His wedding is a quiet affair. For all their demands, the Dondarrion party, and his future husband in particular, seem quite ready to get the festivities over and done with so that their return to the Marches may begin as soon as possible. Valarr finds himself agreeing with the sentiment. His siblings are somehow more chaotic than normal, seemingly having collectively decided to act out since they know their elder brother—the current only omega in their household, as their Muña is a gamma and bulk of them are still unpresented—will be leaving them. 

He understands they will miss him and don’t want him to leave, but he could do without Daeron trying to get into a fist-fight with the omega’s betrothed, and Aerion, Aemon, and Daella seemingly in agreement for once as they ruin decorations, bother arriving guests, and set animals free all over the Keep whenever left unattended. They even have Aegon and Rhae in on it as distractions, Seven help him. 

His parents are of no help. His Muña helps him and his grandmother with the planning, but he does it with a reserved tightness around his eyes and a clench to his jaw. He fusses over Valarr’s dress for the occasion—argues and argues with the tailor until the neckline covers him to his jaw and the sleeves brush past his fingertips. Valarr does not mind—his Muña has always been particular about his second eldest’s way of dressing, making sure not a sliver of skin besides his face and his hands are visible, and even often insisting on gloves. 

‘Alphas will want what isn’t theirs either way,’ Muña always says, violet eyes sharp, ‘but this will fucking dissuade the bulk, at least.’ Valarr wonders why that is still a worry at his own wedding—he is getting married, not even to an alpha, for Ser Manfred is a beta, and whatever flesh is hidden will not be when the time for the bedding comes—but he protests not, secretly relishing just a bit in his Muña’s coddling. It will likely be the last time, and it wasn’t very frequent in the first place, so he will enjoy it while it lasts. 

His Kepa is there too, through multiple fittings and constant discussions on this and that. He makes little comment on flowers or drapery or music—but he does make his opinion known to the seamstress and her entourage of assistants during the fittings. He is in agreement with his mate, firmly directing the fabric not to cling too tight here or there, even occasionally standing from his chair and directing the assistant marking where the dress should fall himself. In those moments, his fingers ghost over the curve of Valarr’s chest and the dip of his waist, never quite touching but felt all the same, and the omega has to conceal a shiver that both the assistant and his Kepa would surely feel. He reminds himself this is why he must marry, that it is a good choice to tie himself to someone so far removed from his family. These feelings, these dark ugly little thoughts that he should not have about his honorable Kepa and caring Muña, will surely fade with time and distance. His brain is simply confused, tangled with how he cares for his pup siblings like his own and how much he admires his parents. He will return in a few years’ time to visit, pups of his own in his arms and his husband at his side and will be able to look his parents in the eye without the shame and pitiful desire that plagues him now. Maybe then they can become close again. He hopes so more than anything. 

(Hammeranvil watches their son, their baby, their precious Valarr, walk down the aisle towards another man. He is escorted by the King, not his father—Daeron had insisted, that same tight little smile on his face that had been there since he had told him of their son’s betrothal. And so they must stand in the front row, watching the omega that should be theirs join hands with a mere Marcher knight. There is little they can do, especially when Valarr seems content with his match. They will not force him into anything, not now and not ever, and so they must do nothing—even when every part of them screams to object. 

Maekar holds his alpha’s arm firmly—both to hold back that burgeoning tension he can feel rising in Baelor, and to keep himself upright after a sleepless night of tears. He had wept and sobbed into his brother-husband’s chest in the quiet of their marriage bed, unable to stop picturing Valarr when he had been so much smaller—tiny and perfect, tucked against his chest and nursing, where no one could take him away. But they were taking him away anyway, his sweet boy that never asked for anything but who would blush so sweetly when coddled and praised, who was so brave but so young. He needed his Muña, didn’t the King see that? And Maekar needed him, needed to keep him sweet and innocent and safe, tucked close to Muña where no unworthy Alpha or Beta would ever touch him.

Baelor kept firm hold of where his omega’s hand was tucked into his arm, and tried to let it ground him. He was not one for overt anger or frustration—but he could feel it boiling in his chest all the same, rising with a sort of alpha-induced angry possessiveness that he had not felt in years. There had been no need for it since Maekar had been mated to him all those years ago—his inner alpha knew that the gamma was his and only his, and the scores of children they had sired in the past ten and a half years only cemented it. But that possessiveness had a new target—or perhaps it was not a new target at all, simply one that he had thought would never not be his, and so possessiveness had been unnecessary. But now Valarr would be someone else’s—a beta’s, even, which was an insult that he could barely stomach. 

His perfect princess, his tiny mirror image with all the Valyrian loveliness in the world in the ivory pallor of his skin and the silver streak in his waves of hair, his composed and sweet-natured omega son—married off to a drunken, whoremongering beta that Daeron the ‘Good’ had chosen for him. And his quiet, dutiful boy had not protested. He had smiled through quick wedding preparations and every awkward courting walk through the garden; had laughed politely at every off-color joke his betrothed slurred his way; had neatly consoled and cajoled his little siblings into better behavior without a hair out of place in the midst of it all. He had all the composure of a Queen—and that thought needled and bit at Baelor all throughout the preparations.