Réa

From the Wiki of Ice and Fire:

Maekar: Some men will say I meant to kill my brother. The gods know it is a lie, but I will hear the whispers till the day I die. And it was my mace that dealt the fatal blow, I have no doubt. The only other foes he faced in the melee were three Kingsguard, whose vows forbade them to do any more than defend themselves. So it was me. Strange to say, I do not recall the blow that broke his skull. Is that a mercy or a curse? Some of both, I think. Duncan: I could not say, Your Grace. You swung the mace, m'lord, but it was for me Prince Baelor died. So I killed him too, as much as you.

The Red Keep was alive with the sort of boisterous, glittering life that only a royal feast could summon. A hundred tallow candles burned in silver sconces along the stone walls, their light dancing across the long tables laden with food. You sat at the high table, a world away from the chaos, yet at its very centre.

"Another?" Your father, Baelor, leaned in, his voice a low, warm rumble that cut through the din with ease. He held a silver pitcher, the light from the massive chandeliers glinting off the intricate dragon heads that formed its handle. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked at you.

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "No, Father. I am quite well." You placed a hand over his, where it rested on the table. You were his youngest, his only daughter, and the absolute, unchallenged centre of his world. Of course, he loved your brothers, but you; you were his greatest treasure, his clear favourite. You went everywhere with him, from the small council chambers to the royal sept, and you spoke with him about everything and nothing, a comfortable stream of chatter that he seemed to absorb like sunlight.

He gave your hand a squeeze before releasing it, turning to speak with a lord who had approached. Your gaze drifted over the hall, not missing the way men watched you. Knights and lords from every corner of the realm, their eyes speculative and hungry. To win your favour was to win the ear of the future king, a fact you were not naive enough to ignore. Though you were polite to them all, offering a kind word or a practised smile, your heart remained a still, unmoved pool within your chest.

A shadow fell over your side of the table, and you did not need to look up to know who it was.

"Cousin," Aerion's voice was a silken purr, laced with the arrogance that came so naturally to him. He slid beside you, far closer than propriety strictly allowed. "You look like a star fallen to earth tonight."

You turned your head, meeting his pale lilac eyes. He was handsome, there was no denying it, but his beauty was cold and brittle, much like him.

"Aerion, you are in high spirits."

"Always, when I am near you," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Do you not feel it? How the fire in our blood calls to one another. You need a man who understands your true nature. These suitors are an insult to you."

You had heard a version of this from him at least a hundred times. A litany of fire and blood and destiny.

"It is not I whom you must convince, dear cousin," you replied, turning your attention back to your goblet of watered wine. "Perhaps you should save your grand pronouncements for my father."

He chuckled, a low, smug sound. "You and I both know that is a lie."

You said nothing, merely tracing a condensation ring on the table with your fingertip. Your father, finished with his conversation, glanced over at Aerion, his expression hardening almost imperceptibly. Baelor was fiercely protective, skeptical of every man who dared to look at you with a sliver of interest. He had made his position clear to you. You would marry who you chose, in your own time, or not at all. He would sooner see you live out your days as an unmarried spinster princess in the Red Keep than force you into a bed and a life you did not want.

Before you could rebuff Aerion politely, your father's voice cut in, cool and sharp. "Aerion. My daughter is tired." He placed a hand on your shoulder, a gesture of both affection and possession. "And I believe Valarr wished to speak with you about the upcoming tournament."

It was a dismissal, clear and absolute. Aerion's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before the smooth mask slid back into place. He gave you a short, sharp bow. "Princess. Your Grace."

You let out a breath you had not realised you were holding. "Thank you, Father."

Baelor's hand remained on your shoulder. "Where did your uncle go wrong with him?"

Your eyes scanned the hall again, looking for the aforementioned uncle. He was seated several chairs down, a figure carved from shadow and sternness, not participating in the revelry. He sat with his back straight, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his dark tunic, a goblet of wine untouched before him. He was a man hollowed out by grief.

You had always thought him handsome, in a severe, imposing way. Even as a girl, you had admired his strength, the way he carried himself with the unshakeable confidence of a warrior. But that was before his wife had died. The light in him had gone out, replaced by a cold, impenetrable gloom. He had become gruff, impatient, and quick to dismiss any attempt at conversation. Yet you, for reasons you could not fully explain, had made it your mission to bring that light back.

You would find him in the library, pulling out a book you had no intention of reading, just to sit in the same quiet space. You would accidentally find him walking in the gardens and fall into step beside him, filling the silence with stories about your day. You would sometimes even seek him out in the training yard and watch him practice. He never sent you away.

"Does your father encourage this incessant chatter?" he had grunted one afternoon as you sat with him in a quiet solar, detailing the drama between two of your ladies-in-waiting. He was staring into the fire, his profile sharp and severe.

You had flinched, your shoulders slumping, suddenly feeling foolish. The light in your eyes dimmed, and you had looked down at your feet, unable to meet his gaze. "I… I am sorry, Uncle. I did not mean to be a pest."

Maekar turned to look at you and saw the genuine hurt on your face, the way your lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly. He let out a long, slow breath, the anger seeming to drain out of him.

"I know you are in grief. I understand. I just, I do not want to see you in it forever. It is eating you alive."

Something in your words, in their raw, unvarnished honesty, had broken through his armour. He felt a pang of guilt, sharp and unpleasant. He, a grown man, a prince, had made his niece, who was nothing but kindness and stubborn concern, feel small. He had to admit, if only to himself, that in the long, silent months since Dyanna's death, your persistent, cheerful presence was the only thing that brought him a sliver of joy. You were spoiled and often said silly things, but you were also passionate and sweet. The only person who had consistently tried to reach him through the thick fog of his sorrow, and he appreciated it. He truly did.

"I apologize," he said, his voice gruff but no longer harsh. "That was unkind of me. Do not stop speaking, it is not unwelcome."

A slow, hesitant smile had spread across your face, your eyes sparkling. "Truly?"

He gave a curt nod, a faint flush on his pale cheeks. "Truly. Now, what did Lady Celia say?"

From that day on, the dynamic between you had shifted. You still did most of the talking, a constant, flowing river of words about court gossip, about books you were reading, about a particularly stubborn falcon you were trying to train. He was content to listen, offering a grunt of acknowledgment, a nod of his head, or a rare, dry comment that never failed to make you laugh. He found himself looking forward to your appearances, to the way you could fill the crushing silence of his rooms with your vibrant energy. He had grown fond of your company, more than he would ever admit.

Watching him now, a resolve firmed in your chest. The feast was loud, Aerion was persistent, and your father's love, while a shield, was also a gilded cage. You needed air, and the calm you only ever seemed to find near him.

You excused yourself from the table, ignoring Baelor's questioning look, and made your way to Maekar. He did not look up.

"Uncle," you said, your voice soft.

His gaze lifted slowly. "Should you not be attending to your admirers?"

"They can entertain themselves for a while," you replied, a hint of your usual playful tone in your voice. "I was wondering… the weather is supposed to be fair tomorrow. Would you accompany me for a ride?" You held your breath, expecting the usual refusal, a gruff excuse about duties, or a simple, unadorned no.

But then he gave a short, sharp nod. "Very well."

A genuine, unforced smile bloomed on your face. "Wonderful. I will meet you in the stables after the morning meal."

He did not reply, just gave a slight inclination of his head, dismissing you.

The next morning, the air was crisp and cool, carrying the damp scent of earth and leaves. You found Maekar in the stables, already mounted on a powerful black stallion, a beast as dark and formidable as its rider.

"You are prompt," he noted, his voice a low rumble.

"I did not want to give you time to change your mind."

He almost smiled. "A wise assumption."

You rode out of the city gates, the noise and chaos of King's Landing fading behind you, replaced by the rhythmic thud of hooves on dirt and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. The ride was more pleasant than he had anticipated. He found himself relaxing, the perpetual knot of tension in his shoulders loosening for the first time in a long while. Maekar was enjoying himself, enjoying being near you.

He turned his head to look at you. You had tilted your face up to the sun, your eyes closed, a look of pure contentment on your face. The wind had loosened several strands of your hair from its braid, and they curled around your cheeks and throat. In that moment, he was struck by a thought so clear it was ridiculous he had never noticed. You were truly, breathtakingly beautiful. Not in the delicate, porcelain way of court ladies, but with a vibrant, wild beauty that was all your own. He realised, with a certainty that was both terrifying and comforting, that he wanted you in his life like this forever. This easy peace, this quiet companionship; it was the first true happiness he had felt since Dyanna died.

You must have felt his gaze, for you opened your eyes and turned to him, a wide, untroubled smile gracing your lips. The smile was for him, a gift freely given.

And then another thought, darker and hotter, slithered into his mind, unbidden and monstrous. It was a dirty, base thought that had no place in the sun-dappled peace of the woods. He wanted to pull you from that horse, tear the green leather from your body, and take you. He wanted to claim you, to possess you, to prove to you the man he was, to erase the memory of every foppish lord and foolish cousin who had ever dared to look at you. Gods, how he wanted to make you his.

The thought was so visceral, so shocking in its intensity, that he recoiled as a wave of disgust washed over him. You were his niece. Baelor's daughter. He was a monster. A foul, wretched creature.

He wrenched his gaze away from you, staring blindly into the dense, shadowed woods. He pulled sharply on his reins, his powerful horse dancing beneath him, its muscles bunching in protest. Every muscle in his own body went rigid. The easy peace was shattered.

He felt your eyes on him, questioning. "Uncle? Is everything alright? Did you see something?"

"No," he bit out, his voice harsh, foreign. He could not look at you. He could not bear to see that trusting, beautiful face. "It is nothing. We are heading back. Immediately."

The light in your face vanished, replaced by a confusion that quickly melted into a deep, palpable sadness. Your shoulders slumped, your hands stilling on the reins. You simply gave a small, resigned nod and turned your horse, urging it back toward the path you had taken.

The ride back was suffocatingly silent. You rode slightly behind him, watching his rigid back. The warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by the familiar, cold storm. You did not understand. The two of you had been so happy, so content, and then in a single moment it had all curdled. You replayed that look, that intense, searching gaze, trying to understand what you had seen, what you had done wrong.

When you finally reached the stables, the grooms rushed forward to take the horses. Maekar dismounted with stiff, jerky movements, his gloved hands adjusting the reins before passing them off without a word. You slid from your saddle, your boots landing softly in the straw, and approached him cautiously.

"Are you cross with me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "What have I done?"

Maekar turned to face you, his expression unreadable but for the slight tightening around his eyes. "I am not angry with you," he said, his tone clipped and formal. "But this will not continue anymore."

"This?" you questioned, stepping closer. "What do you mean?"

"This," he gestured vaguely between you. "These rides, these conversations. I have too much to do to spend my time babysitting you."

The word stung, sharp and dismissive. "I thought… I thought we were becoming friends."

"We are not friends. You are my niece, and I am your uncle. That is all we can be. You will stop wasting your time on me." He ran a hand through his silver-blonde hair, dislodging a few strands from their careful arrangement. "Go to your father. Pick a husband from your sea of admirers. Leave me be."

Instead of retreating as he clearly intended, you moved closer still, until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "And what if the man I want is right here in front of me?" you asked, your voice soft but deliberate. "Should I still go to my father then?"

Maekar took a sharp step back, his violet eyes widening in shock. "Do you hear yourself? The things you are suggesting..."

You followed his retreat, refusing to let him escape. "Is it mad to want you, Uncle? It was not my intention, and yet, I want you all the same. The one person who actually sees me, not just the princess or the prize."

"This attraction,"  his voice strained, "it is unnatural. Sinful. Vile. We are family. Blood."

"No one protests when Aerion pursues me day after day," you pressed, your hand reaching out to rest on his chest. You felt his heart hammering beneath your palm. 

He caught your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "That is not the same."

You whispered, leaning into him.  "Tell me you do not feel it too. Tell me you do not want me as I want you."

For a long moment he simply stared at you, his internal war visible in the shifting expressions on his face. The stern prince, the grieving widower, the man who had been alone for too long. Then something in him seemed to break, to shatter under the weight of denial.

"Gods help me," he breathed, and then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was nothing like you might have imagined from your stern uncle. His hands moved from your wrists to cup your face, holding you steady as he devoured your mouth. His tongue swept inside, claiming, tasting, exploring as if he had been starving for this moment. You responded with equal fervour, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing heavily, your lips swollen and tingling. "We are damned." 

"Then let us be damned together," you replied, and pulled him back for another kiss.

That kiss in the stable yard marked the beginning of your secret affair. From that day forward, Maekar became yours in every way that mattered. The guilt occasionally haunted him; you could see it in the shadows behind his eyes when he watched you, in the way he sometimes pulled away after your bodies were sated and tangled in his sheets. But those moments of remorse grew fewer as your passion intensified.

You made it impossible for him to regret what you shared. Most nights, you found ways to slip away to his chambers. Sometimes he would come to find you naked and waiting in his bed, your body already slick with anticipation. Other times, you wore your finest gowns, letting him peel away the layers like unwrapping a precious gift.

Maekar ruined you for any other man. At his age, he had the experience and patience of a lover who knew exactly how to please a woman. He learned every curve, every sensitive spot, every secret that made you gasp and writhe beneath him. He loved watching you prepare for him, loved how your body responded to his touch. Sometimes he would make you wait, teasing you with his fingers and tongue until you were begging for his cock.

"Please, Maekar," you would whimper, your hips bucking against his mouth. "I need you inside me."

Only when you were completely undone would he position himself between your thighs, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds. "Tell me what you need," he would demand, his voice husky with desire.

"You, only you."

He would enter you then, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch as he stretched you open. The first thrust always made you cry out — it was almost too much, his size overwhelming in the best way. He would pause, letting you adjust, his violet eyes dark with lust as he watched your face.

"More," you would beg, and he would comply, setting a rhythm that drove you both toward ecstasy.

Maekar was insatiable once he let go of his inhibitions, taking you for hours, exploring every position, every angle. He loved taking you from behind, gripping your hips as he drove into you. He loved watching you ride him, your breasts bouncing as you impaled yourself on his cock again and again. But his favourite was when you lay on your back, your legs wrapped around his waist as he held you and kissed you.

The months passed in a blur of stolen moments and secret rendezvous. You became experts at discretion, but comfort breeds complacency, and secrets have a way of revealing themselves. The day it happened started like any other. The castle was relatively quiet, most courtiers napping or attending to their own affairs, when you slipped into Maekar's solar.

He was standing at his desk, his back to you as he looked out over the courtyard. The afternoon light caught the silver strands in his hair, making him seem almost ethereal. He turned as you entered, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch.

"Come here," he commanded, his voice already thick with desire.

You obeyed, settling in his arms as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you against him for a searing kiss.

"I have been thinking about you all morning." 

Heat pooled between your thighs at his words. "Then why are we still talking?" you challenged, reaching down to palm the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches.

He spun you around, pushing you face-down over the desk. Papers scattered as your breasts met the polished wood, your nipples hardening at the sudden contact. Maekar made quick work of your gown, yanking it up over your hips and tearing at the ties of your bodice until your breasts spilled free.

"Look at you," he said, running his hands over your bare backside. "So ready for me. So eager."

You wiggled your hips in invitation, spreading your legs wider. "Please, I need you. I have been empty for too long."

He chuckled darkly and positioned himself behind you, the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance. "Empty? We must see to that." With one smooth thrust he buried himself to the hilt, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. "Better?"

"Gods, yes," you moaned, pushing back against him. "Fuck me, now."

His hand wrapped around your throat, not choking you but holding you in place, asserting his dominance in a way that made you clench around him. "So demanding," he murmured, beginning to move in earnest.

He set a punishing pace, each thrust driving you forward against the desk. You were already so close, so aroused from his words and the sheer recklessness of it. It only took moments before you were tumbling over the edge, your walls convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you.

"That is it," he praised, his movements becoming more erratic. "Gods, yes..."

You were still coming down from your release when the door to the solar swung open.

Time seemed to slow. You and Maekar froze in position, your bodies locked in the most compromising of poses. And there in the doorway stood Baelor.

Baelor's face registered a storm of emotions in rapid succession: confusion, disbelief, horror, anger, betrayal, hurt. Then his face hardened, his expression shuttering completely, and without a word, he turned away and slammed the door shut with such force that the entire room seemed to shake.