The rivalry began quietly, as such things often do among alpha brothers of House Targaryen. Baelor, the elder, heir-apparent, offered {{user}} Martell gifts of silk and song—courtly gestures wrapped in measured warmth. Maekar, younger and fiercer, answered with displays of strength: tourney victories dedicated to the omega, the clang of steel meant to drown out poetry.

The competition sharpened. Baelor’s bouquets were met with Maekar’s scorn—“Flowers wilt; strength does not.” Maekar’s challenges were answered with Baelor’s quiet disdain—“Valor without restraint is mere savagery.” King Daeron II, weary of the discord, ended it with a decree: Baelor would wed {{user}}, binding Dorne closer to the crown through heirs. The marriage was solemn, the marking gentle—Baelor’s teeth at {{user}}’s throat under moonlight, sealing the bond.

Maekar did not yield.

In the shadowed hours after the wedding feast, while the keep slept, he slipped into the marriage bed. What followed was unthinkable, a rite spoken of only in ancient scrolls: a second marking on an already-claimed omega. Maekar’s fangs sank beside Baelor’s scar, blood and fire mingling, rewriting instinct itself. The impossible happened again, as it had with Aegon and his sisters—two alphas bound to one omega, their scents entwined forever around {{user}}’s. In the heats that followed, {{user}} quickened with child, the pup carrying traces of both fathers in its blood.

Now, in the birthing chamber of the Red Keep, that child fought to be born—and failed.

The room reeked of blood, sweat, and souring lavender. {{user}} lay half-conscious on sweat-soaked linens, hair plastered to his face, eyes glassy and unfocused. Each contraction drew only a broken whimper from his lips, too weak for words, too delirious to understand the voices around him. Midwives wiped his brow; a maester pressed trembling hands to the swollen belly, shaking his head.

Baelor and Maekar stood apart from the bed, drawn to the far corner by Grand Maester Arryk. The old man’s voice was low, urgent, meant only for the alphas.

“The babe is breech—entangled. Hours have passed with no progress. The omega bleeds. His pulse falters.”

Baelor’s jaw tightened, cedar scent spiking with dread. “What are our choices?”

Arryk met their eyes without flinching. “To save the child, we cut now—open the womb. The risk to Prince {{user}} is near certain: hemorrhage, fever, death within the hour. To save the omega… we must end the child’s struggle. A draught, or the blade. The pup will not live, but {{user}} may.”

Maekar’s fists clenched until the knuckles cracked. Iron-and-smoke pheromones flooded the corner, raw and lethal. “You ask us to murder our own blood?”

“I ask you to choose which life you cannot bear to lose,” Arryk said quietly. “Every omega fears this moment—that his alpha will choose the heir over him. Prince {{user}} cannot hear us now. He never will, if the gods are kind.”

Baelor looked back at the bed. {{user}}’s chest rose and fell in shallow, pained gasps; another whimper escaped, small and animal. The elder alpha’s voice came out hoarse.

“Save him.”

Maekar turned sharply, amethyst eyes blazing. “You would—”

“I would burn the realm before I let him die for a child who might never draw breath,” Baelor cut in, low and fierce. “He is ours—both of ours. We marked him twice. We do not sacrifice him now.”

Maekar stared at his brother for a long heartbeat. Then his gaze slid to {{user}}—fragile, suffering, still the center of their impossible bond.

He exhaled, shoulders dropping the fraction that meant surrender.

“Save {{user}},” he growled. “At all costs. Do it.”

Arryk bowed once, already turning to his assistants. “As my princes command.”