Ani’s Blog

Matarys being sweet and shy and entirely forgettable—and being kind of overlooked by his family because of it is scratching my brain in just the right way. He’s not necessarily bad at anything—just not exemplary either. He was passable at the sword, the spear, and the bow—but would often fall into fits of tears when scolded for not performing correctly in the yard, leading to his father carefully removing him from lessons soon after his two and ten name day. He has a delicate and precise hand for embroidery—but adamantly refused to show it off to other ladies of the Court, afraid they would make fun of his non-perfect stitches. He has a musical speaking voice, and would surely sing beautifully—but it was a chore to even get the young omega to speak, let alone sing. Jena would swear that she could count the amount of times he had spoken aloud on two hands and have plenty of fingers left over.

It doesn’t help that Valarr is also an omega in this au, and he’s a very hard standard to live up to—especially when his mother insists on comparing them all the time, often finding Matarys wanting.

The only person in the world who seemingly isn’t unimpressed or ambivalent with Matarys is his father, who dotes upon the young omega. He seemingly just doesn't see all the flaws that his mother points out in him. He says it’s natural that Matarys would prefer to stay out of the training yard, considering his gentle heart. He says that Matarys’ stitches are lovely, but places no pressure upon the young omega to share them with others. He even sent for a tutor from the East for Matarys when it became clear he often wasn’t comfortable with speaking, who used a language entirely consisting of hand signs, teaching both the omega and anyone else within the family that wished to learn. Most of the family learned a few signs here and there, with only Matarys and Baelor both becoming fluent—which only deepened the already close bond between the Crown Prince and his youngest.

Jena, categorically, is not a fan of any of this. She often sighs over Matarys’ lack of marital prowess, lamenting that Valarr never struggled in the yard, even after presenting as an omega at twelve. She inspects his embroidery every day after dinner, pointing out what she considered glaring flaws, stating Valarr would never have such a sloppy hand—nevermind the fact the older prince had never had any interest in sewing. She had resolutely refused to learn any of the sign language Matarys now spoke primarily in when he wished to express himself—it would only encourage him to speak less, she said. It was implied, of course, that Valarr had never had any issues with speech.

This dismissiveness only causes Matarys to cling onto his father harder. He often feels as if the only person in the world who makes any effort to understand and love him is his father. Baelor, though he knows he should encourage some distance as the omega grows older, can’t find it in himself to push Matarys away. So, despite being sixteen, Matarys still trails constantly after Baelor. He holds his father’s hand whenever he can, clinging shyly to the point Baelor often subconsciously keeps one hand free at all times to accommodate this habit. In the privacy of his father’s solar, he often perches upon the alpha’s lap while Baelor goes over papers and scrolls pertaining to his duties as Hand, reading his own book or fiddling patiently with one of his dolls while he waits for his father to be free to pay him undivided attention. Speaking of his dolls, of which he has many of all shapes and sizes, his father is the only one to indulge Matarys in his love of such a ‘childish’ thing. Every time he has to leave Matarys, whether it be for a far off tourney or a simple visit to King’s Landing from Dragonstone, he always returns with a gift—normally a doll or soft toy, but also things like miniature little tea sets for the omega to stage tea parties with all his dolls, and fine dresses, normally one for Matarys and one for his favorite doll—a fine soft thing, made to mirror Matarys himself, with hair a soft and silken calico and eyes painted a vivid violet (which just so happened to be a gift from Baelor as well.)

Now, the policy about being married to someone and finding your fated mate is that the marriage is annulled immediately (any children born from said marriage are still considered fully legitimate, it’s just considered blasphemy to be married to someone when the Gods have declared someone else to be your fated).

Maekar is astounded to have his fated mate be his eldest son, but he rolls with the punches and goes through the steps to have his marriage annulled, because it would be an insult to Daeron and Dyanna both to let the marriage stand as is. He loves Dyanna—they have five children together, they’ve been married since they were young, and there will likely always be affection there—but he also can’t deny how being around Daeron feels right in a way nothing else ever has. The world makes sense in a way it did not before—especially Daeron. The omega’s unmarked skin and soft form—which he despaired over merely months before, for what sort of heir of his could have pristine skin like a babe and no muscle at all—had become something correct, something that he understood. Of course Daeron had fragile skin and soft curves—he was meant to be a kept thing, carefully handled and cared for, adored and kept safe while his belly swelled with child. That was his purpose, not to be the alpha heir Maekar had always wanted—and Maekar should have known, truly. How could his sweet son, with his wheat curls and teary plum eyes, with his soft lips and delicate hands, with his gentle heart and fits of weeping, ever be anything but something to be protected? He did not know what he had been thinking—and he would spend the rest of the omega’s life making up for it, giving him whatever he desired.

Daeron, meanwhile, is over the moon. His father no longer seems disappointed that he doesn’t want to go out into the training yard and learn to fight—in fact, Maekar had pulled him aside and told him he no longer needed to learn at all if he didn’t wish, because his presentation shows he's clearly meant for other things. Daeron quickly learns from servant gossip that said other things are being a good future wife and eventually giving his sire many more children. He is not upset at the prospect—being able to stay at home with his father and siblings for the rest of his life, cosseted away and doted on while having babies of his own to care for doesn’t sound bad at all. He’s not even upset at the thought of his future alpha being his father—ever since his presentation, there’s been a warmth in his lower belly every time Maekar so much as looks at him. He watches his father train from the sidelines, sitting under a pretty parasol his father had made for him, and he squirms in his chair at the lines of the alpha’s forearms barred by his rolled up sleeves, at the sweat trickling down his neck into the collar of his shirt, at the keen focus of those violet eyes as he takes his opponent apart. He feels the warm wetness between his thighs, an always-present feeling since the day he left his rooms after his presentation and was met with his father waiting for him. He thinks of the dreams he has been having lately—gentle, warm things, so different from the fire and ash of before—of babes with his sandy curls and his father’s serious violet eyes, of a house whole and welcoming, of strong hands around his waist, and thinks no, he won’t mind being mated to his father at all.