Chapter Text
It could not exactly be said that the night had been going well until his father uttered those words.
“Perhaps you only have girls left in you.”
Maekar’s grip over his fork tightened minimally. The food in his mouth suddenly tasted like ash.
Valarr pursed his lips.
One of the great tragedies that came with the decimation of their house was the fact that supper had become a private affair between few. In the past, when they had all gathered to share supper, the event resembled a small feast, the table long and rich with noise and color.
Now a table half the size of the one used for the Small Council could hold what remained of the mighty House Targaryen.
“Naerys and Baela might present as alphas,” Valarr said diplomatically.
The king pursed his own lips.
“It’s not likely. Or ideal. There hasn’t been a female alpha in our house since the Black Bride.”
“House Velaryon has an abundance of sons,” Valarr pointed out. “A match could be arranged, a fourth son would be lucky to become prince consort and have his children take the name Targaryen.”
Maekar’s cunt still throbbed from the stitches and they were speaking of matches. Irritation bit him like a pricking needle forgotten in a doublet by an old seamstress, yet he did not answer it.
Nothing but words in the wind, for a girl that could only take a few steps on her own and another that could not even lift her own head unassisted.
“It would be a sensible solution were the Blackfyres not plotting across the sea. And they have Velaryon blood through Queen Daenaera. We need alliances that can be consummated now and allies that cannot be easily swayed.”
“Lord Velaryon has given us no reason to mistrust him. If his house did not back Daemon, they will not back whichever pretender Bittersteel intends to crown now,” Valarr insisted. “And he has the ships.”
“So does the Evenstar of Tarth. And a son too, a lad of six-and-ten I believe.”
His eyes landed on Maekar and dread curled his gut in warning. Maekar knew the weight of that gaze and it had never meant anything good for him.
“He would be a fine match for Daella.”
“No.”
Under other circumstances, he would have been amused by the look on his father’s face. The king was not used to being denied.
“She’s barely four-and-ten.”
“So were you when you wed Dyanna and a fruitful marriage it turned out to be.”
Maekar had to bite his tongue, lest he do something unwise like yell at his father and give anyone a reason to call him an emotional, hysterical omega.
“She’s too young.”
And so was I.
Omegas and beta girls always were. But what would he know about it? He had arranged his sister’s marriage to Maron Martell when she was still in the cradle. The man had been over twice her age when they wedded and Daenerys a maid of six-and-ten, for she had presented late.
Maekar had heard plenty of the Water Gardens and the many sons she had given Maron, but a part of him still wondered…
“Do you intend for her to remain a maid forever?”
“I intend for her to live to see twenty and beyond, which she won’t if she’s made to whelp before she’s old enough for it,” he snapped, sharper than he ought to be towards his king.
“I have met the Evenstar’s son,” Valarr interceded gently. “He’s a fine knight.”
“Is that meant to sway me? So the boy can lift a sword without cutting himself, that’s not virtue enough to hand him my daughter.”
The king did not look daunted. Mildly annoyed, if anything, as if Maekar were saying something unreasonable and being difficult for the sake of it.
It made him feel like a child trying to fight an adult’s will. The king did not need his consent and odds were that he would ignore his say on the matter all together. That did not mean Maekar would simply roll over and let him have his way.
“What about a long betrothal, uncle? Would that ease your mind?”
Maekar held his father's gaze.
“I want to meet the boy first. Any cunt with a drop of noble blood can be knighted.”
Valarr nodded.
“I shall invite him and his father then. And I believe the Evenstar has a couple of maiden daughters as well. It’s about time that Daella got a few ladies of her own, isn’t it?” Valarr said lightly.
The king was not pleased, Maekar could tell. He would have to get over it, he thought bitterly. Maekar rarely found himself pleased as of late as well and he simply swallowed the bile and moved on with his day.
If he presumed to hold another grandchild, he would make peace with Maekar’s terms.
Baela was born twice as big as her older sister and with a head full of silver hair. Whatever pitying whispers had followed Naerys after her birth had not done so with Baela; it was clear to all she would thrive.
Valarr could scarcely believe his fortune most days. Two living children, with strong fists that closed around his thumb and stronger lungs that made their cries reverberate across the keep.
He was not blind to issues that their gender would bring, but in truth he was not particularly troubled by it at the moment. For now, it only meant he had leave to keep bedding his uncle for selfless reasons, such as the stability of the realm.
Maekar would not welcome him into his bed for a while though. He had to be cut and stitched after Baela’s birth, something minor and insignificant, the grand maester had assured him, but something that ought to be left alone to heal.
Valarr could be patient, content with his duties as Hand and visits to his daughters in the nursery while his uncle sulked and rested.
He handed Baela over to her homely wetnurse, an omega woman with a large bosom that must have been nearly of age with his uncle. He wondered if his uncle’s milk still flowed, or if his attendants had already bound his chest tightly to cut the supply.
It was a shame he refused to feed the girls from his own breast. It was a small comfort that some prodding had revealed he had not done so with his children by Dyanna either.
Valarr had tasted it once, brought it to his lips after groping too hard at his uncle’s chest while he rode him. If he closed enough and focused, he could still feel the remains of milky sweetness lingering in his tongue.
Probably not many husbands bothered to announce themselves before entering their wives' rooms, but Valarr made a point of being the picture of polite chivalry.
His uncle looked more severe than usual, somewhat fatigued though he was sitting by his desk, forehead shining with dampness. A hand rested against his chest, pressed over his heart along with a white rag that peeked through his dark robe.
“I hope I’m not intruding…”
Maekar shrugged, not rising from his seat. He had a habit of doing so. He never denied Valarr entry to his quarters, but it was not like he went out of his way to invite him over either.
“It’s omeganly business,” he explained with a hint of irony.
This did little to spook Valarr, rather it intrigued him. He hoped his face did not show so.
“How so?” Valarr inquired. “May I be of help?”
“Not unless you mean to suckle like a babe from my breast, nephew,” Maekar continued dryly.
He spoke like that often, a tad crudely but never quite openly disrespectful. He thought Valarr green and easily shocked, perhaps, but he still minded his own place as his wife and omega.
In that moment though, Valarr could hardly focus on the way he worded his response, only on the suckling bit.
His eyes moved on their own, unabashed, settling on the small strip of exposed pale skin.
“The milk… is not flowing?”
“Sometimes it will yield to nothing but a babe’s mouth.”
His own pursed at his words, unamused at his body’s rebellion.
“It’s not the first time it’s happened to me.” Something sad and tired flashed across his purple eyes, but it was gone too soon for Valarr to examine. “I’ll have Baela fetched—”
“She’s just been put down for a nap,” Valarr interrupted. “No need to wake her, I’ll gladly help you, uncle.”
Maekar’s eyes narrowed.
Smoothly, Valarr crossed the space that separated them and went down on his knees. Maekar’s chair and his own height left him near a head above Valarr, which meant the alpha’s face was right at level with his chest.
It was hard to find the balance between insistence and gentleness. His fingers wrapped themselves around Maekar’s wrist and pulled his hand away from his breast. His uncle provided little resistance.
The cloth he had been holding against his skin fell to the floor and a too-sweet scent bloomed from where it had rested. Valarr’s mouth watered as he laid eyes on a swollen, tight-looking red nub.
Maekar’s chest was smooth and hairless, dotted with a few faded pox scars. His tits, Valarr marveled, sagged slightly, a hint of fat clinging stubbornly to them despite his uncle’s refusal to feed his children.
Tentatively, he brushed his thumb over the dark peak, making his uncle hiss.
A hand landed heavily on his shoulder, a warning if there had ever been one, but Valarr was only squeezed rather than pushed away.
“Get on with it,” Maekar grunted.
There was little to do but obey, so he leaned down and nuzzled the center of his chest, allowing the milky sweetness of his scent to fill his mouth and lungs. It was what little greenness remained in him that made him kiss the nub before he took it in his mouth and began to suckle greedily, drinking what had been denied to his offspring.
His uncle let out a noise— Whether it was of relief or discomfort, Valarr was too gone to tell.
It was nothing like the small taste he had gotten after Naerys was born. He gulped it down without disguising his pleasure, the rich, nourishing milk filling his belly.
Unfortunately, the servant’s binding had done its duty and Valarr did not get to enjoy more than a few mouthfuls before he was forced to pull away.
He licked his lips and gave his uncle’s chest a light squeeze, enjoying the way the flesh yielded so easily under his fingers.
Valarr looked up and met Maekar’s eyes. His uncle was flushed red, rebel strands falling from behind his ears.
“Is that better, uncle?”
He still smelled milk and only had to push aside Maekar’s robe further to find that the other had begun to leak. A pearly bead crowned the red nub.
Valarr cocked his head to the side.
“Should I take care of that as well, uncle?”
“You’ve done enough.” Maekar closed his robe. “I can take care of that myself.”
Valarr nodded, for that was the polite thing to do. He stood up despite his instincts’ protests.
He discreetly sniffed the air and felt his eyes widen at the hint of musky sweetness his nose caught amidst the milky scent.
Was that—
“The stitches are yet to heal,” Maekar said monotonely, as if the muskiness were not pouring straight out of his cunt. “I fear I cannot tend to your needs, nephew.”
Valarr’s cock had been hard since before he got his first taste of Maekar’s chest.
“Of course not, uncle.” Valarr abstained from pointing out that Maekar had a perfectly functioning mouth and two good, skilled hands. He knew not to push his luck and though by the laws of gods and men Maekar’s cunt was his to make use of, the same could not be said about the rest of him. Still, Valarr was no savage beast. “I’ll leave you to rest. Don’t hesitate to call me if there’s something I can do to ease your discomfort.”
Maekar merely nodded and that was as good as a dismissal. Valarr adjusted himself in his robes before leaving for his quarters.
The kingsguard posted outside his uncle’s door made a valiant effort to keep a straight face when Valarr exited his uncle’s rooms. The walk to his own rooms was rather quick, seeing they were quite close.
Once he got to his rooms, he stripped down to nothing and laid down on his bed. He fished the cloth Maekar had allowed to fall to the floor from his pocket and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply.
While not the lustful musk of his cunt, the syrupy sweetness of his milk worked all the same as he brought his fist up and down his cock. He was not embarrassed that it took little time for him to spill, the feeling of his uncle’s chest tingling right at the tip of his fingers.