Chapter Text
Daeron poured himself his third glass of wine, pretending not to notice the dirty look Maekar sent his way from the stands above. His father’s sharp violet eyes followed the movement of the goblet with obvious irritation, but Daeron ignored him easily enough. Tonight the great hall was loud with music, laughter, and the clinking of silver goblets, and he had no desire to spend the evening being lectured about propriety. If Maekar wished to brood like an old septon, he could do so alone.
Instead, Daeron drifted through the crowd toward Valarr, his favourite cousin.
The hall glowed gold beneath hundreds of candles suspended from iron chandeliers shaped like dragons. Crimson banners embroidered with black three-headed dragons hung between towering pillars of polished stone. Noble alphas and omegas moved through the room in silks and velvets, their scents mingling heavily beneath the heat of too many bodies crowded together. It made Daeron vaguely restless.
He tugged absently at the sleeve of his own dress. Targaryen crimson and black suited him well enough, though the heavy gold dragon motifs stitched across the fabric glittered too brightly for his liking. His hair, golden-blonde and soft from oils, brushed the high collar of his dress as he moved. Beside nearly every omega in the room stood hopeful alphas adorned like conquering knights preparing for war.
Daeron thought the comparison fitting.
Valarr stood near one of the tall windows overlooking the dark courtyard below, making polite conversation with another alpha. The man was broad-shouldered and dark-haired, dressed in deep blue velvet trimmed with dark violet. Daeron barely spared him a glance. Instead, his eyes wandered over the hall, searching instinctively for Aerion.
His younger brother was impossible to miss.
Aerion stood at the center of a loose crowd of eager alphas, smiling like a prince in one of the old songs. He wore crimson silk edged in black, the golden dragons stitched across his sleeves catching every flicker of candlelight. Unlike Daeron, Aerion seemed entirely at ease beneath the attention. More than at ease, entertained by it. One alpha leaned close to murmur something into his ear and Aerion laughed, low and sharp, like a challenge.
Daeron snorted softly into his wine.
It would be Aerion’s second run. Daeron was on his third. Though the many alphas surrounding Aerion saw him as a thrilling challenge, they only saw Daeron as a lost cause. That was the way Daeron liked it. The way he wanted it.
He preferred to be ignored at this event in particular. He hated these mating runs with every ounce of his being. Once a year, all the eligible noble unmated alphas and omegas in the realm were gathered together and herded into some ancient castle or hunting lodge like livestock prepared for auction. They were expected to mingle politely, dance, flirt, and assess one another for suitable matches.
Then came the hunt.
At dawn the omegas would be dressed in ceremonial white and released into the forests surrounding the castle with a three-minute head start. Three minutes to flee before the alphas were unleashed after them.
Daeron always headed straight for the deepest part of the woods.
The first year, several ambitious young lords had chased after him out of obligation if nothing else. He had hidden beneath the roots of a fallen tree in a cramped hollow filled with damp earth and spiders, waiting there silently until the evening horn sounded the end of the hunt.
The second year he had climbed high into the branches of an enormous oak and spent the entire day half asleep against the trunk while no one bothered searching for him. He fully expected the same thing to happen again this year. In truth, he was counting on it.
Aerion was the omega everyone desired. Aerion, who flirted openly and challenged every alpha present with sharp smiles and sharper words. Aerion, who had clawed out a lordling’s eye last year when the man cornered him near the riverbank. The story had spread through court for months afterward, half scandalised and half admiring.
In comparison, Daeron was hardly worth pursuing. Eventually the alpha speaking with Valarr excused himself and disappeared back into the crowd. Valarr turned toward him at once.
He wore black from throat to heel, severe and elegant, the crimson sash at his waist the only bright colour upon him. Against the dark fabric, the silver streak that ran through his otherwise dark hair, seemed almost pale as moonlight. Valarr offered Daeron a small smile, though it looked more like a grimace.
Daeron got the distinct impression his cousin hated this entire affair nearly as much as he did.
Comforting, really. He took another long swallow of wine, letting the warmth spread through him. The thought of morning made his stomach tighten unpleasantly. Morning, when servants would lace him into ceremonial white silks and send him running into the forest while packs of eager alphas chased after him like hounds after a stag.
“Well,” Valarr murmured dryly, glancing across the hall, “at least Aerion seems to be enjoying himself.”
Daeron followed his gaze and huffed a laugh, “Yes,” he replied, “And giving them all the chance to get a very good whiff of his scent.” He shook his head, “All he’s doing is making it easier for them to catch him.”
“I think he likes the challenge,” Valarr said thoughtfully.
Daeron inhaled slowly, unconsciously soothed by the familiar scent of cedar smoke and spice that clung to Valarr. Alpha scents usually irritated him when they became too strong, but Valarr’s never had. It settled around him warmly, grounding him amidst the overwhelming press of the crowd.
“Mm,” Daeron hummed, “Well, I’m planning on masking my scent as much as possible and climbing the nearest leafiest tree available.”
Valarr turned fully toward him then, one pale brow lifting with clear amusement, “Climbing a tree?” he repeated.
Daeron took another sip of wine, entirely unashamed, “It worked before.”
An omega breezed past Daeron then, coming to stop directly before Valarr. She was a pretty woman, petite and brunette, dressed in deep blue silk that shimmered silver whenever she moved. Mischievous eyes lifted toward Valarr beneath dark lashes as she smiled at him knowingly.
“Well,” she said lightly, “you vanished before I could steal you for the next dance.”
Valarr’s mouth curved faintly, the expression transforming his otherwise severe features, as he inclined his head politely toward her.
“My apologies,” he replied smoothly, “A grave oversight on my part.”
Daeron suppressed a smile. He drifted away before the conversation could continue further, leaving Valarr to flirt with another of his many prospects for the evening. Valarr would be sought after tomorrow regardless of whether he encouraged attention or not. Powerful alphas always were. Still, Daeron thought his cousin looked marginally less miserable now than he had moments before.
Lucky him. Daeron wandered aimlessly through the crowded hall, goblet dangling loosely from his fingers. The musicians near the dais had begun another song, something lively and sharp with fiddles and drums, but the sound only grated against his nerves. The heat in the room had become unbearable. Perfume, sweat, wine, alpha scent, all of it hung thick in the air until Daeron felt as though he could hardly breathe around it.
He paused near one of the long banquet tables, staring blankly at towers of sugared fruit and roasted pheasant no one seemed interested in eating.
“Prince Daeron.”
He nearly sighed aloud.
A young alpha stood beside him now, perhaps a year or two older than Aerion. Blond, handsome in a forgettable sort of way, wearing crimson velvet trimmed with fox fur. Daeron vaguely recognised him from some minor noble house but could not recall his name.
The alpha smiled nervously, “I hoped I might have a moment of your time.”
Daeron took a deliberate sip of wine before answering, “You’ve had it already.”
The alpha blinked at him. For a brief, painful moment, Daeron thought perhaps that would be enough to end the interaction. It was not.
“I was wondering,” the man continued carefully, “if you had considered where you might run tomorrow.”
Daeron stared at him flatly over the rim of his goblet, “The forest,” he answered, “It’s generally where these things occur.”
The alpha gave a strained laugh, “Yes, of course, I only meant-”
“That if I told you, you could hunt me more efficiently?”
The man flushed bright red.
Daeron almost felt bad for him. Almost, “I think,” he said pleasantly, “I shall keep my hiding places to myself.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and slipped back into the crowd before the alpha could embarrass himself further. Gods, he hated this.
Every conversation circled inevitably back to tomorrow’s hunt. Alphas boasting about endurance and tracking skills. Omegas pretending not to assess which alphas looked strongest, wealthiest, most desirable. Smiles that hid calculations beneath them. Courtship disguised as sport.
Daeron wanted no part of any of it.
Across the hall, Aerion had somehow acquired an even larger audience. Daeron spotted his younger brother leaning lazily against one of the pillars, silver-gold hair gleaming almost white beneath the chandeliers. His crimson-and-black robes had loosened slightly at the throat, exposing the elegant line of his neck, undoubtedly intentional. Several alphas hovered around him like moths around flame.
Aerion caught Daeron looking and grinned. Then, to Daeron’s horror, he deliberately tilted his head back and laughed at something one of the alphas said, exposing his scent glands entirely. Three nearby alphas visibly straightened.
Idiot.
Daeron looked away immediately, muttering into his wine, “You deserve whatever happens to you tomorrow.”
Not that Aerion would care. Aerion adored the game of it all. He liked being chased. Liked proving he could outsmart or overpower any alpha arrogant enough to corner him. Daeron could not imagine anything more exhausting. A movement from the raised gallery drew his attention upward.
Maekar sat amongst the older nobles overlooking the hall, dressed severely in black embroidered with red dragons. Even from across the room, Daeron could feel the weight of his father’s disapproval settling over him. Maekar’s gaze flicked pointedly toward the wine goblet still in Daeron’s hand.
Daeron raised it slightly in mocking acknowledgment before taking another drink. Maekar’s expression darkened. Good. The wine had begun to make Daeron pleasantly warm and heavy-limbed, though not enough to dull the growing dread coiling in his stomach. Every hour that passed brought them closer to dawn. Closer to the run.
The room suddenly felt unbearably loud. Daeron abandoned his half-finished goblet on a passing servant’s tray and slipped quietly toward the edges of the hall. Few noticed him leaving. Why would they? Every eye remained fixed on brighter prizes. Just before he reached the doors, someone caught his wrist lightly. Daeron turned, startled.
Valarr stood there, looking faintly amused, “Running already?” the alpha asked softly.
“Practicing for tomorrow,” Daeron replied.
Valarr snorted quietly. Up close, the contrast between his dark hair and the striking white streak along one side seemed even sharper beneath the candlelight.
“You’re leaving early.”
“It’s either that or I throw myself into the nearest moat.”
“A fair choice.”
Daeron huffed a laugh despite himself. For a moment neither of them spoke. Around them the music swelled louder as another dance began, nobles sweeping across the polished floor in flashes of silk and jewels.
Valarr studied him carefully then said, quieter, “You know you do not actually have to dread this as much as you do.”
Daeron smiled thinly, “Easy for an alpha to say.”
Something unreadable flickered briefly across Valarr’s face, but he released Daeron’s wrist without argument.
“Sleep well then, cousin,” he murmured.
Daeron inclined his head, “Try not to encourage too many admirers before dawn.”
“No promises.”
The corridors beyond the hall were blissfully cool and quiet. The further Daeron walked from the music, the easier it became to breathe. Servants bowed as he passed, their footsteps soft against the stone floors, but no one stopped him. By the time he reached his chambers, exhaustion pressed heavily behind his eyes.
His servants moved to help him undress, peeling away layers of crimson and black silk heavy with golden dragon embroidery until he stood at last in only a thin undertunic. He waved away their attempts at conversation and dismissed them quickly. The room fell silent once the door shut behind them.
Daeron crossed toward the window overlooking the dark forest stretching beyond the castle walls. Somewhere out there tomorrow he would spend the day hiding amongst roots and branches like some half-wild creature avoiding hunters. He rested his forehead briefly against the cool glass.
Then, with a weary sigh, he crawled into bed long before the celebrations below had ended, pulling the heavy blankets around himself as though they might shield him from the coming dawn.