherish him. No one batted an eye, cooing at the prince and his small legs running in the King’s direction, the way he would disarm the most powerful man in Westeros with just one look, the severe scowl shifting to a mushy smile. Father would take him up in his arms, let Carl rest his tiny palms against his bearded cheek and chuckle fondly at his pout, asking for a kiss. 

It became a problem after Carl hit the age of ten. According to Mother, it was no longer acceptable for a child as grown as he was to kiss his Father like that. In Carl’s mind, the claim made no sense. Father had spent his entire life acting this way with him, why suddenly he was not allowed to do it anymore? Not even his tantrums made Mother waver, she only reassured him that there were still many ways they could express their fondness for each other, just not with that one in particular. 

The bigger betrayal was when, after the ultimatum, Carl pursed his lips wordlessly to Father like he always did, and rather than his customary kiss, he got a displeased grimace and a small shake of head “No more of those, lad,” his Father said, kissing his cheek instead.  

Carl was inconsolable for days, paying for a crime he did not even know he had committed. It took months for him to fully make peace with the fact that he was not allowed to have Father’s kisses anymore, especially in the occasions where Father and Mother would kiss in front of him, cruelly rubbing in his face what he could no longer do. 

But Carl was a big boy, willingly or not, he had to move on. Aware of his sullenness, Father made everything he could to compensate for the lack of kisses, spoiling him in any and every other way he could, by spending more time with him, regardless of his busy schedule as King, chasing him around the Keep, taking him to horse and dragon rides, giving him new toys, he even started to give him jewelry, a simple silver necklace with with a single amethyst that matched a pair of earrings with the purple gemstone. It will bring out your eyes, Father said, pecking his nose. 

On the times he left the castle with Father, Mother would hug him tightly, kiss him in the crown of his head and say “Be careful okay? Make sure to take care of your Father, too.” Naturally, Carl would nod his head fiercely, no doubt in his mind he would look after him. 

This was, unquestionably, not what Mother imagined when she had said those words to him. 

Out of the two, she was the one who never shied away from the possibility of Carl becoming Father’s official heir. She was not an avid advocate either, being a female Omega raised by the Faith of the Seven, but in a few instances, when the questioning and judgement became too much, bitterness flooding her senses due her own body failing her, Mother would hiss quietly about how she had given the King his heir already, but neither the court or small folk seemed to care about that. The only thing worthy enough of gossip was how she was useless, unqualified in her only duty, in the same way Carl was unqualified to do the one thing that occasioned him being brought into the world in the first place.

The two of them were both failures, in their own way. How poetic.

Is this what you have wished for, Mother? He wonders darkly, that instead of replacing Father as King, he could be replacing her, as his consort? That his way of taking care of Father would be by opening his legs for him? Letting him fill his womb with his seed so nine months later the kingdom could celebrate the birth of the true heir?

Mother was not a Targaryen, after all. She definitely had her reservations about their queer costumes, although there was no need for them to be said out loud, since there were not enough Targaryens left for those practices to be happening. 

Carl has read it before. In books and tomes, everything about their old costumes. How it was normal for their kind to marry their own kin, to keep the dragon blood strong. But Father had no siblings, Carl had no aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents or great grandparents for him to ask questions to. 

Until yesterday, this tradition was history only. And now, it is an alternative. A real, slowly growing and taking form to an-almost-tangible possibility that Carl could get married. To Father. 

The more he thinks about it, the more his head starts to hurt. Especially because, if he allows one moment of brutal honesty under the roof of his own room with only himself and furniture as testimony, his soul does not share the same opinion as the imaginary words of disapproval coming from the ghost of his Mother. 

It is as if after having the lewd suggestion basically rubbed on his face, it triggered something he was not even aware it resided inside himself. There are whispers purring low from the cracks of his ribs, murmuring about how Father occupied the place of a mate in his life long before anyone else had the chance. How no Alpha could ever compare with the hands that both cradled him since his first breath and drew blood to his protection. He could not see the sin coming from a bond as pure as theirs, where Fate itself tore the skies apart and entwined their souls together, the same blood in two different bodies. 

How could he even dare to consider their union, his and Father’s, something wrong? 

“I don’t remember requesting your presence.” It is the first thing Father says. He doesn't seem bothered—or surprised, Carl notices curiously—by the fact that Carl is in his chambers this late, though, with humor laced behind his tone despite the tiredness pulling his eyelids down and the frown that seems permanently imprinted in his forehead for the past weeks. As soon as he closes the door, his hands go to the belt around his hips, unbuckling it with a quick precise movement.  

Carl scoffs. "I don’t remember needing permission to see my own Father.” He replies easily, jutting his chin in defiance. 

Father stops, finally taking a proper look at him. Carl is sitting down on his mattress, both arms and legs crossed. Purposely, he even shakes his feet a little just to taunt Father with the fact he did not bother to take his boots off to get on his bed, and allows the man to give him an up and down. 

When their eyes meet again, Carl doesn’t look away. He watches the way Father's head tilts millimetrically to the side, how the long fingers still holding the belt flex almost unconsciously around the leather. There’s nothing extraordinary about the accessory, deep brown with the buckle and other details in gold, but it is sturdy, could probably do some damage to someone's skin if wielded with the right—or wrong—amount of force. It would probably make his skin bruise for days, if Father were to use it on his thighs or—

Carl blinks, confused with where the thought comes from. His entire life, Father never dare to lay as much as a finger on him, even when Carl talked back at him or misbehaved on purpose, but considering the pensive look on his face, it seems like he is also entertaining the idea of putting Carl over his knee, to teach him a lesson about insolence.  

Father drops the belt over the table and the sound snaps Carl out of his trance. He exhales shakily, not even realizing he was holding his breath. 

He knows he has to be cautious about this. One wrong step and it is over. 

“Have you made your choice?” 

“About?” 

“Don’t be obtuse, you must know very well what I'm referring to.”

Father sighs, bracing his arms on the table, head hanging low. Carl can’t see his face like this, but his body looks tired, like he has been carrying the world on his shoulders throughout the day. Carl wants is to touch him and ease all his worries. “That’s what everybody seems to want to know,” He murmurs with a humorless chuckle. “May I not get a lecture from my own son?”

“I’m not trying to lecture you, I'm just… curious.”  

Carl gets up from his spot, legs moving with a mind of its own until he is sitting down on the chair across the table, his shoulder and Father’s thigh almost touching.  

Father gives him a look, clearly not buying his bluff.

“I am. It is not every day a King gets married. Everybody seems to be in high spirits, waiting for the announcement.” 

“What a polite way to say they are being nosy.”  

Carl snorts, no argument to contest. 

“Lord Lannister looks very.. enthusiastic in offering the hand of his niece. What is her name again? Joanna?”

“Jessie.” Father corrects.

“Jessie..” Carl mutters to himself, trying to scrap in his memories anything he knows from the Lannister girl, but there's nothing relevant or memorable to keep. She is just another of the many blonde heads from Casterly Rock. Considering how proud the house of the lion is, he is surprised that her parents would give her such an ordinary name. 

He frowns, “She is pretty, I think.” 

“You think?” Father repeats, with a quirk to his lips.

“Pretty enough, I guess. Well, not pretty like Mother, of course, but–”

“The only person prettier than your Mother is you.” His body is turned to him now, Carl’s eyes instinctively shuts when Father drags his knuckles lightly across his cheekbone. "The type of beauty that men go to war for.” 

“You go miles out of your way to flatter me.” 

“It is not flattery if it is true.”

Carl licks his lips nervously, throat closing when he sees Father tracking the movement. It is the second time today. 

“What Negan suggested–”

“Did it bother you?” Carl blurts, startling both of them.

The frown on his face back at full force. Carl’s fingers clench with the visceral need to smooth the lines on his forehead. 

“What he suggested about us– did it bother you? You did not seem pleased.”

“Not for the reasons you might think.” Father sombers, without offering an explanation.

“Negan is not known for being pleasant,” Carl starts, cautiously. “And in any other circumstance I would loathe the idea of giving him the reason but.. he does have a point.”

Father looks at him as if he has gone mad.

“Many Alphas and Omegas in our lineage have had wed before, to keep the blood pure. It was tradition, no one in our family batted an eye. Dragons marry their own, and we are the only Targaryens left. I just don’t understand what is so outrageous about that.” 

“Tradition between siblings or cousins,” He spits, and Carl’s skin crawls with his tone, like he is talking to a child. “No Targaryen has wedded their own child. Besides, are you truly considering this idea? You–” His face twists into something unreadable before giving Carl a blank look. “You have never shown any thought in this matter, at least not to me.” Father finishes, neutrally.

“And neither have you.” Carl says, harsh in accusation. He clears his throat. “I just never thought it could be a possibility, that is all.” 

His cheeks burn in shame. Carl attempts to bear the sorrow and self loathing hammering against his ribs, trying to eat him alive until only his bones are left, piled down at Father’s feet. Was it really that unacceptable? He was acting like the mere idea of the two of them together was ridiculous and Carl was the only one foolish enough to entertain such stupidity. 

What someone like Father could possibly want to have to do with someone as doltish and naive as Carl? With nothing but his thoughts and youth to offer to a man who could pick and choose whomever he wanted.                 

All the dejection quickly turns into fury, hot and powerful like lava melting down in his tongue, it makes his jaw tick. How dare Father turn his nose to him as if he is not suitable? Carl, the only person who never had to swear an oath to him, who came out of the womb devoted to him already, loving him more than anyone else. The only one who sees and accepts him. 

Dragons should only mate with other dragons.

“I was simply an idea– a stupid one, it seems. I was not aware that the possibility of being married to me would make you so distressed. What is it? Do you not see me good enough to be your consort?”

“Carl, that is not–”

“I mean, it is perceptible that I am not sufficient as heir,” He continues, as if Father had not said anything. He gets up, pacing furiously. “To you or to anyone else in this realm I am nothing but an offspring that came out wrong, a waste of a firstborn. But as an omega, what was supposed to be my role, my duty, even that, you doubt me?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.” There’s a warning in his voice, but Carl is too furious to care.

“But that is all I can do, isn't it? Since you don’t fucking say anything. The only thing you do is run and hide like a coward–”

In one instant, Father a foot away from him, snarling in his face.

“You better watch your tone and the way you speak to me,” He snarls. “I am still your Father.” 

“Well, Father,” Carl says, voice dripping with venom. “Since I am so useless to you, do me a favor and take me out of my misery. Do to me the same thing you did to Mother, stick a fucking knife into my stomach and be done with all this bother. I am sure I will be more useful to you as a corpse than–”

He gasps with the sudden weight of a hand holding him by the throat. His neck was always the first place Father would go to when it came to their touches. His big and warm hand resting there gently as greeting or farewell, to bring him into his arms. It feels different now, with his palm under his chin, fingers so long they almost meet in the back of his nape. Burning his skin. It doesn’t hurt, but his grip is firm, Carl is leveraged up his tiptoes, their faces inches away from each other as Father looks down at him, eyes dark with outrage. 

“Don't you dare to say those things. Do you think I feel no guilt? That I sleep well at night knowing that she allowed herself to be cut open just for one last chance to give me a child, and it was all for nothing? That because of me, you are now motherless?”

“You could have stopped her.” Carl cries weakly.

The emotion in his eyes is too complex for him to read. “I don’t like it as much as you don’t, and regrettable as it is, she made her decision.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you are the King–”

“I will excuse your behavior this time, because you are hurt and tired,” Father continues, low and threatening against his mouth, the hurricane that happens inside of him in conflict with the heat flickering below his belt. It is easy to forget how sharp Father’s teeth are when his bite is never directed at him. “But do not think that because you are who you are, that I will tolerate your insubordination. I am still your Father and you will treat me as such. Do you understand?” 

Carl can’t look away. 

Father tightens his hold, just enough to make his point, and Carl closes his eyes with a whimper. He hears Father’s nostrils flaring, feels the hot air against his face. 

Fuming like a dragon.

“Do you understand, boy?” He repeats, in High Valyrian this time.

“Yes, Father.” 

At once, his neck is free from the burning hand, it leaves him wavering slightly in place, eyelids too heavy. Father is steps away from him, rubbing his face with his palms, the fight gone from his bones. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to– It is late, you and I both need rest.” He announces, and it is not a suggestion. 

Carl knows when his presence is no longer welcome, and to try to push Father when he is in one of these moods will be pointless. So he only waits until Father looks his way again, raises his chin up, relishing in the ugly satisfaction of Father’s flinching when his eyes fall on his likely reddened finger-printed throat. “We are not finished.” he says, slowly, not a threat, but a statement. A promise. “You cannot run away from this, Father, I shall make sure of it.” He gives him one last look before closing the door with more force than necessary. 

Carl’s first thought when his favorite omega-in-waiting, Beth, a sweet girl only a few years older than him, wakes him up with a gentle nudge in his shoulder and a good morrow my prince, the King requests for your presence at the Dragonpit as soon as you wake up, was that something was wrong with his Shrykos. 

Beth sees his panic and reassures him that nothing is wrong with the dragons, waiting for him to wash his face to help him with his riding garments. He thinks about a quick trip to the kitchen to eat something, but curiosity wins over his hunger. 

The closer he gets to the dragonpit, the more he blinks his eyes to make sure it is not a play with the light or that maybe he finally lost his marbles, but the sight in front of him doesn’t change.

The King’s dragon awaits in front of the dragonpit entrance, surrounded by a few dragonkeepers who busy themselves with saddling him. Father is a small black spot standing face to face with the beast, gloved hands petting his snout.   

As if sensing Carl’s presence, Father turns his head back, assessing him up and down and giving a satisfied smile when he is done. He wears proper clothing for flying too, dark leather boots that match his gloves and knee length overcoat, the outfit set glowing under the daylight, his curls falling around the shape of his face. It has been ages since the last time Carl had seen him dressed like that, the light breeze flickering the end of his coat. He looks so painstakingly handsome it takes his breath away. 

Carl clears his throat. “Where is Shrykos?” 

“No Shrykos, today you are flying with me.” 

He tries to tone down the sparkle of excitement, sending a mental apology to his beloved friend. But while Carl has no qualms about riding with Draxtar, familiar with the red dragon since he was a child, the prospect of riding with Father is what makes him agitated. 

Father waves him to get closer, stepping to the side.

Obediently, Carl approaches slowly, with no abrupt moves.

Draxtar scans him, his long snake-like neck moving down to sniff him. When he is satisfied, he gives him a nudge on his chest, gently, that only makes him slightly stumble backwards. A greeting.

Carl laughs.

“Behave.” Father voices with a pointed look.

“Don't be like that, he's always gentle with me.” Carl carefully extends his palm open in the air, a silent request. “Isn't it true, Draxtar? Aren't you always good? Yes you are.” Carl coos, happy that a dragon as temperamental as him allows his touch, rumbling low when Carl scratches the underside of his rough chin, golden yellow eyes closed. 

Father looks at them, bearded cheeks crinkling with lines as he smiles. 

“He always had a soft spot for you, he would never let anyone else get this close.” 

“I do have a reputation of being a delight.” Carl says back, flushing under the attention. 

He cackles when the grumble gets louder, one of the most fearsome dragons that ever walked on earth purring like a lap cat. 

“Ridiculous creature. Next thing you see he'll want you as his rider” 

The red beast turns his head in Father's direction and snaps his jaw closed as a warning, massive teeth clinking. 

“Okay, okay. Let's go before he decides to eat me.” 

Carl giggles at their exchange, taking Father's hand.

He watches him with hawk eyes as Carl carefully climbs over the wing. “Careful with your step.” 

“I do have a dragon, in case you have forgotten. If anything, I should be the one saying that. When was the last time you flew? Maybe you don’t even know what to do anymore.” Carl gasps in mock-chock, “Are you sure you don’t need my help?"

“You must think yourself so funny.” 

He nods, serious. “It is one of my many talents.”

Father waits Carl to get comfortable before climbing too, settling behind him. He slips his arms under Carl’s, a living and breathing belt around his waist as he takes the reins. Carl’s stomach flutters in surprise when Father gives a little kiss on his ear. 

“Soves, Draxtar.” 

The dragon only huffs in response, raising to his hind legs with his bronze red wings flapping in the air.  

The anxiety and anticipation before flight is the same even above a different dragon, but as a passenger he has the chance to lean back and rest on the sturdy chest behind him, cedarwood pheromones encircling him like his own personal cloud, enjoying the view as Father takes them to Gods know where.

King’s Landing gets smaller and smaller until the only view is land and the sea. 

Eventually, Father steers Draxtar to land. Carl takes the new place with a curious hum. Honestly, it looks like they are in the middle of nowhere, a forest where the trees part to give space to a wide field, deep green and seemingly endless if not for a pond on the far right. 

They dismount effortlessly, Father pats Draxtar on his side before leaving him to rest—he wastes no time before flopping his massive body down with a grumbled huff, streams of smoke leaving his nostrils, the ground shaking, to close his eyes and bask under the sun. Carl snorts. Father takes them to a tree close to the pond, extending a blanket for them to sit under the lovely shade. 

It turns out that the basket is packed with enough food for a dozen, with breads, three different types of cheese, butter, strawberry jam, grapes, apples, water, orange juice, and what makes Carl beam with happiness, chocolate cake. 

With his stomach clenching in pain, he doesn’t ask for permission before taking a small amount of butter with a knife and spreading it on a slice of bread, popping pieces of cheese in his mouth while eyeing the cake.

“Slow down, lad, the food won’t grow legs and run away.” Father says amused, apparently more interested in watching him wolf half of their food down instead of eating it himself, satisfied with plucking a few grapes from the stem. 

“Im hungry.” He whines, getting a side look for speaking with his mouth full. “Is it not my fault if someone decided to kidnap me before I even had the chance to break my fast.” 

Father arches one brow. “Am I not allowed to have a day off with my son? I thought you would like it, based on the amount of complaints I get that we were not doing things together anymore.” 

“This is not a complaint, only an observation.” he supports his body with one hand and leans back, admiring the area. The birds chirp their own song, the crystalline water reflects the sunlight and gives an ethereal atmosphere to the place. Carl feels like he tripped and fell directly inside one of his books, a secret place for a little prince to explore with his bare feet and animals trailing behind. His stomach pools warmly and he bites down a smile, touched that Father has found another place they can make it theirs. “I love it, thank you.” 

Father smiles and winks in response. Carl finishes his bread and cheese with a rough swallow and looks away before he does something impulsive, like jumping on Father and kissing him. He turns his attention to the cake. It has three layers, the chocolate filling almost glistens, begging for Carl to devour it mercilessly.

He drinks down the water to make sure there is nothing on his throat and rubs his palms together, smiling wickedly as he looks at the cake like a cat who is about to catch the rat. 

The moan that escapes his mouth at the first bite is so honest and unplanned it makes his ears hot, echoing loudly in the empty space. He flushes harder with the dark look in his Father’s eyes. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles sheepish, cheeks stuffed full with cake. 

Father doesn’t have his sword with him today, no need for it with the massive dragon lying down a few steps away, but he has a dagger attached to his hip, the one with small bumps on the handle that reminds him of a dragon’s spine, oval shaped ruby sitting right before where the valyrian steel starts, sharp and pointy, Carl can feel the sting just by looking. He probably has two more hidden under his clothing. 

Carl keeps shoving cake down his throat every time the words try to dance out of his mouth until he can’t take anymore. 

“I want you to teach me swordfighting.” He blurts.

Father turns his head to him slowly, eyes bemused, taking the words in. “Where did this come from?” 

“Oh, nothing,” Carl shrugs noncommittally, as if he is not close to getting sick. He plucks the grass from the ground. “I just thought it would be nice to learn. To know how to defend myself.” 

It is not an unreasonable request, but the twitch of Father’s brow tells him the man doesn’t share the sentiment.

“You don’t need to. There is a sea of guards whose whole purpose is to give their lives to protect you.” Father says slowly. Irritation pricks his skin, quick and easily triggered more than ever these days, it makes Carl consider sacrificing the rest of his delicious cake just to throw it on Father’s face. 

“You let me fly in a dragon but draw the line at me holding a weapon?” He asks, affronted.

“It is different.” Father says. 

“How so?” 

“Dragon-riding, it is in your blood, within your right as a Targaryen. Not even I would be able to stop you.” Father grouses, something not unlike bitterness in his tongue. “I’ve been there before, Carl, I know how the story goes. It starts small, with knives and swords, it is for self defense only, you think, but then defending is not enough, you want to attack. You want to prove yourself, the adrenaline, the power. It changes you. And then you get blood on your hands. Once that happens, it is over. It won't ever be washed away. Worse, you’d be putting yourself in danger.” 

Carl makes a desperate sound, “Father, I think you are making this out of proportion. Besides, many men don't have a choice in the matter. They–"

"But you do," Father finally snaps. "You have the privilege to stand far away from anything that can cause you harm. And I have the authority to decide whether or not you are allowed to engage in a dangerous situation. Any situation at all. I do not say this as your King, but as your Father. I can protect you and I will. Why must you always try to go against my word? Why must you try so hard to strip me of my duty? Do you feel that much pleasure in disobeying me? 

"You are the one trying to strip me away from my autonomy!” He shouts, rising to his knees. “I am still your son. Were I born an alpha, you would not hesitate to shove a sword in my hands as soon as I could walk, would put me front to front with the most skilled knights to make sure I would become one the best soldiers in the realm. Would expect nothing but glory from me." 

Father jeers, "You are right. But you were born an omega."

The words are harsh and precise, the edges go right through his flesh and Carl flinches, the hold on the fork loosening until it falls, silently, by his side. His hurt is definitely written all over his face, souring the air, and Father’s expression shifts. It is nearly comforting, in a twisted way, to finally hear the cruel truth coming from his mouth, to acknowledge what has been haunting Carl since he left the sacred place within his Mother’s stomach. 

Maybe eating that much cake was not a good idea. 

"Do you love me?" Carl asks.

"What type of question is t–"

"Answer me. Do you love me?"

"More than anything." Father says, serious. “More than you will ever know or be able to understand.” 

Sadly, Carl believes him. 

"Then why do you condemn me? You claim to love me, to want the best for me, and yet want to sentence me to a life of fear and hiding. How can I be happy if my own Father does not want me to live at all?" 

"Father," he pleads softly. ‘You can’t keep me from it."

"From what." He asks, but it is not a question. Not really. Not when one already knows the answer. Father looks down to his twitchy fingers. 

"From life. From what can happen."

There is no enjoyment in being a bird inside a cage. A dragon is not a slave. Not even for their own kin. 

"Maybe. But I am your Father, it is my job to try."

Carl sighs, upset and ridiculously fond in equal measures. He crawls closer to Father, where he rests his elbows over his bent knees. He has that stubborn look on his face, the ever present ridge of his eyebrows singing a tune only Carl’s fingertips can hear, begging him to smooth it down until there is only soft skin, unsullied by life.  

Carl lays his head down over Father’s forearm, forcing their eyes to meet. 

“I want to fight for you. Fight with you. Be by your side in every possible way. Do you really think less of me? Because I am an omega?” 

Father looks at him for what feels like an eternity, his gaze miles away, “I remember the day you were born,” he starts, pulling Carl's fringe away from his forehead, the corner of his eyes crinkling softly with the curl of his lips. “It was the happiest day of my life. A year after losing my father and becoming King. I was lost. I already had scars, blood in my hands, and even with the promise of a whole life ahead of me, with a title that most men would do anything to have it, I didn't know who I was anymore, or what I was fighting for. Everything felt—meaningless. And then, one day, there was you. Your mother spent almost two days in labor, you made her work for it.” he chuckles, “The midwives were screaming at me to leave the room, saying it was no place for someone of my station to be, and your mother was screaming at them and then at me for putting a babe there in the first place. But everything was white noise compared to when I heard your first cry, what a healthy pair of lungs you had. Your mother was exhausted, but she was radiant, like the pain did not matter at the sight of you.” he nods to himself, "You have this effect on people.” 

“You were born during sunrise, I recall holding you for the first time, the sun kissing your skin as if giving you its blessing, and I thought, that’s it. Like I had lived my entire life just for that moment. Felt like that every time I had you in my arms. Every time you smiled at me and raised your arms for me to hold you. Your first word was Kepa. You could barely hold your own weight on your chubby legs when you first learned how to walk and yet you were always running to me. Your mother was jealous, she would say how it would drive her to the walls to see your tiny little face in a frown, constantly asking for me, how you would cry every time I left the room. How she or the wet nurses would try their best to keep you distracted until I was done with my duties. Always waiting for me.”

Carl has no memories of it, being much too young, but it sounds like the most accurate description of himself. He was Father’s boy from the beginning.

“You were very stubborn, even as a baby.” Father looks at the pond and then back at him, the glow of his soft smile stronger than the yellow dwarf star above their heads. “I have no idea who you got that from.”

Carl scoffs, biting his lip to contain his own grin. It is useless. 

“They say you never love anything in the same way you love your first born. My love for you.. it scares me. The immensity of it. I would kill men, destroy cities, burn the entire world if that meant I could keep you alive and safe. It brings out the best and the worst of me. And I am aware of how–” He clears his throat, “Attached you are, to me. It worries me, If I named you my heir and we were to wed, the inevitability of my death. How, eventually, you would be left alone. To rule alone and to–” Father swallows, the corner of his mouth curled down, like he has to force the words out. “To marry again. With a stranger. In any scenario, the idea of you marrying any Alpha doesn’t please me. But at least in this way, you could wait. Try to find someone you like. You know I would never force my hand, would never consider trying to get rid of you in exchange for a political alliance.”

“If we do get married, and for some reason I die,” Father opens his mouth ready to protest, but Carl doesn’t let him. “I could fall ill, or die during b–birth,” the words feel strange, too heavy. Carl knew all along it was a possibility, yet the threat never felt so looming, so close, so real. “You are the King, an Alpha, if you finally have your heir the council would not be able to force you into a marriage again if that is not what you wish for. But would you? wed someone else– after me?” 

“Do not repeat that, ever again." Father orders, moving his leg to the side to bring him closer by the arm so Carl can kneel in the space between his thighs, grabbing both sides of his face to rest their foreheads together. He is so close, Carl can smell his breath and feel the warmth of his body. It leaves him dizzy. "You are supposed to have a long and happy life. I will make sure of that. And when time inevitably comes,” he exhales, his grip tightens a little and he rubs their noses together, “You have to be strong. I don't want you to be just content, I need you to be happy.” 

“Would you?” Carl insists, covering the back of Father's hand with his own smaller ones.

“I loved your mom, losing her felt like losing a part of me. But if I lost you– Not even the Gods would be able to predict what I might do after that, what I might become. There is not an after for me after you, sweet boy.”

When Carl was still young and oblivious to the pressure in court and all the games a royal had to play, one thing he was not self conscious about was his laugh. He was shy, didn't like the constant eyes scrutinizing his every move or the fake smiles and forced interactions, but he loved to make his presence known by having a good laugh, boyish and so high pitched it would echo through the walls. 

Ser Daryl would tease him about it, saying how he didn't need a weapon when he could make a man's ear bleed, telling tales about a princesses who could sing in a pitch so high they could make birds explode—they were silly and evidently made up, but his younger version would cackle in delight all the same.

But Carl can understand the sentiment now, sympathetic towards nonexistent birds. His Father’s words make his lungs inflate stubbornly, trying to take in more air than what he actually can breathe in, like his ribs are ready to crack, his heart will burst out of his chest and his whole body will pop. 

“Don’t you see, Father? I feel the same. You said it yourself, that I gave your life meaning. But you gave me life itself. You gave me my body, my blood, my heart and my soul. I have never known this world without you in it, what makes you think I would want to try? So you can not ask me that, do not dare to ask me that. If you go, I will go too. We belong together, right? No matter what. I did not have the chance to start life with you since the beginning. But we can go side by side until the end together, even after that. And when time comes, they will lay our bodies side by side, and after we are long burnt, our ashes will be taken by the wind and we will dance in the sky one last time. We will be eternal.” 

Carl pushes his own forehead against Father’s, turning his head to the side to rub their cheeks together before pulling back. 

I am yours he wants to shout, loud enough that people back in King’s Landing will hear. Head to toe, from his skin down to his bones, from the cradle to the grave. I am yours. 

How silly of him, to truly think Carl would want anything else, anything more. 

"Promise me. Promise you will let me have this."

"I promise." Father rasps hoarsely. 

“We are fire and blood,” Carl whispers in the small space in between them, a promise soon the entire world will know of, “Made to burn together. No one else can fulfil this role. So please, please let me do the one thing I was born to do. Let me be yours.” 

Michonne became Carl’s personal guard when he was eight years old. He saw her for the first time in the selection process for knights to officially become part of the Kingsguard alongside Father and Ser Daryl. In the middle of most males alphas and betas, Michonne stood straight and proud, her hand resting on her sword—with no scent to her skin, indicating she was a beta herself—wearing a worn-off red hair band with her long brown locks running down her shoulders, the softness of her cheeks and lips at odds to the hard steel of her armour, and Carl’s first thought was how she was one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen. 

She was calm, had a soft and pleasant speaking tone, and better than any of the other candidates who were one step away from tripping on themselves in their attempts to charm the King, she had no arrogance about herself. That alone made Carl like her immediately. 

Father cuts himself mid sentence, bending down obediently when Carl pulls at the sleeve of his black doublet. “I want her.” Carl said, pointing at Michonne.

“You liked her, lad?” Father asked, taking Carl's hair out of his face. Carl nods in response. “Thank you for telling me. We shall finish talking to the others and then–” 

“There is no need, Father. I already made my choice.” He huffed, crossing his arms.

“I am the one who makes the choice here, my prince. Await for a few more minutes, okay?” he patted Carl's hair before getting up.

Father only kept going out of politeness, although Carl knew he was nothing if not obsessively thorough when it came to his son's safety, and would make sure he was choosing only the best and most capable knight for him, he did end up choosing Michonne. 

However, it was not because Carl grew up surrounded by guards, that he found it enjoyable. Michonne, like most that came before her, kept mostly to herself. Combined with how quiet her steps were, made him quite weary with the continuous feeling of a shadow following him around the castle. 

She was extremely efficient, if not a bit distant. Which was fine, since she was there to protect and not to entertain him, but Carl felt the need to push against her. 

Carl loved to play games, to test people, that was his way of forming his opinions about his elders, if they deserved his respect or not. Michonne was more clever and observant than any of his handmaidens, more quick to her feet too, and that made her the perfect person to keep up with his.. eccentricities.  

Rather than scold him and treat him like a misbehaving child, she took the other route, and decided to play along. After a moon being together, Michonne already knew half of his favorite hidden spots, how he loved to go to the old tree before sunset because he loved to watch the sky fluctuate between blues and yellows and pinkish oranges, and never complained when he asked for help to choose the prettiest flowers to give to Mother. In a moment of weakness, Carl even showed her the closest path to the kitchen—that happened to be a miscalculation on his part, since Michonne apparently had a sixth sense and knew when he was planning to sneak out to eat an unhealthy amount of sweets.  

She was smart, almost smart as Carl, he could give her that. She also never made a face when Carl would start his incessant babble, which made her lovely in his opinion. With time, he stopped seeing Michonne as solely his protector, bound to him by oath only, and started seeing her as a friend. She was attentive, knew how to read him just by looking at his face, knew when to ask questions and when to leave him be. She was brave, powerful, could probably knock someone out of their feet with a hand tied behind her back. Michonne was one of the toughest people he knew, yet no lethal skill could conceal how thoughtful and kind she was. 

She was probably the first adult who ever treated Carl like an equal instead of a naive and spoiled child. Who never rolled her eyes at whatever he had to say or never looked at him like she knew best. Different from the conversations with other children his age, talking to her was stimulating, Carl couldn’t think of one single moment where he felt bored by their exchange.

So yes, Carl considers Michonne his dearest friend—or at least, his dearest human friend. His confidant, the one who he knows with his eyes closed that it is in his corner. Naturally, like any loyal friend, they share thoughts, ideas, fears, dreams. 

He is not a secretive person, particularly. But he happens to have one secret, one that was born out of trepidation and necessity, one that only Michonne knows. 

Two years ago, the King had to make a trip to Duskendale. Despite being a royal for all his life, Father wasn’t one to flaunt his birthright and its opulence when not mandatory. He liked to be stripped down to his simplest clothing, out of the expensive silks and the heavy crown, opted for the discretion and normalcy of a horse instead of dragon, riding on land with the illusion he was free from his responsibilities. And even if he does not speak out loud, to the prospect of running into trouble. 

Never wasting an opportunity to sprint free, Father only took the necessary for the journey accompanied by his loyal sworn sword, Ser Daryl—in spite of Mother’s constant protests that came to surface every time he decided to leave the castle without a carriage and a wall of guards. 

Carl’s twelfth nameday was near, he also hated when Father was away, so he decided to try his luck and enacted a performance worthy of a lifetime. Ultimately, Father was not able to deny him anything, no matter how hard he tried—and he never tried that hard, most times. He made sure not to overdo it, would always try to be in his best behavior so Father would indulge him willingly, but desperate times call for desperate measures. 

So Carl gave him his best puppy eyes, cherry red lips pursing in his biggest pout, rubbing his face against his chest promising he would behave, that he would obey every order Father gave, that he would be so quiet they wouldn't even notice Carl was there in the first place. To consider it as an early gift. 

It was glorious in a way Carl couldn’t quite put into words at the time—to watch a man so much bigger than life itself slowly break under his boyish charms. 

It made him strangely thirsty.  

The journey was supposed to be something quick anyway, just a few days traveling with their horses considering how Dukesndale was not far away from King’s Landing, so after a lot of frowned brows and annoyed sighs, Father decided to let him come along. 

Unsurprisingly, Michonne would go as well. Father went after a bigger saddle, as Carl would be riding with him so he would not suffer any discomfort. 

Michonne, Daryl and Father made an exceptional trio when it came to combat, but also when it came to silence. In the first hours, the only conversation they had was small murmurs about the route, the weather, and the best time for small breaks. He knew of his promises, but Carl could not help it, not when he could feel Father’s chest vibrating on his back as he patiently indulged his babbling. Michonne and Daryl would make additional comments, amused with Carl’s chatting. 

He could see why Father liked these trips so much, it was peaceful in a way the inside walls of the Red Keep could not compare. 

Ironically, things had to go wrong at some point. 

On the last night on the road on their way back, a commotion forced Carl out of his sleep. Disoriented with eyes still heavy with sleep, his first instinct was to whine and complain to whomever was making such noise in the middle of the night, until a harsh grip on his arm forced his body up and shaked all the sleep out of him.

There were five men surrounding them. With only the moon as their source of light, their figures looked almost distorted, like the demons from stories Carl had read before. Two of them were standing behind Father and Michonne respectively, keeping them on their knees by daggers high against their throats. The other two were on the right, keeping a beaten up and bloody Daryl grunting on the ground. 

“Shhh..” The last man shushed heavily in his ear, keeping Carl in his maddening grip with a dagger against his pale neck as well. His pungent breath was hot against his nape, it made him want to gag. “Look what we have here.” 

“Don’t touch him!” Father roars, already getting up before the man drags him down with the dagger. He has his head and beard full of white hair, and just like his comrades, his face is grim and dirty.

He sneered, giving Carl an up and down before bending close to Father. 

“Here is what is going to happen. We’ll kill you and your friend, have a little fun with the boy, then the girl, and then we kill them too.”  

Carl could hear Father babbling, a mix of pleads and threats running out of his mouth, but it all felt distant, as though he was underwater. He was petrified, pained cries turned into a full horror-struck scream when he was unceremoniously shoved to the ground, the sound of a belt unbuckling louder than a clap of thunder. 

That was the man’s first and last mistake.

A loud crack of broken bone rang in the noiseless woods, rushed screams, the familiar hiss of a honed sword in liquid quickness.  

Every once in a while, when his nightmares decided to resurge just to nag at his mind, Carl is able to remember the repulsive scent, the mix of grime and sweat and arousal assaulting his nose, so strong it makes his nostrils burn and his eyes tear up. The man was twice his size, and Carl was smaller than he is now—hadn’t hit his first growth spurt yet, at the time—so it was a lost fight. It didn't matter how much Carl was squirming in his hold, arms and legs working together using all his strength to try to shove his body away, the man was stronger. 

Another thing he can recall with uncanny precision, is the look on Father’s face. It was like nothing he has seen before. His lovely lilac eyes, so full of love when directed at him, were empty vessels of everything but rage. So potent and vivid Carl could feel it down to the very marrow of his bones. With disheveled hair, mouth curled in a snarl and a maniac look on his face, Carl finally understood the songs that were sung about his Father. 

At that moment, no beast in the world could be a match to him. 

There was no other way to describe the played scene in front of him as a frenzied and barbaric slaughter. Reduced to his primal instincts, the violent urge to protect, the already stifled air got even more tainted with the strong scent of copper, beads of blood splashing like rocks hitting the water, the entire lower half of Father’s face smeared in red. 

He had ripped the man’s throat off. With his teeth. 

For a minute none of the souls dared to move, frozen in shared shock. They all watched as the man fell down on his knees, eyes almost popping out of his sockets, choking and gurgling on his own blood before dropping down to his side, body limp. 

Father crudely spits, and the chunk of skin he bit of his throat hits the dead man's face. He turns his head to the side, slowly, eyes locking up on his next prey. Carl could swear he saw the sky lightening up, the Gods above partaking in his Father’s anger.

A low growl left his chest, voice barely recognizable. “He’s mine.”

The coward Alpha tried to use Carl as a shield, a pathetic attempt to save time and avoid Father’s wrath, the fate he himself had set the moment he dared to lay his unwanted hands on him. Michonne caught him before he had the chance to kiss the ground again and in the space left of her arms wrapped in a protective hold around his head, he watched.

Carl couldn’t look away, enraptured by the way Father stabbed him, repeatedly, the shriek of the dagger carving its way over the man's flesh deafening against his ears. Each blow deeper than the previous one, the lines of his body vibrating as if he was delighting himself in his own savagery. He kept going, even when the man stopped squeaking like a pig and most of his blood was out of his body and he was unmoving down his feet.

Michonne’s sharp voice broke Father out of his trance. 

It still haunts him like the plague. Time certainly helped, and now only certain things trigger his memory, but in the first few months after the incident, when life went on normally back in King’s landing, Carl would have dreams. Dreams about running deep into a forest, shaking as if his bones were made of paper, with something hunting him down in the dark night. 

His legs would ache, his hair sticking into his temples. To his increasing desperation, all the trees looked the same, with no clear path for him to follow and escape from the sound of dry leaves and branches snapping under determined footsteps. The frightful awareness of the force of eyes tracking his moves enclosing his muscles in a tight grip, his nape and glands hidden under the fragile skin of his neck in flames. 

At some point, when the burn of his lungs became too much, Carl would stop to try to catch his breath, his gulps of air distracting his senses long enough for him to notice that whoever or whatever was after him had stopped. 

For a moment, lost in the quiet forest, Carl would foolishly think that he was safe. Until something crashes into him, the ground unmerciful beneath his face. His dream self would wheeze like a dog, ribs aching under the heavy body over him, making it impossible for him to escape or even breathe properly. A hand on his arm would turn him around, and right when Carl was opening his mouth, ready to scream for help, his vision would adjust under the darkness and an identical set of eyes to his own would blink back at him. 

“Father,” he would gasp, momentarily flooded with relief. But there was something different about the man above him. Looming over Carl with his hands on either side of his head, he looked down at him, eager, famished, violet gone as if never there in the first place, only the black of his pupils left. Carl called him again, and again, choking on the scent of his growing dread, but Father would not listen. And when he tried to push him away from him, he would simply wrap the back of Carl’s hair in a painful grip, pull his head back, and sink his teeth into his throat. 

The dreams were not always the same. In some, Father would devour every inch of his flesh, tucking Carl safely in the back of his teeth and inside of his stomach, hiding him from the world. In others, Father would entertain himself by licking the blood clean of his wound with pleased growls, forcing his hips between his legs and grinding down vigorously against the sacred space in between his thighs, giving Carl no chance to do anything but to open wider to offer him space. He was so rough, nearly fucking Carl if it was not for the clothing separating their skins. 

And sometimes, when his subconscious was still clinging to Father’s scent after he went to his chambers to put Carl to bed in and kiss him goodnight, he would watch Father slide down, his shoulders replacing his hips, the sound of his leggings being ripped, and what he could only imagine to be the feeling of a hot and wet tongue–

The human body is determined, fights for its own survival until the very end, but not Carl. Carl would just lie there and serve himself on a silver plate for the starving wolf, let himself be feasted until the beast was content, licking the remnants of his blood from its snout and Carl’s bones.

Carl then would wake up with his skin buzzing, the smell of shame almost as strong as the slick sticking his thighs together. Still drowning in the remnants of his dream, he would rub the tip of his fingers onto the little pearl that sat on top of his core clumsily, a sinful thrum inside his mind twisting his thoughts into imagining how would it feel to have Father nestled right where he shouldn't, his face shoved there instead of his neck until pleasure burst hot in his tummy.  

He could barely look at Father after, flushing crimson red and the sharp blow of something—knows what it is now. Arousal. fervid, soul-consuming want. Amidst dinners, he had to blink thrice to shake the image of Father’s face dribbling with blood while licking his fingers clean.

Unpleasant as it was, Carl could try to disguise his shame with the excuse of being betrayed by his own biology when in the face of what his body craved the most. It was unavoidable, he would think to himself, when the guilt would batter at him. Father was an Alpha. Strong and virile, with a scent that never failed to make his mouth water. He was also Father. Who else would he want? 

But no. The real problem lay on how much he enjoyed the idea of his life being in his Father’s hands. How he could get lost in the yearning, the longing of being consumed. How, sometimes, he wanted to get on his knees and beg for Father to crack his ribs open and crawl inside his chest, to hold him in between his teeth and tear him down to the bone, albeit not wishing for death. There was something disturbingly beautiful about the act, in its fairness. Who was better to decide one’s fate than their own Maker? 

That for itself should have been enough for Carl to understand the nature of his feelings. A warning, his insides craving for the fire only his own blood could strike. He feels like a fool for even entertaining the possibility of denial, for trying to pretend he could be normal about his Father.   

In hindsight, Carl can admit—begrudgingly and only to himself, that this might not have been one of his brightest ideas.

The true connotation of what it means to have Father holding a sword and manhandling Carl as if he were a rag doll for some reason got lost and hidden behind his need to be stubborn and to prove a point. 

“Shall we start with something simple? self defense techniques." 

In his quarters, Father doesn’t bother in presenting himself as the King. His white linen shirt is loose on his body, perfect for training. Where he stands, in the middle of the room with his back to the window, the sun shadows his silhouette perfectly, from the wide of his shoulders down to the narrowness of his waist. The v collar teases the sparse hair of his chest, the strong lines of his neck. The sleeves are rolled up, tan and defined forearms free for Carl to drool over, muscles flexing at every movement.

Carl feels his gums itching. 

“You are still a growing boy, so your height is not something you should dwell much on, but you are still an omega. All they will see when laying their eyes on you is someone they can overpower with ease. Most of them are barbarians, crave the power that comes from making others feel weak. You shall not fight by their rules, all you need is one opportunity.” 

“Pressure points. Eyes, ears, temple. Sensitive areas that can be targeted for quick incapacitation. In fact, always go for the eyes first.” Father makes a motion with his thumbs, their curve perfect to dip into the corner of someone’s eyes with the right amount of pressure to gouge the eyeball out. “Nose and chin. Striking those will cause pain and bring disorientation. A strike right to the base of the neck will knock someone off balance. On their throat too” 

He demonstrates each move, showing Carl the proper way to grip into the lower part of his arm and upper arm, fingers wandering through his sternum, stomach, down to his thighs and calves, showing the exact spot to hit. 

“Of course, a knee to the groin always works too. Never be afraid to fight dirty.” 

After making sure he has all the vulnerable areas memorized, Father challenges Carl to incapacitate him at least once, and leaps at him.  

They go at until Carl starts sweating, as Father is quick and always knows how to side step in the last second, especially from Carl’s pointy knees any time they anywhere close to his lower half, but he finally gets him with a punch to the sternum. 

After a pause to calm his heartbeat and drink water, Father takes him to the table pushed to the corner, where two wooden swords lay. Dull, ugly, and boring compared to Blackfyre, also laid on the table in all its glory. Carl always thought what made weapons intimidating were their wielders, without a hand to hold the hilt, swords were just a long and pointy metal, but for an inanimate being, Blackfyre had a reputation and enough presence to make Father even more daunting every time he has her hanging from his hip. 

Up close, the details are astonishing. They are Carl’s favorite things about the blade, two dragon heads shaped on each end of the crossguard and the glimmering ruby on the pommel.

Carl makes a pleased chirp, he forgot how light valyrian steel was compared to common steel swords—it reminds him of his own smallsword, hidden under his mattress, commissioned and given as a gift by Michonne. Still, she is almost as big as him, so Carl makes a show of clumsiness and lets the sword pull his arm down, his body swinging to the side.

Father takes the bait, huffing an amused sound through his nose. “Worry not, my prince, it takes time until one can get accustomed with its heaviness. It is a combination of things. Come here, let me show you.” 

Carl obeys, stepping closer as Father positions himself behind him, the width of his shoulders covering each side of his head, “Wrist strength is very important, it will help in parrying and thrusting maneuvers, wrap your fingers around the handle like this,” He starts, honeyed voice against his ear, engulfing Carl’s hand with his own in the sword’s grip, tightening their fingers together. “The grip has to be firm but not too tight. That’s it, just like that. Now, swordplay involves coordinating your entire body, so beware of your feet and shoulders, but especially your hips, it will maintain your balance.” 

Father goes on about the correct way of attack and defense, guiding Carl’s arm as the sword hiss on the air in slow and precise swipes—all the things he has learned previously with Michonne. Thus, it is hard to pay attention to the words when Father leads their bodies as if they were in the middle of an intimate dance, his scent thick in the air. 

It feels like being drunk, or at least what Carl imagines being drunk feels like. The haziness, his thoughts blurring like clouds before a storm, eyes getting heavier and heavier each time he blinks. He thinks of how they always come back to this position, chest to back, drawn to each other like magnets. Father’s body heat is his detriment, pulling at the last threads of his sanity. Without thinking, Carl covers his hand—the other one that rests securely right on his middle, the center of Father's palm above his belly button. He had always run hot, like dragons often do, it makes him wonder if Mother had ever touched him and had to pull her hand away, her delicate sheep skin not made to graze fire.

It reminds him of the feeling of warming his hands by the hearth in his room, he can almost hear the sound of crackling of wood. And he wants it. He wants to stick his hands into the flames and let it swallow him up, wants to burn with them. 

His hands are hairy than Carl's, his fingers longer and his knuckles thicker. Carl presses his palm over it, their difference in size so apparent it would make him feel pathetic if it was not for the familiar itch rousing inside his belly.

Gods. His hands are so large and strong and efficient, always gravitating towards Carl's body like he has no control over his limbs, like he cannot help himself, like it is a need. Father had touched the side of his neck so many times Carl is sure that if someone threw ink over his throat they would find the print of his palm, an invisible brand he claimed on Carl over and over again.

His eyes almost roll all the way back of his head. If he could only have it on his tongue, to finally know how his skin tastes like. How many fingers could Carl have in his mouth until it becomes too much? Two? Three? Would Father look at him with pity, tilt his head to the side, frown his brows with faux sympathy and say what is wrong, sweet boy? Is your pretty mouth too small for my fingers? Would he laugh meanly and think him messy for drooling all over his palm and wrist? Would he try to deny Carl and pull his finger away? Make him beg for it until tears are sliding down his cheeks? 

No, Father was always so susceptible when it came to him. Carl thinks he would be sweet, if not a bit condescending, and praise him for trying to have more than one finger at once. Call him greedy and spoiled with that soft voice he used for Carl only. He would let Carl take his time with it, allow him to wrap his small tongue around his fingers and slowly suck them until he has their shape memorized, until he can feel its ghost when his eyes are closed and his mouth is empty. 

Maybe if Carl was good enough, Father would reward him with more, would guide him to one of his chairs so he would not hurt his knees by kneeling on the hard floor and open his breeches so he could feed him his–

“Carl.” 

The harsh tone makes him cringe, breaking him out of his thoughts. 

"There is no point in doing this if you are not paying attention."

"I heard everything you said," Carl whines, leaving his embrace with a pout. "Shall we try it out?"

"I am not sure if you—"

He groans, "Oh come on, give me a chance." 

Carl pulls away, switching the valyrian sword for one of the wooden ones, throwing the other to Father, who catches it in the air effortlessly.  

"I will go easy on you."

"You will not do such a thing." In a poor imitation of what Carl has seen other knights do countless times whilst fighting in tournaments, he scrunches his nose and growls, trying to look threatening. He does not have their build or their scent to back him up, likely looks like a hissing kitten based on Father's smirk.

Carl is ready to crush him.

"You believe it to be that much of a challenge to me?"

And, oh. Oh. There it goes.

It is comically ridiculous, any other man would laugh in his face, and yet with Father never fails to be effective. He despises when Carl insinuates anything against his power or authority. 

His expression shuts down, eyes narrowing, and he gives Carl his well known head tilt that always makes his belly flutter. The threat coming to surface in the way his posture changes, all the warnings that Carl feels thrilled to ignore. To poke the beast with his finger until it loses its patience and pounce on him.

Father does not look taken aback or shocked by his reckless show of bravery—or usual impertinence. No, he has known Carl for a whole life, knows there is nothing new about him trying to bite more than he can chew in order to try to prove himself, and this is exactly why he reacted immediately, because he is as much prideful as Carl is.

The apple really does not fall far from the three.

"Do you think you can take me, taoba?" 

Carl's grip on the hilt of the sword tightens.

"Do you think I cannot?" he smirks.

"… Very well, then. Don't tell me I did not warn you."

They get in position, mirroring each other's stance. Carl knows Father, he is too worried with his well being to give the first hit and is expecting Carl to go in way too enthusiastically because he does not know better, so he attacks first. Unsurprisingly, Father dodges it smoothly, so he keeps swinging the sword aggressively at him until the Alpha is forced to attack back.

In the first round, Father disarms him easily. He doesn’t make an effort, relaxed in the way his feet dance and his body moves around him, like a cat playing with a mouse. Carl makes a show of frowning when the sword flies from his hand, thinking of the actual frustration he first felt during his first days of training with Michonne. They would train in his room, where the embarrassment of getting his ass kicked by the beta was lessened by the fact that no one was around to watch. After spending the entire afternoon practicing, Carl was flat on the floor, panting, with his body sore and his pride wounded.

When Father finally relented and offered his chambers for them to train, Carl’s intention was to pretend he knew nothing about fighting like the good little Omega he swore he was just to make him swallow all his words, to show beyond doubt that he could handle a sword in his hand and that he was not weak. He wanted to squash Father’s pride with his feet.

However, he cannot turn down the opportunity that is being given to him. 

In the next round, Carl watches Father’s moves attentively. He never gets too close, never puts actual force in his strikes, indulging him in a friendly spare rather than giving him an actual challenge. Biting a smirk, he swifts to the left, moving his arms away from his torso and letting the tip of Father’s sword catch against his rib.

Carl flinches away with a pained groan, body bent at the waist.

The response is immediate. Father drops the sword and goes to his rescue.

"Carl? Are you okay? Let me see—”

Taking his chance, Carl hooks his feet on Father's calf and tugs, using all his strength to shove him down to the ground, straddling his hips and taking his sword to Father's throat. The wood is no danger to his skin, only to keep him in place.

And what a glorious vision.

Father always had a commanding aura, towering metaphorically and physically over Carl like the Gods' statues standing tall inside the Sept so the believers could kneel and pray, and whereas Carl secretly loved how it made him feel when close to him—as if he was small enough to lay in the palm of his hand, fingers curved in the air, cradling him in the same way his ribs protect his heart—there is no denying the purr of satisfaction in having his beloved King at his mercy. 

They have been in this situation, although in switched positions, so many times in Carl's head, with heavy panting and bodies ruthlessly grinding against each other, that the actual thing leaves him off-track. It barely feels real. 

Father looks stunned, like he has been swept off his feet. Quite literally.

"What?," Carl asks, chest moving up and down as if he had run a marathon, "Never be afraid to fight dirty, that is what you said."

Father's eyes darken, Carl watches in real time his pupils dilating, and he can feel the thighs under him tensing.

The air grows so charged he is almost afraid breathing in the wrong way will be enough to set the whole room on fire. Carl throws the sword away and rests his hands on Father's chest, his heartbeat noticeably fast and strong under his palm, like Carl is actually holding the organ between his fingers.

His scent is stronger too, smoky and spicy cedarwood invades his nostrils and Carl closes his eyes shut involuntarily, his own body instinctively releasing his own sweet pheromones back. 

Is this how it feels to want? To burn for someone? Is this how the ones that came before him felt? That dark and twisted need, to wish for something so much it makes your bones ache, your blood boils? It is fresh and new, but somewhat recognizable. Was this inside of him all along? Lurking behind the empty edges of Carl’s mind, feeding and nurturing itself every time their eyes met, waiting for the right time to come out? 

The feeling gives him a whiplash. He isn't like that. Has never been like that. With anyone. Being an Omega meant he had to know his place and never forget it. How to talk, how to walk, how to sit, how to dress, how to move. They did not have the same liberties Alphas had.

Courtship to him was formality, something he one day would have to indulge, but not something he necessarily craved or even gave much thought to. Father always said he hadn't to worry about that.  

He's maturing, close to flowering now more than ever, he can see the slight change. Nervous and interested eyes peering at him, not just because of his position, but his second gender. The only thing it has brought to him was uneasiness and discomfort. 

Being desired by someone was not something he wanted, something he sought after like some fellow omegas in court, like most of his omegas in waiting, who giggled and blushed by the mere thought of a strong Alpha trotting after their long skirts. He didn't want to be perceived this way, especially after the incident. He wanted to pass unnoticed and unscratched—as much as a prince can go unnoticed, anyway. 

And now he feels like an hourglass that has been turned upside down. He is starting to see things differently. Maybe because before, this game was not to be played with the only person who could ever awake such a reaction in him. But the Gods have pulled their strings, changed the rules, changed the players. 

He was not aware of how it would feel, what it could be. The furtive glances, the teasing competition of who can be the most cunning with their double-meaning words. The touches, too quick to be damaging but impactful enough to leave stains. The promise of more. 

Carl had always wanted Father's attention, even a blind man could see it. But now, he feels like his want will swallow him alive. He shudders just by thinking about it. He wants to have his eyes on him, wants to see Father smiling at him in the way he doesn't dare to do with another soul, needs him to put his hands on any part of Carl’s body he can reach. 

He needs to have it. Needs to know he is not burning alone. 

The truth is that since the day those stupid words came out of Lord Negan's mouth, he hasn't known a day of peace. Carl was born a dragon, but only now he truly feels like one. 

Like the beast inside of him finally woke up, hungry, desperate to hunt his mate. Craving for his rightful claim.  

Many believed that all Targaryens were mad in some way. He feels like a Targaryen right now.  

Carl frowns. There is something poking his bum. He squirms down trying to adjust his position, but hands stop him, holding his hips tightly.

“Stop that.” Father grits through his teeth.

"There is something— Let me just—"

He yelps loudly as Father pinches him right where he is most ticklish, body jerking away before his brain even has the time to register what is happening.

"Where did you learn that, hm?" Father asks with a raised brow.

Carl blinks innocently at him, "What do you mean? Maybe I am just naturally talented in sword fighting."

Father throws him an unimpressed look. "Yeah, and I was born yesterday."

His offended expression makes the Alpha laugh.

"Michonne might have taught me a few things." Carl says after a pause.

"Of course she did." Father shakes his head. "I cannot say I am truly mad about it. Why did you ask me to teach you, then?"

"Maybe I just wanted to have you throw me around." He replies, cheekily, going back to what he was doing before getting distracted and moving his hips back. Whatever was poking him is still there, resting on the right side of Father's pocket. It feels funny, Carl doesn’t know what Father could possibly be hiding there, since he hasn't seen anything on his pants before and the bump feels too big to be—

The world shifts, and in the next blink Carl is the one laying flat on the floor, the Alpha hovering over him with his hands on each side of his head. Carl watches, mesmerized, the way Father’s throat bobs when he swallows, lips curled in a stiff line.

"I said stop that."

His eyes trail down his torso and Carl's breath hitches, a choked gasp stuck halfway his throat in realization.

Right under Father's belt line there is a bulge.

A really, really big bulge.

On instinct, he ushers his hand down, his fingers barely skim over Father's clothed cock before his wrist is snatched away in a painful grip. 

Father doesn’t hide his snarl this time.

"Father, wait— Please!" Carl whines in protest.

"You don’t know what you're asking for, boy."

"Oh, but I do. You are the one who seems incapable to– you must think so highly of yourself if you truly believe I cannot take–” 

Father grabs him by the chin. 

“Presumptuous boy, far too insolent for his own good. Maybe I am the one to blame for being so indulgent, all those years. I was heavily advised against it, that I should not spoil you too much. Looks like I am now paying the price for my own wrong doings."

His stomach coils with humiliation. He tries to shake his head, but Father’s grip is stronger. “You don’t have to hold back, you are m–my soon to be husband.” 

Father freezes above him, almost imperceptibly, before leaning down until their mouths are inches away from each other. “You really have no idea what I am capable of? All the things I could do to you?” he asks, more to himself than Carl. He sounds both astonished and dreadful, like he has never seen him before. Or like he is finally seeing him for the first time. 

His warm breath lights up Carl's entire body.

“Perhaps that is what you seek for."   

The callous fingers sweep down to his neck, wrapping themselves around his throat like it is their second nature. Carl sighs dizzily. 

“Tell me, Carl, If I were to lay your body over the table during your nameday party, and feast on your little cunt while our guests enjoy their meat and expensive wine, would you let me do it without complaints?”

He widens his eyes, shocked by the crude words. And then Father slides one thigh between his legs, applying pressure right above his core, and he stops thinking altogether. 

“Y–yes.”

"If I wanted to have you on my lap during the small council reunions or even in the throne room, so you could keep my cock warm inside you throughout the day, would you obey me?”

Carl can feel his small clothes getting sticky. His hole clenches around nothing, distressingly and pathetically empty. 

“Yes!” Carl moans, unabashed, throwing his head back when the tip of his Father’s nose touches his neck. “Anything m—my King wants.” 

Father groans low, grabs Carl’s wrists and brings them to the top of his head, pinning him down effortlessly. One hand is enough to cover both of his. 

“Indeed, anything your King wants. You shall do what I want, when I want, where I want, how I want. Every Alpha across the realm will be envious that none of them get to have your scent on their skin or make you bear their mark. Because you are mine. I am your Father, your King, your soon to be husband.” he remarks, derisively. “You belong to me and I can do whatever I want to you.” 

“Yes! I'm yours, Father, yours–” His head swims, back arching on the cold floor. Carl is ready to show him how much he wants it, how ready he is to receive anything and everything Father can give him, how much he can take it. He bucks his hips up, their position perfect for him to grind the ache between his legs right against– 

Abruptly, it’s all gone. 

Carl sits up and groans loudly, his scent sour with frustration. Father is on the other side of the room, taking all the warmth with him, the muscles of his back obscenely outlined by that poor excuse of a shirt as he takes deep breaths, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m sorry.” 

"You should be."

Father looks back at him and clicks his tongue. "Not about this."

"What for, then?” Carl shakes his bent leg impatiently. 

“I made a mistake.” He finally says, rubbing his face wearily. “All those years, I have listened to constant complaints of others, all the prodding and pleading for a firstborn Alpha. I already had you, and never gave you the chance to be that heir. Not because I see you lacking or unfit for the role, but because I fooled myself thinking I could keep you away from it. Not just the crown, but the world. I have forced myself to ignore every thought of you performing your duty as an omega, of you getting married and carrying children for someone else–” he cuts himself mid phrase, looking not quite embarrassed, but sullen, like a child who has been scolded multiple times for not wanting to share their toys, “Your mother and I had a lot of disagreements over this. She said that I was rather too.. possessive of you, bordering on obsession.” 

Carl peers at him curiously. The truth is not shocking—Father never made an effort to hide his contempt whenever someone made the slightest of mentions of a betrothal with his son; turning down any potential matches and refusing to engage on the topic entirely. Still, he is taken aback by the admission being given to him so freely.   

“You are good. Fundamentally good, down to your bones. Most people in our position, with our privilege, would have become inconsiderate, would think of themselves as better than others, would think it is okay to do as they wish and leave unpunished, not facing the consequences of their actions. But not you. Never you, my sweet boy, with your kind and compassionate heart. And you constantly surprise me too. Everyday you get bolder, braver, like you know you could make the entire world bend to your command. But you know when to stop and listen. Even better, you want to listen, because you care for your people.” 

“Those are good traits for a King. And it brings me shame to admit, but I tried to ignore it as much as I could, because I didn't want to face the truth. That you were growing. I didn't want to lose you. To lose my baby. A Father’s job is to protect his son.”

“Father,” Carl whines, terribly smitten. Stubborn man with an equally stubborn heart. “Love. A father’s job is just to love. It will always be enough for me. Besides, you are being silly, I will always be your baby.” he mutters, pink as a ripe peach.

“Yes, yes you will.” Father says fondly. He helps Carl off the floor, huffing his hair and petting the side of his neck. “The crown is... not just an accessory. Not a prize to be won, but a burden to bear. Every so often it feels like its weight is about to burst the head that carries it. It is enough to take a man to madness. I do not wish that fate to you.” 

Briefly, he thinks about the man Father could have been if not for the fate of being the chosen one, and his soul mourns him.  

But the normality of a different life, of being unseen and unscratched by greatness, likely wouldn't allow them to be together. The most Carl can do now is to wake up every day and make sure his Father will be the happiest man in this one. 

“And I believe you. But, have you considered it might feel heavy because you are continuously trying to bear it on your own? royalty or not, we all have burdens to carry, Father. We cannot run or hide from it. I cannot carry yours and you cannot carry mine, but we can share it. Shared sorrow can be half sorrow. Let me help you.” 

Father huffs a small sound, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes leaves him breathless. It makes him look reachable, mortal, faraway from the godly, indomitable and unyielding image Carl has carved of him in his head. “When did you become so wise?” 

Carl’s lips pinch at the corners, sulky with Father’s exasperated tone, but he still preens under the praise. 

“I should have told you this at least once, but I was too confident of our position, so I need you to listen to me very carefully,” Father holds his face, tracing his cheeks with his thumbs. Carl looks at him attentively. “You are not safe, Carl. No matter how many people are around, or how clear the area looks, no matter what anyone says, no matter what you think, you are not safe. It only takes one second–” Father pauses, gritting his teeth. Carl immediately knows he is thinking about that night. “One second, and it is over. Never let your guard down. Never. I want you to swear to me.” 

It is a bit sudden, but Father was not one to say things without reason, so he simply agrees. “I swear, Father,” he promises. 

“Good.” Father nods. His scent takes a sweet note, Carl breathes him in. “I love you, Carl.” 

“I love you too, Father.” 

He takes them to his bed, helping Carl out of his boots. They lay on their sides on the mattress and Father caresses his hair like he always did at night, lingering in place as if his feet were glued to the floor, even when Mother would jab at his ribs playfully and tell him to leave their son be. Carl loses himself on the comforting motions. 

“A week before your nameday,” Father says after a while, his chin resting on the crown of Carl’s head, “I will summon all the lords and make them bend their knee, will officially name you my heir and after that we–” 

“I do not wish to be the heir, Father.” 

“What?” The confusion in his voice makes Carl tilt his head at him, “I thought it was what you wanted.” 

“I wanted for a long time, or at least I thought I wanted. It was more about being considered enough to be your heir than the actual desire to be heir and all the responsibilities that come with it. But I have been thinking about what you said, and you were right. I do not wish to rule without you, to have to marry again one day because it is my duty to do so. I do not wish for the crown nor I do not want to be your replacement, I just want you. To be your partner. We can rule and do our best to protect and provide for the realm together, to do better than the others that came before us, and I promise to give you an heir.”

“Carl–” Father starts, voice rough and stifled. 

“Please.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes. But I wish to ask you for something first” 

Father hums questioningly, dragging his nose over his cheek. Their scents mingles in the air. 

“If we are going to do this, you cannot behave like you have done multiple times in the past.” with Mother goes unsaid. 

Father is quiet beside him. Carl takes his hand and puts on his chest, only flesh and bones keeping him from touching that beautiful organ that maintains the man he loves alive. 

“You cannot keep me in the dark;” he continues, “or push me away any time things get uncomfortable. I know you might think it is for the best, that by doing that, you are sparing me. But that only brings me pain. I want to be your equal, want to make you feel safe in the same way you do to me, the way you have done all these years.” 

Father still doesn't say anything, but Carl knows he is absorbing the words, so gives him the courtesy of silence and simply waits until he is ready, scooting even closer, their legs tangled together. 

“I made a lot of mistakes in my marriage with your Mother, I do not wish to make the same mistakes with you.” 

There is conviction in the words, the disposition and determination to do more and do better that Father only ever had when it comes to Carl. He dozes off to muttered promises of being taken to Dragonstone after his nameday and becoming a marked Omega by the traditions of their house. 

Carl has heard stories about dragon dreams. 

Many in his line have been dragonriders, but very few amongst them have been dreamers, with the gift of seeing the future. They were tormented in their sleep by dreams, often too vague and difficult to interpret. While said power was a well known fact in his house—their lineage only existed still because of the prophecy of the doom of their home—others considered it more of a curse than anything else, due to its volatile and unknown nature. Judging it as nothing but a consequence of the magic blood in their veins, and a reflection of all the deviant acts they use to practice. People with too much power who were damned to end up mad, who would bring themselves their own destruction.

Father told him he has had them before. Or at least what could have been one. He never elaborated what said dreams were about, dismissing it as confusing and senseless, but the way he would look so distressed every time he was asked about it, gave Carl the impression he just did not want to share whatever he had seen, so he stopped asking. Even if he was tremendously curious to know. 

Despite the curiosity, Carl did not really wish for the experience. It did sound more like a curse than a gift, and he had other things to worry about. 

But when Carl is back to his chambers hours after his conversation with his Father, with his head on his pillow after a well deserved bath, Carl dreams for the first time.

His vision is hazy, but he can feel with an almost deadly precision the way the sand tickles his naked feet, slightly sinking him down, the warmth of the sun against his skin, and how his hair is sticking to the back of his nape. The smell of seawater perpetuates the air. Carl wears a light tunic, proper for the weather, and he is running. His chest bursts with breathless giggles he cannot contain, and to his surprise, there is another set of giggles—high pitched and mischievous, so alike his own when he was smaller—that follows behind his footsteps. 

The most beautiful sound he has ever heard. 

Carl is forced to turn around when something collides against his legs, barely knocking out of his balance. He looks down and gasps. A toddler. A mesmerizing little girl with amethyst eyes and hair so golden white it almost hurts to look at. She looks like an angel, rubbing her face on the side of his thigh, raising her small arms and making grabby hands in his direction, a toothy grin that rivals the sun. Carl doesn’t have to think. She fits perfectly inside his arms, her skin soft like the most expensive silk no amount of gold coins could buy. Carl feels drunk on the sounds of her laughter as he shoves his face in her neck. 

When Carl wakes up the next morning, with knuckles hurting by how strongly he was gripping the sheets in his sleep, his eyes are wet, and his chest aches like someone tried to cut him open and rip his heart out in his sleep.

When Michonne knocks on his door to ask if he’s ready for the day, he hardly listens to the words coming out of her mouth from where he stands in front of the window, busy looking at the sky. It shines with a promise of the same beautiful weather he saw in his dream. He follows her lead, quiet, distracted, mind still stuck in the little girl he is the only one who knows of, her twinkling laughter following him in each step.

Michonne, bless her heart, does not push him, quietly standing behind him as they walk. But in the privacy of her mind, she replays the scene she came across when she opened his door. The prince—who loves to be cocooned in the nest of his blankets and always pouts at every soul who dares to wake him up for more five minutes of sleep with his little face contorted in displeasure—already dressed, mind miles away with a dreamy look in his eyes, left hand resting on his stomach as he rubbed soft little circles with his thumb. 

It is not her place to ask questions.

The bounce of Carl’s feet is loud on the empty corridors. His body almost vibrates with enthusiasm, as he walks his way towards the King’s chambers. A few hours before starting to get ready for his nameday party, Father showed up in his room again—the first time was in the morning, as he made sure to be the first person to congratulate him. He gave him a tight hug that made his body ache, with kisses all over his face that made him feel like he was still floating in the world of dreams. Leaving Carl alone once again with his flustered face shoved on his pillow, butterflies fluttering in his stomach, feet kicking in the air. The second time was with a request to go to his chambers before leaving to celebrate. 

That only motivated him to put more effort in his appearance, knowing who would be the first person to see. For the special occasion, his Omegas-in-waiting have draped him on an opulent dark red gown whose off shoulder neckline cut shows perfectly the delicate lines of his collarbones, decent enough not to show anything he was not supposed to, yet faintly provocative. A thin, translucent golden silk overlaps the dress, giving the fabric a shimmering look, twinkling beneath the light, the sleeves falling down his arms like waves and the skirt rippling softly each time he moves. His hair is covered by a headpiece that matches his gown—velvet red embroidered in gold, from ear to ear shaped like a crescent moon, a pattern of pearls resting above his forehead with one pearl shaped like a bead dangling above the empty space between his brows. 

His Omegas-in-waiting have not spared him of lighthearted giggles and compliments, but the embarrassment is worthy when Father finally takes a look at him.

Carl gnaws at his bottom lip to stop a hysterical laugh. Father looks awestricken, blinking slowly like he cannot believe in what he sees. 

“Do you like it?” He timidly twirls in place. 

“You are the most perfect thing I have ever seen.” 

His cheeks are as red as the rest of him. “Thank you. You look dashing as well.” 

He wears all black again, his doublet has discreet criss crossed patterns, golden embroidery on his sleeves, shoulders and neck. 

Father blinks, and then clears his throat. “I have a gift for you. Come." 

Carl allows himself to be pulled by the hand. “What is it?” he asks, immediately interested. 

Father shakes his head. “Open and see it for yourself, my prince.” 

By looking at the box, Carl already has an idea of what to expect. Father had a habit of gifting him with jewelry on random occasions, not on his nameday only. He would show up carrying small boxes with all the care in the world as if they were the most precious and valuable treasure. Ear rings, rings, bracelets, body chains, head and hair accessories in silver or gold with its gems on reds and purples and blues. He would look for anything that he could use to adorn Carl to make his beauty shine, to show everyone he was the prince of the realm. But Father was fond of necklaces, its size getting extravagant and more noticeable as Carl grew. 

He opens the box, delicately, gasping when it reveals what a first glance looks like a miniature of a dragon. Carl takes it in his hand, examining all the attentive details, the shape of his head to the sharpness of its teeth, the scales running through its snake-like body. 

“Father,” he exclaims, voice brimming with wonder. “This is stunning.”

Carl wordlessly offers it to him, and Father takes the dragon off the box—he pulls both extremities back, as if breaking its body in the middle, placing it on his neck from behind.  Carl tilts his chin up lightly. Father's fingers are warm where the metal is cold. 

Father pulls back, a satisfied glint shines in his eyes, his scent dark and enticing. “Beautiful.” 

Carl hops to the looking glass, a silent gasp escaping between his teeth. Different from all his other necklaces that were thin and low on his collarbones, this one sits just a bit higher on his throat, the dragon tail resting right above his adam’s apple. 

It fits perfectly. It is also too thick to be considered a necklace. It looks like–

Like a collar.

I shall start chaining you. 

The words ring back in his head, said not so long ago but now feels like an eternity. Carl almost asks if he got the exact measurement of his neck based on the width of his hand and how perfectly his fingers had wrapped around his throat. 

“What do you think?” Oh, his voice is husky, thick with something. He fights down a shudder. 

“It’s beautiful, Father.” Carl says, airy. “Thank you.” 

He gives his reflection one more look before turning back to the Alpha. 

“Can I ask for one more thing? As a gift?” 

“What do you want, my prince?”

“I want a kiss.” Carl pulls a face. “You used to kiss me all the time.” 

“Your mother didn’t like when I kissed you like that.” 

“She is not here to stop you.” he blurts out.

It is a foul move, one that should only make him guilty and not eager, but not much contest can be done. Father must realize that too, based on his ruminative expression. He sighs, nods curtly before leaning down to give him a chaste peck on the lips like he used to. 

“No, not like that.” Carl scowls and stomps his foot, his own dignity forgotten. “A real kiss. I want– want to taste you.” 

Father’s eyes get lidded, lilacs engulfed by his dark pupils like an eclipse, Carl could become a puddle of melted skin on the floor. 

“Want to taste me, hm?” He taps Carl's bottom lip with his index finger, “Don't you think what you are asking is a bit naughty for a prince? No son should ask their Fathers that.” 

“Fuck that.” Carl growls. “Please? We are about to get married anyway, there is no wrong in that. Please”

“Exactly, we are to marry very soon. This is why you should be a good omega and wait for when we are married.”

“Father, this is not fair! Since when do you care so much about rules?” 

“Because If I were to taste you before officially making you mine, I will not stop. I will sink my teeth on you and eat you alive.” 

Carl chokes a keening sound. Yes.That it is what he wants. Exactly what he wants.  

In between one of the sweet brushes of Father’s thumb against his bottom lip, Carl lets his chin fall and wraps his mouth around the digit, locking eyes with Father, his future husband, feeling the weight and texture of it with his tongue, moaning at the taste of skin.     

To his delight, Father doesn’t pull away this time. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the spongy flat of Carl’s tongue, dragging it in and out leisurely. 

He gets distracted by its motion. It feels thick in his mouth, the perfect size for Carl to curl his tongue around and suck. Father’s scent gets stronger under his nostrils and his lashes flutter. He closes his eyes and loses himself, flushed cheeks hallowing as he drags his head up and down. 

“Look at you,” Father rasps, barely blinking, “Are you sure it is my mouth that you want? Because it looks like you want something else.” 

His toes curl inside his boots and his eyes roll to the back of his head. Ironically enough, with the collections of inappropriate dreams he has had about his Father, he never dreamed solely about his cock before– fantasizing while he was wide awake? yes. But actual dreams? no. He could only imagine how it would be to have his mouth full of him, to drink his seed directly from the source. 

His belly clenches. 

Carl attempts a response, but it is muffled. Father tries to pull his thumb away and Carl goes with him, whining in distress when the finger pops out and leaves his mouth empty, a string of spit breaking down his chin. 

“Where did you learn to be like this? My prince is not doing something he was not supposed to do when I am not looking, right?” 

It feels blasphemous to even consider such a thing, less alone to say out loud. “What? N–no Father, no.” 

“Yeah, were you not acting like a whore?” 

Carl grips his doublet, desperation starting to chime inside. 

“Never. Never, Father, you have to believe me! I–” 

Father shushes him with a little peck on the corner of his mouth. “It is okay, sweet boy, I believe you. I would know if someone had ever tried to touch you. Nonetheless, I also know you would never allow it, as you are mine.” 

“Yes! yes, yes, I am yours, I promise. Don't want no one else, only you.” He gets on his tiptoes, mind foggy with want. 

Father closes the distance and holds him by the neck, thumb resting over the little dip on his chin he seems to love, one of the features he has got from him. Carl cranes his head back desperately, breathing the hot puffs of air that leaves Father's mouth. Their noses touch first, and then their lips, just barely, his beard prickling the sensitive skin teasingly. 

“Open your mouth.” Father murmurs low. 

Carl obeys, jaw slackening and small pink tongue peeking out. 

Father keeps him in place, long fingers covering his cheeks almost touching his ears. He purses his lips and spits. 

Carl cringes at the sound, shoulders hitching automatically, before realizing what Father has just done, and moans out loud.

“Swallow.” 

His throat bobs up and down with a whimper. Carl presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, as if to try to keep the taste there forever. It should be disgusting, degrading, Carl should feel humiliated. But the shame burning hot on his face is obliterated by the violently explosive desire running through his body. 

“Good boy.” 

Yes. He is good. Carl wants to fall to his knees and beg Father for a chance to show him how good he can be. Want to open his mouth wide open again so he can drink his saliva again, maybe if he sheds a few tears Father will take pity on him and unlace his breeches, let him have a taste.

But nothing good lasts forever. Just like the last time around, Father takes a step back, reluctantly, and Carl cries weakly, fists clenching to his sides, patient wearing thin. If it was not for his smoky scent so thick in the air, he could almost believe Father was unaffected. 

It is not fair how he lights Carl up and then abandons him to burn by himself like nothing happened. 

Father looks down at him and huffs amused, “Don’t look at me like that, We are late.” 

The throne room looks unrecognizable underneath the yellow glow of torches and hundreds of candlelights. A platform is built in front of the iron throne, flower arrangements hanging from above the main table like a cascade. At each end of the room, another two long and sturdy tables for their guests, the space in the middle free for dancing throughout the night. 

A kingsguard knight their arrival, the guests bowing respectfully as they walk to their seats. Carl smiles at the nobles’ greetings and well wishes, but most of his attention is on the banquet made especially for him.

He happily munches on roasted pork when Father offers his goblet with a smirk. 

Carl looks uncertain but accepts it, taking it to his mouth. The last time he tried wine was when he was eleven, and it tasted so bitter he had sworn he would never dare to try it again. Mother gave him a proud nod. 

This time it is sweet, Carl almost hums pleased, but then dries in his tongue so fast he almost chokes in surprise. His entire face contours, a disgusted squawk leaving his throat.

Father shakes his head in a silent laugh, closing his eyes. Carl glows at him. 

"This shit is horrible."

"Language." Father admonishes, but there is no force behind the words. He looks rather enamored.

Carl all but shoves the goblet back and Father accepts it, turning it around to the exact place Carl’s mouth was, licking the small bead of wine off the rim of the cup, before finally taking it to his lips. Eyes never leaving his face. 

His thighs spasm, clenching themselves together.  

Distantly, he hears someone clearing their throat, and Father drifts his gaze away. Carl is busy watching the slope of his nose when a gentle nudge and a tilt of head forces him to pay attention to what is being said. 

It turns out the voice is speaking to him. It comes from a boy, just a few years older than him, judging by his boyish looks and the shy round of his cheeks still persevering over his angular jaw, a few strands of his dark blond hair curving on the sides of his face. He is tall and lanky, Carl doesn’t know if his slightly odd posture is due to nerves or if he is simply awkward by nature. He looks like he is trying his best not to get sick on his own feet.

Carl looks between him and Father and– of course, he is glowering at him. He rolls his eyes inwardly. 

“I wanted to know if the prince could bestow me with the honor of a dance?” he asks, and then winces, bowing his head when Father squints his eyes subtly, but the King makes no further comment, waiting for Carl’s response.

Gods give him patience. 

“Oh, hm, of course my lord.”

He gets up, allowing the boy to take him to the dance floor. 

Father’s eyes are on his back, hot like a dragon flame. 

Carl discovers the boy is from House Lannister– ironically, the younger brother of Jessie Lannister. He hopes the wrinkling of his nose can be perceived as something else than his displeasure. He keeps talking, but Carl barely listens, straining his neck discreetly in the middle of the crowd, trying to peek in between the heads to where Father sits. Their eyes meet, gut clenching when he realises Father’s gaze never left him, heavy and consistent, as if he was the only person in the room. 

Ron manages to capture Carl’s attention momentarily after mentioning horses and even actual lions back in Casterly Rock, and when he turns his head back, Father's chain is empty. 

“May I?”

Carl bites the inside of his cheek, suppressing his smile. 

“Of course your grace.” Lord Ron says hurriedly, bowing respectfully to the two of them before leaving. 

“What was that?" Carl is not fooled by the outwardly coolness in his voice, the same sharp edge from the night Father wrapped his hand around his neck hiding behind his clenched teeth and nostrils flaring, the tell-tale sign that he is trying not to snarl.

He is so obvious Carl would almost feel bad, if that was not exactly what he wanted.

“I was just engaging with one of our guests, Father. It would not be polite to refuse a dance.” Carl tilts his head, batting his eyelashes.

Father scoffs in disdain. 

“Since when do you care about being polite?” 

“I am still their prince, have to play my part, haven't I?” 

“The only thing you are doing is playing with fire, boy. You'll only burn.” 

They are circling in place, hands and arms occasionally brushing when the dance requires touch, two dragons after each other’s tails.

“We are descendants of the true dragons of ancient Valyria, who is better suited to play with fire than us? We cannot burn.” Carl whispers conspiratorially, “Besides, I am officially of age, and for them, I'm not yet married or claimed, not even betrothed. But the hours pass swiftly and plans can change, my King. I am just making sure you will play your part.” 

Father tsks, his hands gripping his waist and lifting him from the floor. “If things were as you see fit, I would be claiming you right here, in front of everyone. Is that what you want? For me to force you on your hands and knees and mount you like a hound? Would that be our bedding ceremony?” 

Carl shivers. They are so close now that when he tilts his head up, he is one breath away from touching the tip of Father’s nose. 

“Tis is not about me only,” he hisses, “but about you as well. Or have you forgotten who you are? The poor King who just lost his wife and desperately needs an heir. They circle you like vultures. How do you think I feel knowing they truly believe they have a chance with you?” 

Father licks his lips and Carl follows the movement. “Are you jealous, my prince?” He asks, the quirk of his eyebrow is as arrogant as it is charming. It makes Carl want to do unspeakable things to him. 

His cheeks burn in fury.

“They are foolish for thinking so,” Carl scorns, all teeth and venom. If it comes down to it, he is ready to take any and every Omega who does as much as blink at Father’s direction to the dragonpit and offer them as food to Shrykos. Let his claim be known. 

 “Sheeps are not equal to a dragon.”  

As expected, two days after his nameday, Carl wakes up a bit feverish, his nightgown sticking into his sweaty skin and a light ache in his core.

He is flowering. By the time the moon rises, Carl will be ready to mate.

The flight to Dragonstone is a blur of winds and clouds, with a jittery Carl at his end's wit. He thinks of his omegas-in-waiting, highborn little things born and raised to dream for the day they would become someone's spouse, and wonders if, everything is said and done, they plan to corner him into a corner and demand him to spill every single detail about his wedding, ask if he felt like a character from their beloved tales, being swept away of his feet by the most handsome knight in the realm, marrying in secrecy. If the outrageous act between two lovers will be considered romantic enough for the fact of whom he got married to is ignored. 

There is no turning back from this, Father had said, scanning his face carefully, looking for any sign of hesitation—giving him one last chance to step back. are you ready? 

As if it was possible for Carl to want anything else. Anybody else.

The main chamber is different from the one in the Red Keep. Where the room in King's Landing is larger and extravagant, its caramel walls ornating with the sunlight, this one is a bit more modest aesthetically than in size. The rooms and corridors are naturally darker due to its volcanic rock walls, rougher, with nothing to cover the floor to ceiling entrance to the balcony. Aside from the new bedsheets and two piles of clothing, the room is, as expected, empty. The only thing that could be considered decoration is the dragon sculpture carved on the stone wall behind the bed.

In another life, his majority would bring him to this castle, officially named as the prince of Dragonstone, the heir of the Iron Throne. Years in the future, someone else will do this in his place. His stomach fills with dread, heart already aching with the idea of having to let her go when the time comes—grieving for someone who does not even exist yet.

Carl takes a deep, grounding breath. This time around, he is here to be wed to the person he loves the most in the world. The one who gave him his life, his meaning, his love. He has lived all his days during fifteen springs to be here. For now, any future suffering can wait. 

He has a man to marry.

Father holds him by the hand until they are on the end of the cliff, in front of a stone altar covered in yellow and red lit candles. Two crossed ropes with red ribbons hover high above their heads, the greens and blues of the grass, the sky and the sea as testimony.

It hits him with full force then. He is only a few minutes away from the rest of his life.

In lieu of the Westeros’ typical white wedding gowns, he wears a traditional marital robe of Valyria, beige with stains of red on the collar and sleeves, and a thick belt on his waist. A headdress adorns his head, fairly shaped like a triangle with wire-like circlets falling on each side of his face. 

Father dresses similarly—minus the headdress. The red around his neck striking with his sun-kissed skin, dark curls pulled back behind his ears. He looks perfect. A God in the form of a man.

Carl doesn’t look away, not even once.

Being raised by the most fiercely protective man who ever lived gave him a very unique type of alienation that not many people could experience, it blinded his eyes from the lives and the problems assailing the lands beyond the gates of his castle. But now, he can grasp the feeling with accuracy. 

It feels like they are in a different dimension between time and space, with only the two of them left.

There is only Father holding the fine piece of dragonglass to Carl’s lips, his thumb swiping over the tiny pool of blood to smear it on his forehead. There is only the glass splitting the skin of his palm in two, the pain numb in the back of his head and the opening that looks like a small river of blood leaking into the goblet. There is only Carl doing the same process to Father, their wounded palms kissing as the ribbon is wrapped around their hands.

There is only Father looking at him like he has been waiting for him his entire life.

One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.

The kiss stings. Not just because of the cut, but all the love he feels bursting out of him, so bright it could make someone blind. Their lips slot chastely, and it feels like home. Like a missing piece of his spirit got lost from his body along the way and finally found his way back. 

"I recall you have promised me something." Carl looks up at him through his lashes, still lucid enough to play coy, when they are back to their temporary room. 

"Which one of the hundred promises I have made to you?" 

He gives him a look, and Father only smirks before stepping closer, slow and light on his feet until he is in Carl's personal space, his scent taking over his senses. He holds his face like he always does, thumb caressing the redness of his cheek, and then he is  bending his neck to rub the tip of their noses together.

Father pecks him tenderly once. Two times. Three times before coaching his lips open, the tip of their tongues touching. A shiver runs down his spine like he has been struck by lightning, his toes curling inside the confinement of his boots. His body moves forward in response and a small sound is swallowed by Father, small fingers gripping his dark curls. 

A large hand moves to his waist, ceasing the minimal space that was left between them, a solid chest against his own. Father burns like a furnace, his heat seeping to his whole body, taking Carl's little gasp of surprise as an opening to lick into his mouth, his other hand on his face to gently coax his jaw wider.

Their tongues curl together, slowly. Father is testing the waters. It is funny, the new sensorial sensation makes him tingly all over, his skin pebbles in a full body shiver when Father tilts his head to the side and the kiss gets deeper, their noses slotted together. Carl lets himself be guided, whimpering low with the way Father devours him thoroughly, his sharp fangs nipping his bottom lip sensually. The wet sound of their passionate kisses only makes the mess inside his smallclothes grow, seeping through it down to his inner thighs. 

“Are you afraid?” Father breaks the kiss to ask. 

Carl breathes out shakily, chest heaving. He wants to laugh at the irony. If Father only knew of all the deviant and filthy thoughts he had about him, how many times he had dreamed with this moment, with his body covering his own from the rest of the world.

He would understand how ridiculous the question is. 

“No,” and they are not mere words of reassurance, but a statement. Carved underneath his skin, shaped into his dna. The first thing he has ever learned. “You would never hurt me.”

Father looks pleased.“No, I would not.” 

His robes are taken off by skilled hands, with a care and patience Carl does not retribute, his own fingers tugging the fabric covering Father’s body hastily, his mouth watering at the show of skin. 

The mattress is soft against his back just like the slow, wet, open mouthed kisses down the column of his throat, each sound of tongue and spit makes Carl shudder more and more violently.

“Look at these pretty little things.” 

Carl squawks when Father gropes his flat chest, thumb rubbing circles over the small bud.

He looks down and frowns, his pout getting bigger at each word. “There is nothing there, they are too small.”

He has just hit maturity. Only now his hips might start to get wider, and his chest will grow when he—

Given the way Father fondles his chest, almost protectively, he is surely thinking the same. “It will change when you get with child.” he growls. “Soon.” 

Carl nods dumbly. Their size doesn’t seem a problem to him at all, as Father leans down to lap his nipple until it is shining with saliva. He wraps his lips around the bud, sucking noisily without a worry in the world. Carl’s hand goes to his hair, unsuccessfully trying to pull him away when the sharp teeth feel too much. But Father doesn't budge, sucking his nipples until they are puffy and sore. 

He leaves a path of saliva on his torso until his breath tickles his navel. Hunching himself, Carl tries to cover his little quim, knees high above his chest and hands over his crotch, suddenly shy. 

“Wait, Father–” 

“None of that. Let me see you.” he rubs Carl's shins in soothing motions. “There’s no need to hide, pretty boy. Have you forgotten I have seen you naked before?”

“Yeah, when I was a babe.” Carl spurts, affronted. “You cannot possibly think it is the same!”

Father chuckles. “Yeah, things are indeed different now, but it is still just me. I swear to you, shame is the last thing you ought to feel. You are perfect.” he pauses in between words to kiss Carl’s calves up to his knees. “Flawless. Pristine. Exquisite.” 

Carl whines quietly, legs falling open gradually. 

“You are so soft,” Father continues, taking the opening and mouthing wetly on the inside of his thighs, sharp canines nipping at tender skin. His facial hair leaves light carpet burns, coating him in red. “Want to eat you whole.” 

Carl moans loudly, trembling with the metal image. Just like in his most sordid dreams.

Father lets a pleased hum at his reaction, kissing atop of his fingers. "Yeah? Would you like that? Come on, then, darling. Let me see it, let me have this pretty cunt.” 

Not one to deny his Father anything, Carl takes his hands away—his fingers wet, strings of slick still connecting them to his little quim—and exposes himself to Father's starving gaze.

“Fuck, look at you. A proper feast for your King, hm?” 

Father touches his slit slowly, Carl tries hard not to accidentally kick him in the head with the way his legs spasms as he traces his inner and outer lips, trails down to his weepy hole up to his clit. He taps it lightly and Carl quivers. Father's scent gets impossibly stronger. 

He thumbs his cunt lips open, exposing his flower further to his wolfish eyes. Carl whimpers in embarrassment at the way he throbs uncontrollably under the heavy gaze. As if anticipating his movements, Father uses his elbows to keep Carl’s thighs from closing, paying his fuss no mind. He looks hypnotized, eyes black with scarcely of purple left. With no warning, he shoves his nose on Carl's cunt, sniffing him shamelessly like a bloody dog. 

Carl yelps, startled. 

Father growls in response, rubbing his beard all over his delicate lips, coarse hair so rough against his untouched cunny it makes him see white underneath his eyelids. He looks one more time at Carl before licking a hungry fat stripe through his folds, moaning loudly the instant his brain registers the sweet taste. 

“Kepa!” Carl mewls, eyes teary. He has not called Father like that since he was a small child.

Father repeats the motion, shyly dipping the tip of his tongue inside Carl and his hole immediately clenches around it, trying to keep him inside. Licking up to the top, he circles his small clit a few times, flicks it side to side before closing his lips around his little pearl and suckling deliberately. Carl clasps a hand over his own mouth to stifle the wail that scratches furiously in his throat. His cunt pulses as if it has a life of its own, sweet slick dribbling directly over Father’s tongue and he drinks him down. 

It is so different from his own uncoordinated touches under the sheets, going by instinct and doing what feels good. He knew putting his fingers inside himself was completely out of question, indulging himself with rubbing his hidden pearl only.  

When he pulls away, Carl is scandalized at how filthy Father looks, the entire lower half of his face shiny, making his beard look a tad darker and a few threads of slick connecting strands of hair to each other.

Father does not even bother to spare Carl a look, eyes still glued to his cunny. Carl tries to support himself on his shaking arms, elbows sinking into the mattress as he looks down between his legs. 

His cunt blooms in a lovely shade of pink, swollen and drenched arousal. A siren call to Father, imploring him to bring his mouth back where it belongs.

Father puckers his lips and spits on his clit. He mixes it with his slick, and it is all so wet it is practically frictionless. 

Carl whines so high his throat burns, cheeks and chest ablaze.

“Father– Wait! Ngh, it feels weird.”

“Shh, sweet boy, I wish to eat.” Father digs his fingers into his bony hips, eyes locked with his own as he gives a chaste kiss above his cunt. “Will you deny me that?” 

Carl squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head bashfully. He wishes to cover his face with his hands or his pillow, but something in him tells that Father will not approve. 

“You taste like heaven, my love. I want to have you over at every surface, to have my mouth on you at every second of the day. I shall eat no more food, just like our babe will be nourished and sustained by your milk, I must have your slick as if it is a drink made by the Gods themselves.” 

He dives back in, the mouth devouring his cunt speeding up and suckling his sensitive little pearl with more vigor. There’s no more finesse, Father works his jaw and tongue mercilessly on his cunny, the smacking sounds getting louder as the overwhelming feeling spirals through his core. Carl is confused if he wants to pull himself closer and push his hips away, Father grips each of his thighs and brings them over his shoulders, pressing them tight against his ears and around his head, stopping him from running away from the assault.

Like this, all his wriggling only takes him further to Father’s hungry mouth. Carl cries desperately, he can hear the way his cunny grows wetter and sloppier, his thighs shaking almost painfully like tree branches in the wind. Mind drunk with pleasure, he bucks his hips up, rubbing himself on Father’s face unabashedly, his strong nose rubs perfectly against the apex of his cunt. Father takes it earnestly, shoving his tongue inside and licking his walls in response.

“Fuck. Can you hear it, dear?” He says, the words muffled since he doesn’t even try to tear his mouth away from his cunny. “The way she talks to me? Begs for me?” 

Carl bites his knuckle. Yes, he can hear it. It is the only thing he can hear apart from his own pathetic whines, the way his cunt keeps weeping for Father–they will probably have to throw the sheets away because he can't stop soiling them with his slick. His body burns like an inferno, Carl fears the next time he opens his mouth to moan, he will snort a plume of smoke instead, ready to set the room on fire.

The knot in his belly pulls tighter and tighter, on the cusp of snapping. The indecent sounds of Father feasting on him increases his desperation, a maddening shivering that makes his body worryingly taut. His mouth and sultry tongue wraps perfectly around his clit and he sucks–

Carl screams, tremors wracking through his body as he comes for the first time from his Father’s hands.  

When he comes back–in what feels like minutes or an eternity; time has lost its meaning—Father is still with his face in between his legs, slurping his juices. Carl shoves him away, overestimulated. The Alpha grunts but obeys, giving him a few last soothing licks before pulling away.

“Are you ready for the best part?” 

Gods.

“It gets better than this?” Carl gapes. He thinks about lifting his head but his body won't obey, so he only turns to the side, looking down to Father with his cheek smashed by his shoulder. 

Father blinks as if breaking out of the stupor of their passion for a moment and chuckles, airy, more carefree than Carl has seen him in years. He looks disheveled; his curls are a mess from Carl's insistent fingers, his voice is raspy and his face is soaked, yet he seems younger, alive. 

His heart sings at the view.

Carl taps Father’s shoulders until he understands the message, maneuvering his body so they can be face to face again. He pulls him by the neck and kisses him, simply because he can. 

The taste of himself is thick on Father’s mouth, can smell it on his face. He whines brokenly and sucks on his tongue, intoxicated on the high of the shared intimacy. Carl loses himself on the kiss, saliva dripping down his chin to his neck, and tenses in surprise when a curious finger pokes at his entrance.  

“Shhh,” Father soothes low in his ear. “It is just me, my sweet. Let me in.” 

He inserts one finger, as gently as he can, but Carl still clenches down, mildly uncomfortable but still curious. 

“It feels weird.” he voices out, frowning.

Father nods. “It will pass.” His mouth goes back to his neck, wicked tongue tracing a path from his chin to his mouth, the coarse pad of his thumb drawing tight little circles above his clit. 

The double stimulation distracts him, makes his walls relax enough for Father to get another finger in. 

“Do you have any idea how much I wanted this? How many times have I thought about taking you?” Father drags his fingers up and they hit something inside of him that chokes the air out of his lungs, “You never made it easier on your Father, have you? Do you think I've never smelled it on you? Your desire, dripping down your little cunt every time I got too close, your scent spiking up every time I had my hands on you, and I had to turn a blind eye. To walk away. My own son, taunting me in the walls of my own home.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Carl's brows pinch together and shakes his head, hips moving on their own volition, trying to make the fingers hit that spot again.

“What did you say?” Father teases. 

“Just wanted you.” 

“You have me, sweet boy.” 

By the time they have three fingers in, the obscene squelch of his cunny is loud as Father finger fucks him, and Carl mewls when the pad of his fingers bullies his sweet spot without mercy, slick dripping down Father’s wrist. Carl can feel the pleasure building up again, and attempts to seize his arm.

“K–kepa, wait–” 

“Give me one more, darling.” 

His chin wobbles. “No, I want– with you. Please!” 

Father coos, slowly pulling his fingers out, giving a condescending little pat over his cunt that makes him jerk.

His cock stands proudly between his legs. He takes the hand still coated with Carl’s slick and fist his cock up and down a few times– 

He takes the hand still soaked with slick and fists his cock–standing proudly between his legs–stroking it a few times. The bulby tip is in an angry shade of red, leaking vigorously, with veins surrounding the shaft down to the base of the swell of his knot and pubic hair.

Carl moans wantonly at the sight, spreading his legs as far as he can, offering himself. 

Father growls low in his chest, adjusting himself until his thighs are under Carl’s. His cock looks monstrous compared to his cunny, covering most of his pelvis.

He wants it inside him. As fast as he can. 

“Men would fight countless wars just to be blessed with the chance to lay between your legs.” Father drawls, and Carl drools when he slaps his cock on his cunt lips with a slicky wet sound, rubbing the tip over his slit up to his clit. 

He whimpers, trying to raise to his elbows to watch when Father carefully slides in, but the stretch of his walls burns so gloriously he falls right back to his pillow. It feels like he is coming apart at the seams.

His vision blurs momentarily, the slide is torturous as Father feeds his cock to him. It feels like hours until he can feel his hips on the back of his thighs, walls throbbing sporadically around the cock invading his insides. Tears stream down his temples, his mouth wide open with how overwhelmingly full he is it makes his jaw twinge. For the first time in his life, Carl can see how debauchery looks on Father's face. Above him, his eyelashes flicker, brows trembling, the vein in the middle of his forehead Carl has only a few times sticks out– just like the ones on his cock. If he had any control of his muscles he would trace it with his fingers. Maybe his tongue. 

Father looks like a God who has been brought to his knees, succumbing to temptation. 

“It hurts.” Carl wheezes. 

“Do not worry, sweet boy,” his voice cracks,  “I’ll make it better.” 

Despite the pain and discomfort, the inestimable feeling he has been cultivated for ages swells inside his chest, so powerfully his heart could explode inside his ribs in a disarray of muscle tissue, blood, and all the love purring down for the man he cherishes most. 

“I'm ready.” He murmurs, tearful, clinging onto his shoulders trying to bring him even closer, as if it were possible. Father pecks him sweetly before starting to move, in and out, tentatively. 

“You are so fucking tight, Gods.” Father groans like he is in pain. 

Carl is flaring up, disoriented by their mixed scents, prisoner of his own lust; he doesn't see the words jumping from his chest to the tip of his tongue until it is too late.

“Tighter than Mother?” 

The room falls quiet. Father tenses instantly and his breath catches, looking down at him to make sure he heard it right. 

He leans down, then, rubbing the tip of his nose over the shell of Carl's ear, “You know you are,” Father murmurs, low and croaky, like a secret just between the two. “So much tighter than your Mother.” 

Carl keens loudly, the sound is a green light to Father to finally fuck him properly, hips speeding up gradually until he builds a rhythm. 

He doesn’t know if it's the way Father moves his hips, or due to his size—a combination of both, most likely—but he swears he can feel his cock hitting the back of his throat, punching his breath out of him. 

“Ngh, wait,” Carl digs his fingers into the ridge of Father's shoulder blade, hiding his face on the juncture of his neck. “it's too much, too much F–father!” 

Father tsks, tugging him by the hair until his face is visible again. “It is useless to hide. You begged me, remember? I am only obeying my husband's wishes.” Father says,  mocking in a way that makes his eyes prickle and cunt throb. “You claim it is too much, but the way you grip me says otherwise.” 

To prove his point, he starts to pull away as if to slip out of him, Carl instinctively clamps down with a pitiful whine, legs tightening his hold around Father’s slim waist.

“See? First time having cock and you are already in love with it. Do you have no shame, boy? Letting your own Father ruin your cunt? Crying for it like a common whore?”

“Not a whore, Kepa,” Carl hiccups, shaking his head vehemently. 

“No?” Father asks, his breath even, as if he wasn't pounding his cunny mercilessly, his hips slapping loudly against his thighs, the squelch of his slick linking their skins.  

“No! I’m your prince, I’m your–” Carl swallows, dizzily, trying to speak over a tongue that feels too heavy inside his mouth. “Your w–wife!” 

Father swears, the sound of silk ripping rings into his ears. “My wife, hm? My little son-wife.” His cock hits that secret hidden spot again, the one that makes his body seize on the bed. 

Carl can’t breathe. The cock that shaped his existence into his Mother's womb, now shaping him from the inside out, giving him a new purpose. 

“Gods, what would the small folk think if they could see you right now, hm? The Realm’s Delight,” He sneers, giving a harsh, mean thrust that makes Carl see stars as his body jolts up and down on the bed. “Falling apart over his own Father’s cock? What will the court think when they take the sight of you, bruised, limping and ruined. Will they be able to smell my seed dripping down your legs? Would they turn their heads or enjoy the show if they could see their King taking their Queen?

Father smirks wolfishly, grabbing his waist with one arm only, keeping his hips in the air. “I’d gouge out their eyes before allowing them to see you like this. You are for my eyes and my hands and my cock alone.”

He resumes the rough, fast rhythm, only Carl’s shoulders touch the bed, his teeth clacking and his knuckles white fisting the sheets. Delirious with it, he must be imagining the way Father cock seems to grow inside him. 

“But I hope they know. I shall order them to. They won’t see or touch, but they will know. How well their little prince takes his King’s cock like he was made for it, because he was. You were made for it. I want every single one of the nobles parading in this castle to know how good you make their King feel, want them to have in the back of their heads the knowledge that only you can give me what I want, what no one else can. Want them to sing songs about how tight your little cunt is.” 

Carl is dripping down in every possible way. He is crying, saliva drips from the corner of his lips and slick pours out of his cunt like a faucet. 

“My boy, my lovely boy. Say you are mine, say it.” 

“Yours! I am yours, only y–yours, please– Inside, Father. Please you have to–” Carl looks up at him, brows sloped pitifully, choking on in his own spit. “You have to come i–inside.” 

“Yeah? Want me to paint your womb with my seed? Will my little wife give me a child?” 

“Yes!” he screams. 

Carl has a feeling of deja vu when Father finally sinks his teeth on his throat. Unlike in his dreams, this time he can feel the pointiness of his incisors breaking the skin; the burn is immediate, shooting through his bones as blood oozes down his neck to the mattress. 

An invisible hand pulls his spine like a bowstring being plucked, and their bond snaps into place. 

The back and forth between pain and pleasure leaves him frenzied, wildfire running in his veins. Father grunts with his face still hidden on his neck, cock throbbing repeatedly as his knot swells, settling in place, emptying himself inside Carl. The warm feeling of his hot seed flooding him along with the thought of Father finally filling his untouched womb for the first time, ruining him for everybody else, does for him. His thighs open in surrender and he has another earth-shattering orgasm, clear fluid spraying out and soaking everything it can reach. His battered and already spoiled cunny keeps milking Father’s cock dry, taking every single drop of come he has to offer.  

Body still suffering the aftershocks, Carl touches his tummy—slightly swollen, he notices. full of Father. There’s no way the seed won’t take, he thinks, deliriously, a womb full of dragons, before closing his eyes. 

The early morning light kisses his face in greeting. It is hard for Carl to see under the impetuous brightness, forcing him to blink until his eyes can adjust to his surroundings. 

Carl stretches his limbs lazily, the momentary pleasure of sprawling over the sheets like a cat sends a tweak of pain on his lower half. As if just waiting for him to wake up, his body makes him aware of its soreness on his hips, inner thighs and his entrance. 

His neck throbs too, like good morning and a reminder at once. Recollections of last night's events come back to him and Carl grins dopily, so wide his cheeks hurt. He turns around and shoves his face onto the pillow to smother a squeal, wiggling his feet in the air trying to shake the sudden rush of euphoric energy rushing through his body—and immediately regrets when his sore body complains.  

Something stirring on the other side of the bed grabs his attention. Not something, Someone. 

He catches Father in the middle of changing positions, previously on his side, now he lies on his back with one arm over his stomach, the silk white sheets beam against his golden skin, curls spread on his pillow and lips softly open, his breath steady. 

The sight makes him gasp, transfixed by what he never thought he could have even the smallest chance to see. Carl wants to memorize the image and keep it preserved, eternally, in the back of his mind. 

Letting his gaze free over his husband’s body, he drinks the hard lines of chest, sprinkled with sparse hair, the same hair that trails down to his bellybutton and crotch. 

Carl has seen it the night before, big and hard and ready to make him brand new. But there’s something sultry and distinctively intimate about seeing it soft right now, lying limp where his Father’s hip and thigh meet. 

Curiosity slashes him like the claws of a beast. They are married under the Gods’ eyes, the blood stained sheets discarded on the floor and Father’s bite on the side of his neck, throbbing like a living thing, proof of their consummation. They belong to each other in every way that matters. 

Carl owns his husband’s body in the same way his husband owns his. He can touch if he wants to. 

He dips his hand down slowly, fingertips barely grazing over the length of Father’s cock, but a full body shiver runs down his spine. The skin soft like silk, he thinks, his teeth gnawing at his lip. 

He does it again, more confident this time, and feels his Father's cock twitch.

Carl stifles a giggle, ecstatic with his new discovery. He caresses the length up and down, watches with fascination as the blood rushes until the head is peaking out under the thin skin, pinkish and shyly glistening pearly white with the promise of the same seed his womb is full with.

Moved by the unquenchable heat blooming inside, Carl skims down until his head rests comfortably on Father’s hip and takes his cock by his hand, an automatic sigh leaving his mouth when Father twitches again, his thighs clenching together in response. 

It is instinctual the way his lips open, pink tongue peeking out to give the head a kitten lick. Slow and shy, just enough to taste the liquid leaking out of Father. A slightly bitter taste floods his palate and he smacks his lips together trying to decide if he likes it or not. He does it again. Father’s thigh spasms and he lets out a grunt, Carl looks up in alarm like a deer, but when he notices his Alpha is still lost in his sleep, he goes back to his task.

Carl thinks that, even if Father was awake, he would not have it in himself to even try to put on a show, still a bit unsure of what to do with his hands and intimidated by Father’s size—at the peak of his heat, all his body cared about was the need to have an Alpha cock filling him up, breeding him well enough to get him pupped. Father, never one to disappoint, had exactly what Carl wanted, manhood big and thick like the size of Carl’s own wrist. Perfect to quell the ache in his core.

The squishy head is gooey with his saliva and Father’s own white liquid, big and soft on his tongue, and that's where he decides to focus on, lapping it thoroughly, until brain whispers for more and the only thing left do is to wrap his mouth around it and suck.  

Carl wraps his fingers around the shaft–he swallows a sound when he sees they don't meet–and works both hands up and down, jerking it slowly, craving more and more Father’s salty taste. His hips unconsciously moves back and forth, the exact shape of Father's cock already memorized by his insides, every time his cunt clenches without his permission, his walls ache, begging to be filled again, desperate to feel that type of closeness with his Father again. His husband. 

“Carl?” Father mumbles, voice thick with sleep. 

His mouth is full, so he hums in question. 

A hand ruffs his head clumsily. Carl whines, annoyed with the interruption, but obediently pulls away from his cock with a wet pop, licking his lips appreciably. 

“Good morrow, valzȳrys. Did you sleep well?”

Magically, all traces of sleep are gone from Father's face, violet eyes wide and alert.

“What?” he asks innocently, rubbing his flushed cheek on his thigh, amused with his shock.

Father jolts then—the sudden movement surprises Carl, who gives an undignified squeak when strong hands manhandle him until he is on top of his husband, hands resting on his chest for support. 

Their lips are crashing before he even has time to say something, the kiss too wet and filthy for two people who have just woken up, but Carl indulges in it, licking his Father’s mouth with a happy chirp, his toes curling in delight.

“Say it again.” Father rasps. 

“Have you s–”

“No. What you have called me.” 

Carl reddens.

“Husband.”

“Again.” 

“You are my husband.” 

“Again.”

Carl rolls his eyes, “Father–”

Father moans.

“You are ridiculous.” Carl exclaims exasperated, their smiles mirror each other.  

Feeling bold by the reaction he caused, he adjusts his hips until he is right above Father’s groin, his petal lips parting for his erection, the contact sends a pleasurable zab through his body. Biting his lip, Carl grinds down experimentally–he is wet already, just by having his mouth on Father. The friction is slippery and lovely against his clit. 

He does it again, and soon the room is filled with the soft and sensual wet squelch of their mixed juices.

The moves are soothing, it reminds him of the ocean, its waves making his body sway gently back and forth. 

They both gasp when the tip catches his hole. Carl teases Father just to make him groan before sinking down on his cock, his eyebrows draw together, a small mewl leaving his pink lips. His cunny is still quite sore, but he welcomes the ache in the same way he welcomes Father inside of him, clenching down desperately as if never wants to part away. 

“Gods, look at you.” Father says, left hand sliding from his tummy up to his neck, giving his throat a weak squeeze. 

With so many years of dragon and horse riding, the position is not foreign. His body has built up the necessary core strength and resistance; his thighs are well accustomed with that type of stretch and for long periods of time. 

Above his dragon, he was a boy conquering the sky. And now, above his Father, he is a boy conquering his throne.

Carl clamps hard around his cock, a strong wave of pleasure numbing his brain.

He wonders how they went so long without this. How not so long ago—two days ago—Carl was existing in a world where he did not know the true weight of his Father's touch. How his body sings under his fingertips, the fire inside of his veins–his dragon blood, recognizes its own within his Father’s, their coupling is nothing but a dance between two long lost lovers, a battle between two beasts.

“That’s it, d–darling, there we go. Take what you need." Father grips his sides and forces his hips down, forcing him to feel, to take more. “Take this cock, it is yours, own it.”  

Carl nods. The words are a whisper, a string of drool threatening to drip down his chin. “It is mine.” He tries again, louder, leaving bloody lines on Father's chest with his nails when his cock touches that special place.

“Yes, it is yours, it has always been yours.” Father babbles incoherently, the bob of his throat visible when he throws his head back.

Something ugly grows inside his chest, gnawing with its hazor-sharp teeth, dark and vicious. It clouds his thoughts, possesses his body, crawls out of his mouth until—

“Were you fucking Mother all this time pretending she was me?” 

He should be graceful, yet this is the second time Carl makes Father grow stiff by his words. In any other scenario, he would take his silence as a warning he has gone too far, would instantly feel bad and regret even saying anything. But before he can apologize—Father’s cock twitches inside him. 

It is impossible to miss.  

"Gods." Carl laughs in realization. "You really did it, didn't you? Do you have no shame, Father? Fucking your wife while fantasizing about your own son?"

The implications make his throat dry. He grinds down purposefully with a new flutter of enthusiasm. 

Father said last night he ached for Carl, that he had to control himself not to do anything stupid, but this—this is another thing entirely. When did it start? For how long has Father been craving him?

He thinks about their moments together. Father, with all his strength and size, could have taken Carl if he wanted to. He could have bent him over the closest piece of furniture and ripped his clothes off, could have pulled his smallclothes to the side and had his way with him. Being King, no one would have been able to stop him.

Worse, Carl probably would have let him.

Father looks up at him, and guilt shines in his eyes.

His fangs aren't as sharp, Carl shows him his teeth. He is ready to draw blood. 

“Did you have to keep your mouth shut just not to face the risk of moaning my name?” He whispers. The thing inside him roars when Father moans beneath him; the hands on his hips will definitely leave purplish fingerprints behind—just like the shared shade of both of their eyes. 

"Carl—"

"You are a pervert." he murmurs, in awe. It shouldn't sound like a compliment, but it does. "Guess it was a good thing we basically had the same face, right?"

He is taking it too far. No son should dare to voice the immoral things he is saying about his mother—his dead mother, treating her like an opponent, an adversary to his Father’s attention. It should be bad enough that he mentioned her last night too, and the memory makes his face burn in shame. If it was not for the lust enveloping him like a cloak, he would probably sink down on the floor under the bed and hide forever. 

Still, it does not stop him. 

"You have only fucked her to have me, haven't you?"

Carl will remember this moment for as long as he lives; the way Father growls, wet and gravelly and pained, like a wild animal. 

He snickers loudly. “How lucky that you got to be the first to fuck me then— Father, ah, w–wait–!” Father’s grip turns painful and he bucks his hips up harshly and Carl’s lithe body jolts brutally. “Too much, Kepa, no, no– Ngh!” 

The wet sloppy sounds of their skins slapping would make even the most shameless turn pink.  

"Yes! Y—yes, please, Father, j—just like that!"

“You are mine, boy. Mine and mine alone.”

"Yours, Father, you can fuck me forever— Gods!"

It is not common for Omegas to mark Alphas. The bite is typically a sign of submission and ownership from the so-called weaker secondary sex, the bond easier to break eventually if death occurs or if the Alpha wishes so. 

But they share the same eyes, the same blood, the same language. It is only fair for them to share a bond mark. 

It is only fair that anyone can see that Father belongs to him. 

So when they reach their peak at the same time—his cunt savoring the chance to milk Father’s knot once again—and Father brings their torsos together, Carl his head away, opens his jaw as wide as he can, and breaks the skin above his mating gland. No high necklace will be able to fully cover the scar of his teeth. He tastes like everything Carl has ever wanted. 

He left King’s Landing merely as the King's son, and when he returns, he will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

The princess is born during summer.

A maester and five servants surround the bed where the Queen lays, his blood and sweat staining the sheets. 

A blur of purple paints the sky—the Queen’s dragon screeches are thunderous and deafening throughout the entirety of King’s Landing, echoing the pain felt coming from the bond of her rider. 

Following sixteen hours of labor, the babe is welcomed to the words with relieved sighs and cheering smiles.

A girl. An alpha, by the scent. With lovely purple eyes and—to everyone’s surprise, a sparse mop of shockingly golden white hair.

Richaerys knew from a very early age that he was special. Different from the ones who did not have the blood of the dragon in their veins. The magical and ancient blood of Old Valyria. Running wild like a river, shaping the land through the force of blazing hot lava instead of flowing water. 

His inheritance was not just tailored clothing or more gold that most people would never have the chance to touch in their lives. He could tame beasts, speak their language. He could touch the sky. 

They were closer to Gods than men. 

On the eve of his six-and-ten birthday, Rick had a dream. He knew, instantly, that this one was different. 

Special, just like him. 

Blurred, like flying in between clouds, something only a dragon rider would know. 

He was in the Red Keep, its corridors always full of life and murmurs, now empty. 

Except for a woman. 

She had his back to him, so he could only see her silhouette, draped in a white dress, thin and simple like a nightgown. Her long brown hair cascaded down her shoulders. She was thin, with delicate wrists and fingers. In the haziness of the dream, she shined, a halo surrounding her body.

Rick tried to call him, but he didn't know her name and she didn't turn around. Instead, she started to walk, her bare feet bouncing away from him.

His legs moved automatically and he trailed after, trying to get her attention again and again, but she did not look back once. 

Her loose gown moved like the waves meeting the shore as she took them through the red walls. The path was familiar, one he could do with his eyes closed. 

The door of the Throne room was high above their heads, and the room itself looked twice bigger than what it really was when he was awake, devoid of the warmth of light or people.

When she started walking again, her steps left prints on the floor.

Blood.

It increased from small footprints to a thick and steady trail of blood. He could smell the tangy metal scent in the air, staining the hem of her gown, but she did not seem to care or be aware of it, never stopping until she stood in front of the throne. 

Suddenly, her body plopped on the floor, like someone cut the strings that kept her standing.

Rick tried to get to her, forced his body to move, but his legs stayed in place. His vision got bleary, and when he blinked again, both the blood and the body on the floor were gone. 

Up the four steps of stairs, the woman now sat comfortably on the Iron throne, her shoulders relaxed as if the chair was not made of the hard and sharp steel of hundreds of swords.

Even in front of her, Rick could not see her face, no matter how much he tried to. The only thing he could grasp on was the white gown and brown hair. 

Curiously, now she looked smaller, like her bones had shrunk under her skin, and her hair was shorter.

In her arms, there was a babe. Rick could also not see its face, did not know if it was a boy or a girl, but it had the same skin tone as her, its tiny head sprinkled with golden white hair. 

The empty room echoed with its joyful coos, the woman gently rubbing her index on the chubby cheek.

Even in a dream, Rick could swear he felt something in the confines of his chest. Like someone collected pieces of broken glass and glued it all back together, sunlight shining through the cracks, warming him from the inside out.

It felt like an invisible rope was wrapped around his heart, tugging him to them. But once again, his legs did not obey. 

He woke up with his temples wet.

A week later, he was officially betrothed to Lori Highgarden, who he would end up marrying a year and a half later. 

Her brown hair made his throat become a knot.

Pagers turned, seasons changed, and life went on. 

The dream was still there, in the back of his head, haunting him during the night, a memory of something he never lived, but he never told anyone about it. Safely tucked and hidden in the tight corners of his ribs, for him only. 

When they discovered she was with child, Rick felt like a phoenix instead of a dragon, rising from his own ashes. 

 If he had any questions about the dream being a promise, it was all forgotten when Lori gave birth.  

Their babe was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, his purple eyes twinkling like amethysts, shining like the stars sailors memorized to guide themselves home when lost in sea. His head a mop of brown hair. 

The dream was not completely forgotten, but buried under all the new memories of his little prince. His small hands holding his fingers, little nose scrunching with his toothy smile, his beautiful eyes—the eyes Rick gave him—looking up at him like he knew all the secrets of the universe. His tiny legs, following Rick’s steps in every direction as if they were one entity split into two different bodies.  

After all, why should he cling to something as volatile and potentially treacherous as a dream, when Carl—the boy in his arms, was real. Made of his flesh and blood, real and alive. The sole reason why Rick had a heart. Not to keep himself alive, but to love Carl. 

It was all for Carl

He was real. He was everything. And the dream was just a dream.