Chapter Text
It was a misfortune.
Being born into this family.
You had thought of it many times over the years. During dinners, during conversations with your father. How much you had wanted to be part of a lesser house. Even with the Targaryen name plastered all over you, it didn’t come with nearly as much power as it had become renowned for. Much less so, because you weren’t firstborn. Even less so, because you were a woman.
And surely, women had almost ruled over House Targaryen and the Seven Kingdoms in the past, though never fully and never for long. In fact, the innate powerlessness that had overcome the ruling family of Westeros at present had been the result of a long string of events, originating in a woman’s throne being stolen. There was no one to blame, you had realized, for you could recognize your ancestors in the face of your family, in the closest of your kin.
It had even slipped past your tongue once, your own dissatisfaction that is, in front of Aerion, when you both had been about fourteen or so. He thought it his duty, as he thought many other things over the years, to show you otherwise. House Targaryen, even dragonless, even with a rebellion stinking away every corner of the Seven Kingdoms with rot and ruin, was still a dynasty to be admired and spoken of with respect.
And he figured that a cut along your tongue would teach you just fine. You would certainly mind your words for a while, he’d said. But Aerion was never one to understand the fire that soared through his veins, even in moments like these, where all he had wanted was to show you the blood of the dragon. He always sought his fire out elsewhere. So his aim was off, wrist trembling with rage. Your right cheek took the fall for your tongue, a good split between the corner of your mouth and your cheekbone, a slight upward curve at the end where his hand had trembled.
At the time, it had almost caught the corner of your eye, but Aerion’s swing had been swift and clumsy, so the last bit of it had landed across your eyebrow.
That particular bit had long since healed, a couple of years to it now, but a tight, red scar remained across your cheek. It had quickly become clear that it would stay there for the rest of your life.
Your father had been furious when you’d been delivered to the Maester’s quarters with blood seeping from your face, but he never particularly consoled you that day. It was more about Aerion’s aggression than it was ever about the mutilation it left you with. Even now, sometimes, you could see it in his eyes when he looked at you—an odd mixture of pity and discomfort, that his oldest daughter had looked so battered from a young age. And it had only happened because one of his sons was as much frustrated with it all as he himself was. Perhaps even more so.
It had begun then.
A rift. Between you and your father, whose hair you had inherited, but whose temperament was so vastly different from yours.
He would order maids to talk to you in time, about marriages, about how things worked for the women of noble houses. What was expected of you and what he certainly expected himself to have to pay for. For your father didn’t admit it to himself, and yet, deep down, he feared no one would want to marry a marred face, even if it carried his name and whatever little power came with it.
Your reluctance in such matters didn’t help either. When he had brought up potential suitors, which he had done only twice, through slight aversion and a grit in his teeth, you hadn’t particularly opposed him, but you didn’t care to discuss it either. Perhaps it was because when he did it the first time, you had been but a child of twelve and far too uninterested. The second time, it had been nearly a year since your incident and even if you had wanted to engage in conversation with him, which you hadn’t, Maester Melaquin had advised to keep facial movement to a minimum. And quite frankly, it had taken you a while to function normally with an altered face.
So there was that. But there was also the fact that you felt no particular call to the opposite sex. Or any sex for that matter.
It had become a concern so internal to you, that even thinking about it felt like treason. To whom, though, you weren’t sure. The possibility of being deficient in some way. The reality of feeling almost like a spectator in your own body.
All of that became amplified by the presence of the defacement your brother had inflicted upon you. It appeared in mirrors, in the dusted windows at Summerhall, in the eyes of the court at the Red Keep. You had visited Dragonstone a few times after the incident, and you could swear the castle thought you more grotesque with each visit.
Or were those just your own thoughts reflecting in it?
Either way, what had happened at fourteen had subconsciously confined you to Summerhall for the most of your adolescence. You had certainly made the most of what being a noble offered, all the activities you could excel in, all the knowledge you could harbor. It had become almost a joke among servants, how much you had to show and how little you went anywhere to do it. Aemon should have taken you with him to Oldtown, your septa had remarked jokingly once.
Oh, and it certainly felt good. In an ideal world, you could forget about what you looked like. Have more to show for yourself than a pretty face slashed in two.
In the current world, your dignity was more torn than any scar and your disconnect to the world kept growing the more time you spent hiding from it.
But Maekar Targaryen was one of King Daeron’s sons. And you were his daughter. So hiding was optional, until it wasn’t.
“Fuck else would you rather do?” Your father’s usual tone of voice echoed around the solar. He was picking at something on the table, his back turned deliberately. He did that quite a lot, even during minor confrontations. You stood at the other end of it, face tight, tighter than usual, your eyes following him like he might just pounce at any moment, pick you up and throw you over his shoulder. No more objections allowed.
“So you’d be pleased with me there, for all to see?” You countered, gaze still on him as he turned to look at you, not fully around.
He knew what you were referring to. His gaze dropped there almost imperceptibly so.
“You are grown,” he began after a while, fully turning to face you then. His eyes dropped to his own feet as they carried him towards you.
“Aerion made a mistake you never would’ve. I don’t particularly entertain the idea of you paying for it twice over by sulking away in here.”
Perhaps, that had been the most you got from him in the last couple of years. Either way, it had given you the proximity to properly look at your own father. His face wasn’t much different than yours, you reckoned, but you saw no ugliness in it. His cheeks were adorned with scars, much like your right cheek was, but from pox, not his brother’s dagger. You never cared for them enough to look before. They made no difference to you. He was the father you loved.
Your monstrosity was yours alone. He was a man. A son to a king.
“I do not wish to have to explain why my only daughter of age does not escort her brothers to Ashford.” His voice snapped you out of it, and it only made your stomach turn in on itself more.
“Daella is but ten,” you countered immediately, “You would be fine leaving her alone with Rhae, but you would rather not explain why I’m not there? I’m giving you a good enough explanation as it is. Just let me stay here with them.” Your voice echoed his when you became argumentative. It pulled at your scar in a way that didn’t hurt anymore.
“They have septas, maids, a whole fucking castle looking after them,” he stepped away, clearly getting worked up over your continuous denial. “Your mother did not give birth to you so you can hide away like some—” He stopped himself before he could say more, his back once again turning itself to you. A heavy exhale left him. Your feet grew colder each minute.
“I’m not expecting you to joust, or marry anyone there. I don’t plan on leaving you in Ashford, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” your father continued after a beat, his voice as calm as he could manage. It was clear your refusal to marry weighed on him at all times. You didn’t say anything back.
Not for a while.
And if you had wanted to, the moment got interrupted soon after by a steward and your conversation culminated unfinished, or unproductive, more so.
So when you had shown up dressed in appropriate attire, with Aegon jumping up and down behind you, sing-songy, your father had just glanced at him, and it had been enough to understand that you were coming along.
What had changed, he didn’t dare to contemplate. Even asking you about it felt risky to him. All that mattered right now was that you were coming along, somewhere, anywhere, with the rest of your family.
Something you hadn’t done since you were little.
——
The sound of pebbles along the road never eased for the near-ten-day journey to Ashford Meadow.
It looked much closer on maps. You couldn’t imagine travelling to it from anywhere else in Westeros.
The noise of the road did little to dull the one in your head, and how rampant it grew the closer you got to seeing more of the world you’d sworn a silent oath to turn away from. It had been only in proper sunlight and days in and out of tents that Maekar had seen his daughter’s face properly. How hollowed out its sides had become, like the wound was caving in on itself just as much as you had.
There was a slight ease to your father over the course of the trip. The rarest glimpse of a smile had been thrown your way when you’d abandoned the carriage for a bit and agreed to ride on horseback next to him somewhere down the line. It had mostly been a silent ride. Half a day, not more. He had dismounted first, but not before tapping the mane of your horse. It was gentle, as gentle as he could be. But more than anything, Maekar was pleased to have you around.
Though he’d never tell.
——
The smell of charred meat penetrated your nose before any horn could blow your eardrum off. Of course, that followed soon after.
House Targaryen had arrived at Ashford.
If only your stomach wasn’t completely done for, just from the eyes of villagers across the bridge you were riding across. They were far away. Aerion would not stop repeating how they could never touch him, or you. Not to soothe you, never. Just to revel in the truth of it.
You weren’t alone.
For better or for worse.
The detour to Bitterbridge had made the journey far longer than it could have been, but it had been the meeting spot for House Targaryen to come as one. It was safer to be together and arriving as a whole was a non-negotiable.
The black of your mount moved past ready-made tents just after several guards until you had caught a glimpse of your father dismounting in front of a set of other horses. You’d loosened the cape that pulled at your neck when you’d followed after him. Suddenly, it felt like you could use all the space you could get.
“I trust you travelled with ease, brother.”
A large hand patted your father’s back softly, and it didn’t take a genius hermit to recognize their own kin’s voice.
Your uncle, as much as you remembered of him, had always starkly contrasted your side of the family. It was difficult to think of a more accomplished man, and you had read about men a great deal. The last piece of memory you had of him was when you were no more than twelve? Or eleven, perhaps? He had long since resided in the Red Keep as Hand of the King to your grandfather and during one of your, at the time, frequent visits, he had been more than eager to show you around the cellars and the Tower of the Hand. You remembered little detail of it, but the sentiment remained.
Baelor had also been present during one of your father’s marriage talks, or rather, instigations, which inconveniently had occurred near the Kitchen Keep. He had attempted to talk him out of it, considering the onlookers, but Maekar had insisted. Your interest in the food nearby seemed to be more present than any thought of marriage. Word of the encounter had carried amongst servants, and Baelor’s attempt to intervene hadn’t gone unnoticed. His name echoed all the same. Kind. Honorable.
Two fingers clicked in front of your face, snapping you out of whatever trance this reunion had briefly put you under. Your father’s brows were lightly furrowed your way, clearly annoyed, and next to him, looking directly at you, stood your uncle. What you could only assume were Valarr and Matarys stood behind him, shifting in one place with a similar unease to yours.
A greeting had likely been missed from where your mind had gone.
Your gaze moved between the two and settled on Baelor, after which you’d greeted him back. He had naturally grown older, but the dark in his hair gave him the advantage of looking younger than your father did. There was some grey throughout his hair and beard now, and when you’d spoken in return, a set of wrinkles around his eyes had emerged, along with a close-lipped smile.
His wife, Jena, had passed years back and though you knew of it, her lack of presence next to him was a light blow to your already alienated presence within the family. It felt odd, but not unfamiliar, your own mother not being present for the same reason.
That had been the general extent of the reunion and somewhere in your heart, you could not fathom why you imagined anything worse from him or his sons.
When you’d entered the courtyard at Ashford, all had begun to dismount and you followed shortly after. The brief moment of ease your father had on the road was once again gone, particularly because of the abrupt vanishing of Daeron, and Aegon with him. One likely drunk somewhere, the other, hopefully, in his vicinity.
You had heard him curse at one of the guards on a brief stop near Ashford, and the reality of it had quickly added up. It’d be a lie if you said you weren’t worried yourself, but Maekar had made it clear that he wouldn’t ride out yet, and so wouldn’t you, despite offering. Insisting, even.
Your father and uncle entered Ashford Castle while the rest of the family dispersed along tourney grounds. Lord Ashford’s daughter, you couldn’t quite catch the name, certainly made it obvious that she found you interesting. Or more so, the right side of you. It had been common knowledge that kids tended to stare unabashedly at things they found either beautiful, or in most cases, inexplicably ugly. You had glanced between her and her father, who stood almost a head below you, and entered the castle subsequently.
Your feet found their own way around to your assigned quarters, for you didn’t feel welcome enough joining anyone yet. The inside was rather small, but well-adorned and full of light. Fresh fruits awaited your arrival in a round bowl. The bed was neatly made, not too crowded, considering the weather.
A good while passed in stale air. Minutes were lost between staring out the left window to your bed and attempting to open it. The edges had crusted from seeming lack of use and when you had finally managed to pull it ajar, a sharp sound echoed down the corridor. Your eyes shut briefly, your hand still on the handle before you turned around to close the door, which you regretted not having done when you’d first entered.
“I could’ve helped with that, but you didn’t seem to hear me for minutes.” You winced twice the amount when your uncle’s frame suddenly materialized in front of you, to which he only lowered his gaze briefly, a compassionate variant of a smile lining the lower half of his face, “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Baelor stood right beneath the doorcase to your quarters, his hands clasped in front of him. His chin, or more so, his beard, was tilted just slightly downwards, which meant only that he regarded you, likely just as much as you were looking at him right back. The only difference was the level of surprise.
Your feet had planted you immovable, your hands coming to rest together in front of you, mirroring his own subconsciously. “My apologies, Your Grace.” The breathlessness with which the words came out was near equal to that of a freshly jousted knight, and yet, you were not here for that, as your father had assured you days before. It was difficult knowing how to address a relative that was also possibly your future king. The fact that you hadn’t seen him in years didn’t make it easier.
The tips of his brows furrowed almost imperceptibly at the distance your politeness created. His hands tightened, “Uncle,” he corrected you softly, his eyes dropping somewhere along you, not wanton in any way. Taking you in.
After a breath or two, he straightened up, “May I come in?”
“Of course,” you’d replied almost instantly, stepping aside to reveal, well, not much space behind you. Baelor glanced at the second window, still unopened, down to the wooden planks that made up the floor, and briefly to your bed, before turning around and closing the door shut gently.
It was safe to say you felt even more restless now.
When he’d turned around again, the room felt smaller than ever.
“I wanted to know how you’re feeling,” he began again, “Seemed a whole lot quieter than I remember, but I suppose it’s only natural as you grow.” His voice was soft, even softer here where he only needed to be heard by you. So you quickly discovered that he wasn’t much different, he hadn’t randomly become cocky or insufferable. He didn’t feel like a threat, even with just the two of you alone. Your uncle felt equal parts familiar and new to you now.
“I, um,” you started, before stepping around him suddenly, perhaps too sharply for comfort, and moving to unlock the other window in the room, “I’m good. I’ve just lost the hang of it, I think.” A small cracking sound signalled that you’d managed to open the window. Baelor’s hand had lifted after you’d passed him but he ultimately let it drop. “Makes sense though, and it’s my own doing anyway.” You turned back around but didn’t exactly return next to him. He was on one side of the bed, you—on the other.
He didn’t speak right away. “I did wonder if you were alright, when I heard about…” It didn’t take finishing the sentence for you to know what he was referring to. Only then did your brain reengage with the reality of what you still looked like. What other people saw. What he saw right now.
Baelor seemed to take notice of whatever imperceptible bit passed through your face at his words. He took two steps around the bed, a hesitance in his step, bordering on reverence. “After that as well, I—”
“I’m sorry I didn’t attend the funeral,” your voice interrupted suddenly, brows furrowing. He swore in his mind he’d seen Maekar’s face with a wig just then. The tone which carried across to him was simultaneously impulsive, but also incredibly thought-out. Your absence had clearly bothered you in silence.
“There’s no need to apologize for that.” Baelor countered almost immediately, and took another step close, standing on the same side of the bed as you now, but without crowding you.
“There is.” A crack in your voice bounced inside the space you shared. His eyes hadn’t parted from yours, even when you had been looking at the floor for minutes on end. So when you finally met them again, the feeling was that of a whip across the face. You had no real grasp of the grimace you were making, the eyes he was seeing. You looked back down quickly. There was a new byproduct of mutilation to discover every day. “I have been selfish in such ways that even showing my face here feels wrong. Summerhall has been more a refuge than a home and I’ve given it so many years, I can’t even blame it. I’m really, so sorry.” The words that left your mouth were merely a whisper, and yet, the weight of them could crack the floorboards beneath you both.
Baelor’s mouth suddenly felt too dry for comfort.
If looking at someone alone could comfort them without the need for more, he’d be masterful at that. As he was at all else he undertook. But the notion of that was impossible.
Wood creaked in front of you. “Look at me.” He certainly had a way of being firm and soft simultaneously. A great king would come out of him.
A hand dropped near where yours were, hesitating briefly, before taking your left palm in his own. Anyone who was around him long enough knew that he always slouched a little, despite or because of his height. Your father did as well. But right now, he had slouched even further, enough so that you felt the unbearable responsibility to do as he told you.
His hand over yours reminded you of the times in which Aegon would sneak into your quarters at night, so you could have little sleepovers. Or whenever he had bad dreams. He was so small that your blankets, thick and wide as they were, engulfed him completely. And so did Baelor’s hand on top of yours. He placed your palm on top of one of his, and sandwiched it gently with his other one on top. He stared down at the motion of it with the same softness he’d always had behind his two-toned eyes. They made him look more Valyrian than most who claimed to be. But there was also hesitation. Cautiousness. Like your hand was a gamble. The exhale that left his mouth subsequently was a shaky one, and yet, his hands remained on either side of yours.
You had already looked at him by then. “I would’ve never brought it up,” his brows jumped softly, “Ever.” It was his attempt at reassuring you and he was hoping, somewhere in his mind, that you would see it as such.
“Aegon mentioned that day that you’d been ill.”
Your eyes shut tight briefly. “He lied to you. I told him n—”
“Did he?” An eyebrow cocked itself your way, and your lips thinned out. “What about that?” His eyes flicked to your right cheek, where Aerion’s mark lay.
“It’s been years since that,” your fingers gestured dismissively towards your own face, eyes elsewhere. The exchange between you was tense and the topic of it had made the pitch of your voice rise. The “that” rolled off your tongue sharp enough for your uncle to feel some sort of diffidence behind it.
Baelor’s eyes didn’t part from the scar despite it, and that had been partly the reason why you had averted your gaze elsewhere. “If by sick…” You paused, gritting your teeth, “…Aegon meant absolutely socially decrepit by the year, then he might’ve not lied to you after all.” A rough chuckle escaped you, your hand shifting between his. “All my doing, of course.” You inhaled sharply, the feeling of overexplaining yourself prickling. “Nevermind, it’s—”
Your uncle had a way of cutting people off in the politest of ways. Less an interruption and more a sign of engagement. Words were his weapon of choice, and he wielded it well. But a man of his experience knew how to meet just about anyone where they were. Even if it meant a violation of a different kind.
His right hand dropped from atop yours and reached for your cheek. A brief sweep of his thumb, almost imperceptible, soothed you enough for him to step closer. The feel of his palm spread down the line of your cicatrix to the back of your neck, your hair spilling in between his fingers. You felt the scent of him before the fabric of his doublet met your face.
Your other hand, still in one of his, was softly released and replaced by a firm touch just below your ribs, the hand that had sprawled across your father’s back a day ago now felt the same on yours. Big and steady.
It was at that moment when for the first time in a long time, you simultaneously felt the strong effect of your isolation, but also the desire to correct it. And seemingly, so did Baelor. His chin came to rest atop your head. An inhale expanded his chest. He was on the brink of speaking, but ultimately, angled himself so that your face didn’t get scraped by the pin on his left shoulder. It had taken you being this close to him to properly notice it. He had it customized.
The hand on your nape tightened slightly. You felt it more exaggerated than he probably meant it to be. At that moment, you swore that you would rather get speared through the thigh than begin to contemplate how obvious it was that touching and being touched was something you did not partake in. In any way. That, and the fact that your lower back was stuck far out behind the rest of you. Aerion had pointed it out to you once and according to him, that was a clear sign “someone wasn’t getting fucked”. The memory of that couldn’t have been more displaced.
“It concerns me that you feel the need to explain yourself,” Baelor finally spoke. He exhaled before continuing, “I also don’t know what to think of you being seized up solid right now.”
It would take a miracle for someone not to notice the abnormality you live with every day. That alone was clear to you.
At the words, you tightened up more and that was clue enough to Baelor that he likely didn’t say the right thing, which was a rarity. Your hands never reached to wrap around him equally and only seemed to twitch on either side of you. It didn’t go unnoticed by him.
His hands loosened their grip, but remained around you, “Does this feel odd?”
You breathed out for what seemed like the first time since he’d entered. Perhaps, even since you arrived at Ashford.
“No,” you spoke, voice muffled by his clothing next to your mouth, “I’m odd, that’s more like it.”
Baelor huffed something close to a laugh above you. Aerion’s words still echoed in your mind and you straightened up in his arms, your pelvis joining the rest of you against him. He felt it and maybe, that was the moment when it hit something in your uncle. Your own preoccupation with the unfamiliarity of the situation didn’t give you enough room to be fully attuned to him. He counted on that. As much as you thought of your own brother, Baelor did too. And in that particular moment, Maekar’s face was all he could see.
Five fingers withdrew from your back and reallocated themselves on your upper arm, the other set of five followed. His face remained kind, and when he’d pulled away enough to look at you again, the same thin-lipped smile from before had returned. The remainder of what you could see in his expression mirrored your own. What else you felt had been yours alone.
Right.
All touch seized along your body and you couldn’t be more conflicted about it.
“Supper’s at nine. Great Hall, Lord Ashford said.”
Baelor was nearly at the door as he spoke.
“Can’t wait.” Your face twisted with surprise at what came out of your mouth and across from you, a brief look of amusement played on your uncle’s face, before his eyes gave you a once-over. The door closed after him soon after.
——
“I never did quite get that, Your Grace,” Lord Ashford’s voice echoed across the table as he went on to explain something that no one actively listened to.
Aerion had long since withdrawn from the occasion, and the look your father had given you when he’d walked out had all but cemented you to your chair. Let at least one of his children act properly tonight. A plea only you could recognize.
The fork in your plate had made several rounds by then, picking at and separating peas by size and color. You weren’t particularly fond of them.
When you’d looked up again, what met you was a gaze you hadn’t particularly expected in front of anyone else. Baelor glanced down at the organization that had ensued on your plate. The twitch on his mouth was a smile through and through, before he looked down to his own dish, and stuck his fork in three of the peas he had left. It all happened within seconds.
Something about that made your feet grow cold.
“…Though, I must say, she is the spitting image of you.” When your uncle looked at you again, it soon appeared that the rest of the table was too. Lord Ashford, in particular, had remarked your likeness to your father in a way that made your skin crawl. And not because of the remark holding true.
The grimace on your face must’ve been something, considering the twitch in your father’s eyebrows.
“Thank you, my lord,” you replied almost too quickly. “I can only hope to reach him.”
Maekar’s eyes had rolled at that, but the right side of his mouth had quirked up nonetheless. Lord Ashford found the comment toast-worthy and all cups rose in unison, along with several laughs, yours included. Whatever was in your cup more than accounted for how easily your mouth kept opening all evening.
Much different than the tight-lipped princess hours ago.
And someone else had noticed that too.
——
When crickets had started their song outside your window, the headache with which you returned to your quarters several hours ago slowly began easing up. You were never going to go seek out a maester for a headache and like all else, you attributed it to your own negligence with the two cups of Dornish red you were served at supper.
Daeron would laugh if he were here to see you. Barely sobered up after flatlining on two cups.
Nothing but a candle lit up the stony ceiling you were staring up at, and you could feel sleep threaten to overtake you the less your temples pulsed with pain.
It had been a long day, but the end of it wasn’t nearly as bad. Nothing like the catastrophes your brain had conjured up the night before you left Summerhall. All the possibilities for embarrassment, if your face wasn't contributing enough. But that hadn’t been the case. There was an ease to you tonight, and it had flushed the table several times throughout. No one really cared to see you for more than what you spoke of. What bothered you for years had briefly become a mere afterthought.
The hinges of your door rattled when two knocks came through. One of the wooden planks had come loose, causing a slight recoil which sounded down the corridor.
Your neck lifted up off the pillow instantly, and your body with it.
It was late.
You lifted the latch. It creaked in your hands, before you gently pulled the door wide enough to glance out.
Perhaps it had been the cautiousness with which you looked outside, the small bit of your face that was visible from the crack in the door, or simply, the memory of you at the table, the way you’d laughed. Perhaps it had been a culmination of all.
But Baelor stood on the other side and certainly, he wouldn’t let show, none of it, not in the halls of the castle, not until you let him in.
And yet, there was something. The walls of Lord Ashford’s quarters were wide. Nothing like the ones in the Red Keep, but he had freed them up as courtesy and Baelor appreciated it enough. But those same walls now bore witness to the amount of times your uncle had removed and reinstalled his pin in the last thirty minutes, before finally leaving it and the quarters altogether.
It was late.
And he was awfully aware of it.
You didn’t really wait for him to speak and just moved aside, opening the door wide enough for him to enter before closing it shut. The latch did not creak this time.
When you’d turned to look at him, his back was to you and the ease with which he had entered through the same door earlier today seemed to be nowhere near now. His eyes were switching between the floor and your bed. It looked so terribly tiny to him. He was certain you had no problem fitting on it. Made him feel ill just for thinking about it.
You had remained at the door, looking. Sobriety had slowly cleansed your bloodstream, thankfully. You were never brazen enough, even drunk. Even knowing. Even willing.
But your stomach did the worrying for you.
No words really seemed to fit right now. All too careless or too careful.
When you’d shifted, his face turned your way almost instantly. One hand was at his waist while the other looked as if it were restraining his mouth from speaking, the knuckles of it pressed flat there, his thumb lingering somewhere on his chin. When you’d just stared back, his palm turned and rubbed across his lips in a way that made you feel like the less anxious one in the room. And that was rarely the case.
Your chest was pounding at double speed. And the physical distance, even in the small of your quarters, only made it worse.
Feet moved across the floor, quietly, like a dance not for show. You stood nearer now, so open for it, it felt almost funny.
Baelor’s eyes were on you the whole time and as wide as they’d always been, right now they were blown wide. All in your direction.
The hand on his face twitched, once, twice, before he let it roam. His brows furrowed the minute his thumb landed across your cheek again. It pained him to touch you. His hand was hot and slightly clammy.
But he did not remove it. He kept it there and if anything, it grabbed more of you and sprawled all over your jaw, feeling the entirety of your shame up and down. His fingers kept running over where your scar was raised and when you’d shown no sign of discomfort, something in him had loosened further. As far as a man like him could.
It took getting used to, being touched.
He hadn’t preemptively thought it out, but there was no better place to get you started.
Once his hand had been there long enough, your lips parted slightly. His chest flattened against yours seconds after. His height made it necessary to angle up your face so he could roam around.
You could feel the scent of him with no oils to mask it. Made you tremble head to toe all the more. Pathetic.
Baelor could feel it too. His forehead leaned against yours, his eyes searching all over your face for a sign of something. Anything. Reluctance. Disgust. You’d only inched up at him, and his head shook sideways. Not out of refusal, not even close. He was like a bow pulled back for too long.
“Does it still hurt?” His breath spread across the right side of your face where his thumb gently felt up the mark. All that had kept you away.
“Sometimes,” you whispered back. “When I use my face too much. Maester Melaquin did his best but he reckons it’s healed poorly.”
A barely-there kiss landed at the highest part of it. Another one followed down your cheek. He was charting it out. You felt his body shift so he could angle himself better and it completely washed away whatever bit of doubt you had about where this was going.
His other hand had come up to cup the opposite side of your face. It drove you mad how much space it took up.
Soon enough, there was hardly any spot left unkissed on and around the scar. A raspy “you’re so beautiful, I can’t believe you’ve—” left his mouth unfinished in a hurry somewhere in between, swallowed up by more kisses down your jaw and the fold of your ear. His lips went as far as behind it, just remaining there for a while, breathing against it while his hand threaded your hair. You could hear every breath.
“It’s okay.” Your words earned a sharp exhale from him and the sensation sent shivers down the whole of you.
“It’s not,” he whispered back, forehead rubbing into the side of your head. The gravity of this moment proved difficult even to someone like him. You could never imagine him allowing this to happen. Minutes ago, at least. What you could perfectly imagine, however, was your father’s face. The situation between your legs responded to the imagery like clockwork.
“You do look like him,” Baelor snapped you out. “You always have, but it’s disturbing now.” He sounded nearly disgusted by it, if it weren’t for how shaky his breathing was. Both his hands had moved to the back of your gown, pretending not to know how to undo it. It was his way of stopping himself.
You weren’t touching him yet. You didn’t want to do it wrong. Somehow, that made it worse for him and you could feel it all, feel him all, against your right hip.
It felt imperative to make up for your inexperience somehow. He had to know that you were not a child. As if it would make this any less filthy.
Your hand went straight between his legs, feeling him up until it settled right along where he had hardened. His reaction was instantaneous. He straightened and caught your wrist, removing it from himself in one go, all while muttering little no’s under his nose. Made sure to look at you as he raised it up to your face, folded all but two of your fingers and stuck them right in your own mouth, his other hand pushing down on your lips so they closed around them.
You looked up, mouth full, and it took about three seconds for him to drag them free and replace them. His own invaded your mouth, eliciting something close to a moan from you, followed by a slight gag at the sudden intrusion. His fingers were much longer and wider, and he was nearly reaching the back of your throat without having inserted them to the knuckle.
His eyes kept shifting between yours and your mouth, while all you did was let him explore and watch his face for it. He retracted his wrist back, making your lips drag across his fingers and then inserted them back in, twisting his wrist sideways before picking up a slight pace, slowly fucking your mouth in. His free hand moved to cradle the back of your head for leverage. Only a few times did he allow himself to push them fully in, and when he’d felt you gag enough, he’d retract them quickly and soothe the corners of your lips with his thumb.
He had done the same when drool began to seep out, picking it up with his thumb gently and letting you reclaim what had left you by making you suck on it.
It was an abomination.
You had a lot of what Maekar had when he had been your age, but your eyes were the most identical part. It went against everything in him to put you in this position. To feel his cock twitch at the sight of his brother’s daughter stretching her mouth around his hand.
He knew you felt it too.
And perhaps, in that moment, both of you saw your father in one another. It riled you up more than anything and the shared knowledge of it only made it worse. And perhaps, tomorrow, he’d know when he sees you. He’d be so attuned to the two of you that somewhere in him, he’ll know what you did.
Did you want him to know?
His fingers soaked all of the things you could’ve said to him from your mouth and when he’d figured you’d had enough, he found it best to take himself back to his quarters now, or he never would’ve.
Before leaving, Baelor mentioned your father and what he’d seen on your face was enough for him to imagine what swirled your mind the whole time. And where your fingers went when you remained alone that night.
He never did help himself the same way.
A punishment of his own making.
The images that filled your mind after did whatever flagellation you could seek for what you’d done. Your hand filled and stretched what hadn’t been stretched and filled, and the more you allowed your mind to corrode, the more you tightened against yourself.
You awoke the next morning incapable of any deep contemplation. What had come clean—after you had several times—required no further thought. Your scar was the least of your problems.
For where it had healed badly, much more rot lay buried beneath it.