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The curtained windows block out daylight from the rooms. A candle is burning down to the middle on the table. The smell of burning wax and lavender settles in the lungs. It is quiet and dark like a crypt. Maekar knows he has no right to be here. The remnants of his conscience roar at him, ordering him to turn around and leave. Instead, he steps closer to the bed. You lie on your right side, your back to him. Your shoulders rise in slow breathing and Maekar feels relief. Lost in a deep sleep induced by milk of the poppy and wine, you do not react when the mattress sags under the weight of your father. For three days and three nights you have not left your room, since the Targaryen family returned incomplete. For three days and three nights Maekar listened to the silence outside the door, not daring to enter, walking through the garden beneath the windows of your chambers morning and evening. Just in case.
He rests his chin gently on your shoulder. In your sleep, you sigh softly, and Maekar’s heart sinks when he hears «Baelor». Of course you dream of him; his brother, your husband. His dead brother, your late husband. Only now has the prince noticed your fingers clutching the fabric of Baelor’s cloak, the one he had worn to Ashford. It is all that remains of him.
— Father?
A soft whisper snapped Maekar out of his thoughts. Your voice was hoarse from long sobs and days of silence.
— I’m here, I’m here, — he patted your shoulder. You still didn’t turn around, continuing to lie in your father’s arms, your fingers running through every lint of the cloak. The black mourning veil covered your face, but Targaryen could tell your eyes were filled with tears again.
— Look at me, my girl.
You shook your head.
— Look at me, please, — he reached out to push the translucent lace away from your face.
You pushed your father’s hand away, sitting up on the bed and removing the tiara from your head to which the fabric was attached.
The heavy gaze of tear-swollen violet eyes met the gaze of violet eyes full of unshed tears. You were pale, your cheeks sunken, Maekar tired and filled with self-hatred and guilt. He looked into your eyes, not knowing what to say. «It will pass»? «Everything will be alright»? Maekar was a kinslayer, not a liar. He knew the pain would not go away, only subside a little, flaring up from time to time. This was not the fate he wished for his children, for his favorite daughter. Trying to protect Aerion, he had hurt you. You saw your father’s anguish. You couldn’t blame him. When they returned to Summerhall and you learned of Baelor’s death, not a single cry, not a single blow, not a single curse was directed at Maekar, only at Aerion. Maekar had only struck the final blow, but it was your brother's actions that hung like a sword over your husband's head. Aerion's actions and Baelor's decision. Now one is in the Free Cities, the other in the grave, and you and your father are remain.
— I don’t blame you, father, — you said, and Maekar felt as if he had forgotten how to breathe, and his heart stopping.
You pressed your cheek against his open palm, as you had loved to do as a child, when he had praised you, when you were the reason for his pride and rare smile.
— It is not your fault, kepus.
Your lips lightly touched the pulse on his wrist. He pressed his forehead to your temple, his warm breath burning your cheek.
— You deserve so much more, my child. You deserve to be happy and I have deprived you of it.
— Happiness is not for the Targaryens.
And it was true. House Targaryen is a dragon that eats its own tail. The one who makes you a little happy, the next moment destroys you, leaving an empty hole. And you can't run away from them, because they are your own blood, you will always return to them. You can never truly hate them. You loved your uncle, but you love your father too. You love your younger brother too, even if he destroyed your happiness with his own hands. It's a vicious circle that you can't escape.
Your lips continued to move up the inside of Maekar’s palm; his skin was rough, covered in scratches and calluses from weapons. You took your father’s fingers to your mouth, trying to taste Baelor: his blood, his ashes. Instead, on Maekar’s fingers, you tasted only Maekar himself. As you closed your eyes, biting and sucking the tips of his fingers, Maekar knew he had to push you away, to get up and leave. Run away. But he continued to watch, motionless, as a streak of saliva stretched from his fingers to your lips as you released them with a wet sound. The next moment, your lips were on his. The prickle of his beard reminded you of Baelor, but the plumpness of his lips which roughly responded to your kiss, shattered the reverie. You broke the kiss first, gasping for air with your mouth. Maekar licked his lips, tasting the wine and milk of the poppy.
— You’re not him… — you breathed, burying your face in the crook of his neck. You trembled, your heartbeat wouldn’t calm down, the ringing in your ears drowning out the growl that escaped your father.
He hated this reminder, it was more painful than all the blades of swords and arrows. Even for his own daughter Maekar had to fight his older brother (now his ghost).
— I was never him.
— Good. Because you won’t leave me.
You straddle your father’s hips, reaching for the drawstring of his breeches. He’s hard. You can feel it even through the layers of clothing that still separate you. He’s hard, hot, and throbbing in your hand as you finally pull his cock out. The pink head glistens with precum, and you rub it along his length. You lower yourself onto Maekar’s cock, moaning loudly at the feeling of fullness. He’s thicker than Baelor. Your hands rest on the prince’s chest as you begin to move up and down on him, rolling your hips from side to side. Maekar never imagined that the next woman on his cock after Dyanna’s death would be their own daughter. You don’t fully realize what you’re doing, he tells himself, wine, milk of the poppy, and grief have clouded your mind. It would be easier to believe if you closed your eyes, if you moaned Baelor's name, but instead you stare into Maekar's eyes, your moans of his name mixing with a desperate «father» as you start bouncing on him faster.
— I’m holding you, my good girl. Is that what he called you?
You lean in, shutting him up with a kiss. He holds your hips, starting to move deeper and faster, his balls slapping against your skin. The room is filled with the sounds of your bodies, your muffled moans, and Maekar’s growls as he bites your neck. A purple mark blooms on the thin, pale skin over the old one, not his.
— Fuck me as you want, father. Don’t think about him, don’t compare yourself to him, — you breathed into his kiss-swollen lips.
He easily rolls you over, pinning you to the bed. Before entering you again, Maekar studies you: your eyes half-closed in pleasure, your mouth wide open as you gasp for air, juices running down the inside of your thighs onto the sheets, forming a wet stain, your silver hair sticking to your sweaty face. He exposes your breasts, freeing them from the black silk of your dress, decorated with red rubies. Your hard nipples beg for his touch.
And his older brother dared to trade such a sight for the protection of some dirty hedge knight? Fucking honorable idiot. He never deserved to touch you and he never will again.
Maekar settled himself more comfortably between your legs, running his tip over your wet folds and throbbing clit, watching your shining cunt tighten around nothing. Then he pulled your knees closer to your chest, finally entering you full length again. You screamed loudly into the emptiness of the room, enthralled by the feeling of his cock stretching you at a new angle. With each rough thrust, Maekar’s cock slammed into your cervix, making you squirm, clutching the sheets in your hands. He stroked your clit in quick circular motions with his thumb.
— Oh, father, please! More, more, fuck me! Don’t stop! Oh, ah! Mhm! — you clutched your father’s shoulders, moaning like a cheap whore from Flea Bottom.
— Look at you, — Maekar growled, taking your chin, forcing you to look at him. — You look like a slut. Is that what I raised you to be? The ashes of Baelor haven’t even cooled yet, and you’re lying there with your legs spread for your father, for your husband’s murderer.
— Kepus, please…
The harshness of his words and the intense speed with which he was fucking you made your eyes roll. A pleasant warmth began to build in your lower belly. You were close.
— You gonna cum? — Maekar smirked, feeling the smooth, wet walls of your cunt begin to cletch around him.
You nodded, unable to answer. Your eyes closed, saliva dripping from the corner of your mouth as orgasm finally took hold of you, making your body tremble and your toes curl. Maekar continued to caress your swollen clit until you whimpered, pushing his hand away. He squeezed your hips tighter, moving inside you a few more times until he entered you all the way, with a chesty, animalistic moan filling your pussy with thick, hot cum.
You continued to lie like that for a while. No one dared to move. Maekar’s cock went soft inside you, but he didn't pull out. Your hand instinctively went to your stomach. He noticed the movement. He knew that movement.
— You…
You nodded: — Maester said the day before you returned.
Warm lips touched your collarbone in a gentle kiss, as if trying to take away your pain, as if trying to apologize.
This wasn’t what Maekar wanted. He didn’t want to deprive himself of an older brother, he didn’t want to deprive his nephews of their father. He didn’t want his first grandchild to grow up without a father.
— Will you stay with me for a little while, kepus?
— Of course.
Even if the wedding ring on your finger feels like a noose around Maekar’s neck.