Paradigms of love - Chapter VIII
Modern AU! Maekar Targaryen x OFC x Baelor Targaryen
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI
Summary: Dahenora, twenty of age, daughter of Aerys Targaryen, discovers the unspoken tensions in her relationships with her uncles, Baelor and Maekar, who are complete opposites.
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x ofc!niece x Baelor Targaryen
Warning(s): smut, breeding kink, biting, soft to rough sex, p in v, mention of violence, drugs, injuries, age difference (20 yo-45 yo-47 yo), eventual pregnancy, targcest, love triangle, threesome.
Note : tysm for reading this far!! Surprise, chapter eight is coming out earlier, and it’ll be the last one to be this long.
Also, trigger warning: THREESOME. And it’s very explicit—more than the previous chapters. You’ve been warned. enjoy, and feel free to share your feedback.
also—finally a face to put to Dahenora’s father. I couldn’t picture anyone but Matt Smith. sorry for turning him into pure evil.
Also- I am now on archive on AO3 !!! I Will be posting more fics around Baelor and Maekar (I did not stop fan girling yet - )
Same username - Hippyhippy, but I did not post anything yet. I’ll keep you updated.
Baelor, his eyes gleaming yet darkened by the Dover’s low, intimate lighting, reached out with quiet deliberation. His fingertip brushed the corner of my mouth, where a few crumbs lingered, and he brought them to his lips.
I had never imagined such a simple gesture could feel so disarmingly alluring when performed by this man.
He had chosen this restaurant—The Dover in Mayfair—for its atmosphere, yes, but above all for its intimacy. He had carefully selected a secluded table tucked into an alcove, so that we might enjoy one another with as few interruptions as possible.
It worked… moderately well.
I couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched. I could see them—clusters of girlfriends, couples at neighboring tables, people my age out for dinner, suited professionals lingering after work—every one of them seemed to know who we were. And Baelor, utterly unselfconscious in his closeness, only fueled the curious glances and whispered speculation. Across the room, I caught sight of a girl staring at us with open curiosity, murmuring something to her friend, who turned with a startled expression before hastily scolding her for being far too obvious.
Beside me, sprawled across the banquette, lay an extravagant floral arrangement in deep shades of burgundy and violet. Targaryen colors.
Baelor was dressed with understated refinement—black cashmere quarter-zip, crisp white shirt, dark straight-leg jeans—yet he radiated a breathtaking elegance. His gaze, fixed on mine, suggested he took more pleasure in my presence than in anything on his plate.
And I, to escape the oppressive atmosphere pressing in on me, drank.
I forced myself to accept it. To accept that, whatever the cost, our relationship would make noise. That to accept Baelor meant accepting… all of this.
I had avoided social media and television in recent days. The few public outings we’d made—a museum visit, a lunch, a charity gala—had already ignited a storm of speculation.
And in the span of barely two weeks, I had begun to feel the weight of what it meant to be involved with a man like him.
I felt Baelor’s hand settle against my thigh—a silent reassurance: I’m here.
It drew a smile from me, and I took another sip of Romanée-Conti.
Whether it was the wine—or the two espresso martinis before it—I found myself wanting to lose myself in the depths of his heterochromatic gaze, wordless.
He said nothing. He simply smiled, quietly, for a few lingering moments. I took in the lines of his face, softened by the dim, amber glow of the Dover, the air thick with warmth and something almost intoxicating.
He leaned closer, his lips brushing near my ear, his hand still resting against my thigh.
“If you keep looking at me like that,” he murmured, voice low, rough, delicious, “I may have to cut this delightful dinner short.”
His words vibrated through me, all under the watchful eyes of the surrounding tables.
It was nearly one in the morning. We had talked all evening—sometimes lightly, sometimes with unexpected depth—about my university years, about Kiera and me, about awkward adolescent stories; about his work, amusing anecdotes from television interviews, his ongoing projects with Ryenfield.
After conversations that drifted almost into philosophy, the music softened, and the room seemed to hush. I idly swirled an amaretto sour between my fingers, studying it intently. Across from me, Baelor reclined in his chair, an Old Fashioned barely touched—reminding me of Maekar—his gaze fixed on me. Or rather, I felt its weight, searching, questioning.
He knew what I was thinking about.
My cousin Aelor’s name day.
Baelor drew me gently back, pouring me a glass of water and taking my hand in his. I found myself studying his hands—adorned with family rings. Smooth, well-kept, warm.
“That night… my father… I saw him smile when I told him I was leaving.”
Baelor remained silent, watching me intently, as though stripping me bare. I knew he was listening with complete attention.
The alcohol loosened whatever restraint I had left. In that moment, I refused to hold anything back.
“It’s been weeks since he returned, and yet… he feels so distant.”
I drifted again, turning the signet ring he shared with his brothers between my fingers.
“I don’t understand… before, he seemed to care for me—or at least tried to. And then, overnight, it was as though he gave up entirely. I keep asking myself if I did something wrong. I have a family, brothers and sisters… and yet I feel so… alone.”
Still, Baelor did not interrupt. His expression remained grave, absorbing every word.
That was what I cherished most about him.
His attentiveness. His compassion. His emotional acuity.
“Your father—my brother—has always been a complicated man. And you will never deserve what he put you through.”
He leaned closer across the table, his hands still holding mine with quiet tenderness.
“Say the word, and I’ll put him in his place. Brother or not.”
A smile tugged at my lips. The image of Baelor as a fervent knight amused me.
And perhaps stirred something else, too.
A familiar voice broke through.
Dyna—a friend from university. Long flame-red hair, freckles scattered across a delicate face. Strikingly beautiful, tempered by a fiery temperament. She looked both delighted to see me and faintly uncomfortable, aware she was interrupting something—Baelor, my uncle, leaning toward me, our hands entwined.
“I—I just saw you with my boyfriend, and I wanted to say hi. We haven’t seen you at uni in a while, and we were going to invite you for a drink, but…”
Her gaze flicked to Baelor, clearly impressed yet unsure of what she had intruded upon. Behind her, her boyfriend—a tall, dark-haired man with impeccable posture—stared as well, though his attention seemed fixed on Baelor with something bordering on awe.
“You look busy. I won’t keep you.”
“You’re not disturbing us at all,” Baelor insisted with a warm, disarming smile.
“My prince, I’m honored, but I don’t think I really—”
He glanced toward me, then gestured lightly toward the bar, now crowded with fashionable groups, the music beginning to shift into something more rhythmic, almost danceable. I had little choice but to agree. Dyna beamed, barely containing her excitement, shooting a triumphant look at her boyfriend.
“We’re with a group of friends—come on, we’re at the bar.”
We left our belongings behind without a second thought. As we joined them, I realized instantly—they were all from university. And at the sight of Baelor, some widened their eyes as though witnessing an apparition.
Yet he moved among them effortlessly. While he struck up easy conversation, I lingered at the edges, observing—laughter, jokes, connections forming. He was so at ease, naturally charismatic, almost hypnotic. Maekar never could have managed this. In the same situation, he would have turned his back the moment Dyna approached. Perhaps he would have remained silent out of respect for me—or perhaps, stiff and unyielding, he might have snapped a curt “fuck off” before returning his attention to me. Or maybe he would have endured it, standing awkwardly at the bar, arms hanging uselessly at his sides.
“Your uncle—I mean, the young prince—is so nice. Exactly like he is on TikTok edits-”
Dyna pulled me from my thoughts. I followed her gaze—she was looking at him with unmistakable desire. And I couldn’t help but notice her boyfriend’s defeated expression.
“He doesn’t look his age.”
“He’s turning forty-eight, actually.”
“I knew he was too cool to be fifty.”
I stiffened but said nothing. She took a sip of her cocktail, still watching him.
“I heard he’s more or less single.”
She looked at me. I knew she’d heard the rumors. Everyone had. Unless you lived in a cave, it was impossible not to. I looked away, uncomfortable, finishing my drink in one go.
“It’s fine—we all know. Some people are shocked, but honestly… a lot of us just think it’s very… Targaryen.”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“We’re friends, Dahe. Between us? With an uncle like that, I’d have done the same—”
I turned to her, fury flashing in my eyes. She only smiled, swaying lightly to the music, her gaze flicking between me and my uncle.
“Anyway, if you ever need a third… you’ve got my Instagram.”
And just like that, she disappeared into the crowd. Leaving me standing there. Baelor quickly caught my eye from across the room, two young people with their hands on his shoulders. He seemed far more integrated than I was. But the moment he saw my expression—completely undone—his demeanor shifted.
He had already made his way back to me. I glanced around. People taking photos. Watching us. Whispering. Observing us over and over, like some kind of spectacle. Two Targaryens, dark-haired, standing a little too close—enough to feed every rumor. A wave of anxiety rose sharply within me. Dyna’s words echoed. I couldn’t stop the images from forming—her straddling Baelor, while I stood by, powerless. And Maekar. Maekar would never have allowed any of this. Baelor, now, had nothing left to hide. But it was too much for me.
“I want to go home. Now.”
He nodded, and in one swift motion gathered our things, settled the bill—along with that of our “friends,” thinking himself generous, though in truth I barely knew them—and ushered us out. Moments later, we were slipping into Baelor’s grey Porsche and pulling away into the night.
We had planned to go back to my place; Valarr and Matarys were home for the weekend, but my siblings were away.
“You seemed uncomfortable,” Baelor remarked as we climbed the steps to the front door.
“Yes… I think she propositioned me for a threesome.”
I pushed the door open, my back to him. He stared at me for a second—then burst into laughter.
“And does that appeal to you?” he asked, teasing.
“By the Seven, absolutely not.”
“Good. Because right now, all I want is to devour you. You alone. Mine.”
He caught my face in his hands and kissed me. His grip slid to my hips, guiding me blindly toward the living room.
Heat rose through me, breath by breath, sound by sound—until I felt it: the sudden tension in his mouth.
His body stilled. His gaze sharpened—dark, fixed—as though he had sensed danger.
And everything inside me collapsed.
He sat on the sofa facing us, shirt undone, hair disheveled, a glass in hand. I had no idea how long he had been there, but he was clearly waiting.
It was past two in the morning.
He studied us, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
I was frozen—utterly incapable of movement. I had always known he would find out someday. Through the press. Through rumors. And yet I had lived in denial, refusing to imagine this moment—this confrontation—would ever truly come.
And my father was not sober.
Baelor’s arm tightened around me, protective. His gaze remained calm, measured—already assessing the gravity of the situation with quiet intelligence, careful not to make any sudden move.
“What the fuck is going on?”
I recognized the voice instantly.
June must have let him in—we hadn’t heard a thing.
“Perfect,” my father declared, rising abruptly, arms thrown wide with theatrical flair. “Everyone’s here. We can begin.”
We looked at one another—Maekar and I. Baelor and I. Baelor and Maekar.
My father began pacing slowly, circling us, watching—pathetically, almost grotesquely.
“So,” he said at last, voice curling with venom, “which one of my bastard brothers fucked my daughter first? The younger one, or the elder?”
His hand slipped into his pocket.
Both Baelor and Maekar understood instantly. Something passed between them—silent, strategic, calculating the next move.
“Aerys…” Baelor tried, voice low and soothing, his hands lifting slightly in a gesture of calm.
My father pulled the gun free and aimed it at him.
June was somewhere in the house.
She had to call the police.
His eyes burned—furious, unhinged.
“How long have you been making a fool of me, brother? How long have you been fucking my daughter—”
He kicked a nearby table, sending an ice sculpture crashing to the floor in a spray of shattered fragments. Pieces skidded beneath our shoes.
We stood there—like statues. Subject to him. To their brother.
Behind me, I could feel Maekar’s fury coiled tight. To my left, Baelor’s restraint held firm.
“Aerys, think for a moment,” Baelor said gently. “We can talk—like adults—without this—”
“Drop the fucking gun, you idiot,” Maekar snapped, stepping forward sharply.
It struck the floor, splintering the wood, the recoil echoing through the room. The smell of gunpowder filled the air.
A strangled cry tore from my throat.
Maekar pulled me against him instantly, shielding me with his body.
“I asked,” my father continued, each word tight with manic control, “which one of you fucked my daughter first.”
In truth, neither of them knew. And neither of them wanted to.
“Fucking degenerate,” Maekar spat, holding me tighter.
I wanted to close my eyes. To disappear until it was over. But I couldn’t look away from my father—my father—whose face I barely recognized anymore.
He turned slowly toward Maekar, lowering the gun just slightly.
“Degenerate,” he echoed with a hollow laugh. “What were you thinking, little brother? Sliding into your barely twenty-year-old niece? My daughter—”
He lashed out again, overturning the coffee table. His glass spun across the room, shattering.
June had heard. I knew she had. And I knew she had called the police.
It was only a matter of time.
But time—while Baelor knew how to master it—was slipping from Maekar’s grasp.
I pressed my hand against his back, urging him silently not to provoke him further.
He laughed again—sharp, unsteady.
“Look at you. All three of you. Pathetic. Fighting over a…”
“Say it,” Maekar challenged.
Please, Maekar. Not another word.
My father met our eyes one last time, a cruel smile curling his lips.
Maekar let go of me—violently. Baelor caught me at once, steady, careful—
Another shot. A flash of light.
Blows. Movement. Struggle.
Baelor held me tightly, shielding me, refusing to let me move.
“Let me go!” I cried. I needed to see. To know they were alive—both of them.
For a moment, I caught a glimpse.
Maekar straddling my father, pinning him to the floor, raining down brutal blows. Unrestrained. Relentless.
My father laughed—half-conscious, bloodied.
Maekar was beyond control.
June rushed in. I felt her arms wrap around me as Baelor tried to drag his brother back. It took all his strength to pull Maekar away, his rage still burning, his body fighting, his eyes fixed on our father as if he meant to kill him.
I didn’t want my father to suffer. Nor Maekar. Nor Baelor.
June stroked my hair, trying to calm me.
My breathing spiraled, uncontrollable. My cheeks burned.
Baelor held his brother close—firm, grounding.
A silent command: enough.
And in the heavy stillness that followed, my father let out one last broken laugh. Sprawled on the floor, defeated, face ruined, the gun long since fallen from his hand.
It was obvious—Maekar would always have overpowered him.
Then his head dropped heavily against the floor.
June turned to us, urging the brothers to take me somewhere safe. She would handle the police.
Without hesitation, we left—back into Baelor’s car.
My ears still rang from the gunshots, and somewhere in the haze I could hear the brothers arguing, voices sharp, clashing.
Dawn was beginning to break.
And at last, I fell asleep.
I woke with difficulty, still dazed from the night before.
For a moment, I struggled to understand where I was.
Birdsong drifted faintly through the air, mingling with the soft whisper of wind through leaves. Somewhere nearby, I could hear the gentle lapping of water against the edge of a pond.
Then, as I pushed myself upright—wrapped in thick sheets embroidered with pale flowers, the scent of clean linen enveloping me—it came back to me.
The boys had driven through the night to reach Maekar’s country house.
I let my head fall back into the pillows for a few moments, utterly lost, still shaken.
My father. Why? Why abandon me, only to show some twisted form of protection now? I wondered where he was. Had the police taken him? I doubted it. They had always been… accommodating, given the generous donations our family—Ryenfield—had long provided.
He was likely recovering somewhere, considering the force of the blows Maekar had dealt him.
I had no idea what time it was, though the position of the sun suggested early afternoon. I noticed then that I was wearing a long robe of white fabric, almost regal in its design—and nothing beneath it.
Which raised a question I wasn’t sure I wanted answered.
I barely had time to dwell on it before I heard it—
Instinctively, I rushed down the long staircase, nearly stumbling in my haste. Below, I could hear the household staff crying out in alarm.
And halfway down the stairs, I saw them.
Fighting like wild animals.
Yet somehow, it was… different from the night before.
Less violent. Almost childish.
Like two brothers reduced to boys again.
Their bodies slammed against the floor, sending objects flying in every direction. Baelor grabbed a lock of Maekar’s hair and yanked—Maekar shouted. Then Maekar bit his brother’s arm—Baelor swore. In retaliation, Baelor flipped him, sending him crashing cheek-first into the edge of a sofa, which shifted under the impact. Instinctively, Maekar lashed out, striking Baelor across the face, forcing him to clutch his nose.
I rushed down the last steps and stopped sharply in front of them.
They both froze, lifting their heads like chastened boys.
For a brief second, silence.
Then Baelor, in one last petty gesture, kicked his brother’s shoulder, sending him collapsing back onto the floor with a strangled cry—like a child claiming the final word.
A few moments later, they had calmed. Servants brought ice for Baelor’s nose and antiseptic for Maekar’s cuts.
Evening fell quickly after that ridiculous scene.
Maekar remained silent, his gaze fixed on his hands as he fidgeted restlessly with his fingers, a strand of silver hair falling across his face.
Across from him, Baelor slowly turned his signet ring, composed but visibly troubled, his expression firm, unyielding.
“This is so fucking stupid,” Maekar muttered, frustration thick in his voice.
“Mind your language, little brother,” Baelor replied evenly.
The two brothers sat side by side on the sofa—Maekar with dried blood still marking his cheek, Baelor’s nose freshly broken once again.
Opposite them, Dahenora sat poised behind her desk, composed, dignified.
“Have you both calmed down?”
“Good. Then we can talk.”
About what had been looming for weeks.
It was time to be honest.
Dahenora straightened in her chair.
“I… don’t quite know where to begin.”
“Take your time, my dear,” Baelor said gently.
Maekar let out a quiet, sarcastic laugh.
Thrown by the stark contrast between them, Dahenora chose her words carefully. She knew that standing before both of them—both men she loved, equally, though for entirely different reasons—meant something now.
Her father was no longer a threat. Nothing mattered anymore, except securing what she wanted.
“There’s no point pretending anymore. We all know that… our relationships, individually, are… complicated.”
“You don’t say,” Maekar muttered.
Baelor remained silent, observing, thoughtful.
“And… I thank you for last night. But not for today. I refuse to watch you fight like ill-mannered children over such… circumstances.”
Maekar continued to toy with his fingers. Baelor slipped one of his rings off, turning it slowly.
“So… I think it’s time we talk about us.”
“So—you’ve made a decision, dear niece?” Baelor asked, his tone soft, but firm.
She had dreaded this moment.
And yet… she wanted something else. She wanted them—proud, princely, accustomed to having everything—to agree, for once, to share.
“I have made a decision, Baelor.”
They both straightened, attentive.
Maekar—the reckless, defiant one, driven, undone, wholly devoted to her.
Baelor—proud, composed, the embodiment of Targaryen prestige, pragmatic yet deeply in love with her.
She rose slowly, stepping toward them, hope shining in her eyes.
Then she sank to her knees before them, her posture humble, deliberate.
“I don’t want to choose.”
They exchanged a glance, stunned, weighing the meaning of her words.
She drew a breath, gathering her courage.
“What if… I didn’t have to?”
Her hands moved slowly, carefully, resting along their legs, as though afraid to startle them.
Baelor considered it—seriously. Thoughtfully.
Maekar, however, tensed at her touch.
“Fuck,” Maekar muttered, overwhelmed.
“Do not curse in their presence, brother,” Baelor replied politely.
Before them stood Aerion, Valarr, and Dahenora—no taller than saplings, scratched by brambles, eyes shining with tears. Aerion had convinced them there was treasure hidden in the thorn bushes by the pond, and the children had rushed in without a second thought.
Maekar tugged at his collar, already exasperated by the sight of three near-crying children. Even then, he had borne the chaos of Targaryen offspring.
“And what the hell are we supposed to do when Aerys sees this?”
“Maekar, we are alone. No need to pretend Aerys cares in the slightest for his youngest.”
Their gazes shifted to the little girl—frail, sniffling. The boys tried to stand tall, though their own eyes were red and swollen.
Autumn at Summerhall was gentle that year. Her mother had only just died, leaving behind a single daughter—Dahenora.
Her future siblings had not yet been born. And Aerys, unable to face the life he had lost, had left her behind.
She was alone. Confused. Waiting for a father who did not return.
And as Rahegel began to show the first signs of his illness, it fell to Baelor and Maekar to care for her.
“I… should I handle it, or will you?” Maekar asked awkwardly.
But Baelor was already kneeling.
Valarr leaned against his father, while Dahenora clung to one of Baelor’s fingers with her tiny hand. He gently raised his other hand to her cheek, brushing against her scratches, making her flinch.
“Poor little thing,” he murmured softly. “I’ll take care of you.”
And Maekar watched, helpless, as his own son clung to his leg, seeking attention.
Dahenora tried to slam her bedroom door in her uncle Maekar’s face as he chased her frantically through the house. He could no longer tolerate his niece’s defiant behavior—she was beginning to taste both the thrills and the excesses of adolescence.
Aerys was still absent. While June tended to Dahenora’s younger siblings, Maekar had taken it upon himself to act as her chaperone.
“Don’t you fucking dare slam that damn door in my face, girl.”
“Or what? You’ll stop me from going out? As if you weren’t already doing that.”
She stood by her bed, dressed for the evening. She had attempted to sneak out while her uncle, in her father Aerys’s study, was occupied with business. He had been waiting for June to finish with the children so he could slip away unnoticed.
Maekar froze, struck by the transformation before him. The frail little girl he had known had become a tigress—claws out, provocative, rebellious. He had no idea how to handle a teenage girl; he had only ever raised boys, already consumed by their own excesses.
“Go out for what? To get yourself wasted on hard liquor. To call me at four in the morning because one of your idiots, unlicensed friends crashed into a lamppost? Absolutely fucking not.”
“Why don’t you go deal with your own failures of sons?”
They glared at each other, seething, anger burning in the space between them.
Maekar was like that—incapable of restraint, shackled by his own frustrations. He knew Lea and Dyanna were overwhelmed with the boys and little Daella. Yet it was his gentle wife who had begged him to look after Dahenora—the poor, parentless child. And Maekar, like a dutiful soldier, had obeyed.
He was beginning to regret it.
After a long sigh and a visible effort to compose himself, he spoke again.
“Go take off that clown makeup.”
With heavy, irritated steps, Dahenora retreated to her bathroom, wiped her face clean, then returned in a T-shirt and short pajamas.
“Perhaps it will give you time to think.”
Maekar’s attention snapped to it. Instinctively, Dahenora tried to grab it first—but he was stronger. He caught her wrist and seized the phone.
“What the hell is a Fossaway—some lowborn nobody—doing calling you at this hour?”
“You’re ridiculous. Give it back, it’s none of your business.”
“Oh yes, it is, girl. What does he want?”
She struggled helplessly.
Then headlights swept across the street.
Maekar understood at once. He released her and strode toward the front door with military precision.
“Fuck—no, please, Uncle!”
Dahenora cried out, chasing after him through the corridors. She thought she glimpsed June peering from one of the children’s rooms.
When Maekar stepped outside, he found Raymond Fossaway leaning against an ostentatious sports car, bass-heavy music rattling the neighborhood.
What an idiot, he thought.
Raymond looked up just in time to see a silver-haired figure advancing toward him in fury.
“Oh, fuck—” he muttered, frozen at the sight of the Maekar Targaryen, whom he had not expected.
Dahenora reached the doorway, breathless, watching the scene unfold.
Her uncle seized the young man by the collar.
“Ei—eighteen, my prince.”
“And what is an imbecile your age doing with my niece?”
“I… I’m taking her to a party.”
Maekar tightened his grip, lifting him partly off the ground.
“She is going nowhere. And you will never come near her again—unless you want me to bury your entire insignificant lineage.”
He released him violently. Terrified, Raymond scrambled back into his car, cut the music instantly, and sped off into the night, tires screeching.
Maekar turned back—and found his niece collapsed on her knees,
her eyes brimming with despair.
Dahenora paced restlessly in her room.
Already dressed for the evening, she gave herself one last look in the mirror—wavy hair, heavy makeup, a miniskirt, a cropped top, heels. At sixteen, it all seemed perfectly normal.
She wasn’t certain how Baelor would react; she was staying with him for the holidays. But her plan was carefully laid. At this hour, her uncle would be buried in paperwork, barely aware of anything around him. Valarr had assured her it was the perfect moment to slip out unnoticed.
Moving quietly through the townhouse corridor, heels in hand, she noticed the door to her uncle’s study was open. Light spilled softly into the hallway.
Normally, Baelor kept it shut to avoid interruptions. But with his sons out that evening—Dahenora, unlike them, was forbidden to go out, which she found deeply unfair—he had left it open.
She pressed on, took a deep breath, and tried to pass silently.
Baelor, heavy reading glasses perched on his nose, looked up, eyes tired.
“Dahenora?” he called, inquisitively.
She exhaled, defeated, and stepped inside, revealing her outfit.
He straightened, adjusting his glasses to take in the sight—then smiled, kindly.
“And where are you off to, dear niece?”
“I… I’m going to dinner.”
He understood. Her boyfriend of the time—a boy from House Hightower, Gwen. A rather arrogant young man, buoyed by his impeccable lineage, yet who had won Dahenora’s heart through sheer popularity at school.
And in the innocence of youth, Baelor found it almost endearing. He leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses.
“I could take you, if you’d like.”
She blinked in surprise. No opposition.
She remembered, just a year before, Maekar’s furious reaction—how he had confined her.
“I don’t want to trouble you.”
“You wouldn’t trouble me. Though I wouldn’t want to embarrass you either—your old uncle dropping you off at your date…”
“Thank you. For letting me go out.”
“I have never forbidden it. Quite the contrary—enjoy your youth.”
“Your uncle Maekar is… stricter, yes. But try to understand—his sons are not easy.”
She nodded. She understood.
“You do intend to come home afterward, don’t you?”
He remained perfectly calm.
“Gwen—well, my boyfriend—asked me to stay over.”
Baelor was a man. He knew what that implied.
“Do you know why, sweetling?”
“Have you ever… been intimate?”
“N-No… but I’ve heard about it.”
“Do you know how it works?”
He saw, then, the child’s innocence.
Baelor rose and came to sit beside her in an armchair near the fireplace.
“When two adults care for each other, they may… hold one another.”
“More… deeply than that.”
He searched for words—far easier with his sons than with her.
“To… enter into one another. I won’t draw you a picture.”
She understood. The intimacy of the conversation made her tense with embarrassment—but who else could speak to her of such things? Her mother was gone, her father increasingly absent.
Baelor sat beside her, hands folded on his knees, speaking gently, carefully, trying not to unsettle her.
Dahenora tugged her skirt lower over her thighs.
“I… I don’t think I want to go out anymore.”
She collapsed against him, resting her head on his lap. He stroked her hair soothingly.
For a little while longer, Dahenora wished to remain a child.
She suggested they watch a film in the basement cinema. He agreed.
And before long, she fell asleep, curled against him.
Dahenora remained on her knees, her hands resting on each of her uncles’ thighs, gliding upward with slow, devastating temptation. Only one thing held her back: their lingering restraint, their shared desire to continue.
In that precise instant, she prayed silently to the Seven that the two men would finally surrender.
Maekar dared not look at his brother. He was frozen by the choice before him—the morality of the act itself.
Baelor, for his part, felt conflicted at the thought of sharing. Hesitant to yield any ground on what he considered rightfully his.
Yet all Dahenora longed for was to give herself completely to both brothers, whom she desired with equal, burning intensity.
Her hands reached the apex of their thighs. She rose gracefully and settled between the two Targaryens.
Neither man dared make the slightest move. No initiative. Only heavy, suspended silence.
Then she continued her ascent, her palms sliding higher with exquisite slowness until they cupped their groins.
Maekar fought the urge to pull away and curse them both; he felt like a fool. Yet he stayed exactly where he was—because Baelor remained. And he refused to lose ground.
Baelor thought the very same, symmetrically. His gaze stayed fixed on his niece, waiting for her next gesture.
Their breathing had grown controlled now. Calm. Almost held. Suspended in an endless, exquisite tension.
And then, in the feverish darkness of that secluded salon at Summerhall—cut off from the world, far from prying eyes and curious media—Dahenora leaned slowly toward Baelor, her hand still firmly gripping Maekar’s hardening length.
She pressed her lips to her uncle’s.
Baelor did not retreat. He let her take him.
Emboldened, Dahenora slipped her tongue into his mouth. Baelor welcomed the invasion. All of it unfolded beneath the embarrassed, burning gaze of his younger brother, who had imagined this scene over and over—jealous, furious, irritated, tormented.
And now he finally witnessed it: the two of them desiring each other in a way that felt strangely familiar, eerily similar to the way he himself craved Dahenora.
She continued exploring the elder brother’s lips, again and again. The presence of the younger only sharpened their hunger.
Then, in a sudden surge, Dahenora broke the kiss and turned toward Maekar, her lips wet and swollen. She could feel both uncles throbbing heavily in her palms. She searched the younger man’s eyes, trying to read whether the sight pleased him.
Maekar himself did not know.
Neither did Baelor, truthfully. But he was more lucid; he understood the agonizing dilemma tormenting his young niece. Individually, neither brother could fully satisfy her.
Together, however, they formed a perfect whole. A flawless balance.
Baelor’s tenderness and Maekar’s fierce protection. Baelor’s romanticism and Maekar’s unwavering devotion. Baelor’s sense of duty and Maekar’s pragmatism.
It was precisely what she needed.
And Baelor knew that, for her sake, he had to make a concession.
Just this once, she deserved to feel desired at the height of what she was worth.
So, Baelor looked at his brother, his gaze silently saying: Grant her this. At least this once.
Driven by the overwhelming heat of the moment, Maekar let his niece draw near. He tasted her lips—and, indirectly, the lingering trace of his brother. He allowed the kiss to deepen, quickly turning frantic. Baelor, wanting to take part, leaned in and began pressing slow, languid kisses along her neck, drawing soft, helpless moans from Dahenora’s mouth even as she kissed his younger brother, who no longer knew how to contain the storm of emotions crashing through him.
Yet in that instant, he completely abandoned his morality, a raw, scorching desire flooding every vein as he felt Dahenora utterly surrendered between his lips, and the warm breath of the elder brother he had always envied and admired brushing against his cheek. The way his older brother had plunged into the same forbidden lust as him. Strangely, intimately, it drew them even closer.
The first and the last. Both led by this unspeakable hunger. And by surrendering to it, they finally proved it—together. Against the world.
Maekar pulled away from the kiss only to devour his niece’s neck in turn, in perfect synchrony with his brother. Both men starved, feeding on Dahenora’s rising moans while her hands remained wrapped around their cocks. In a desperate impulse, she tried to coordinate her fingers to undo both belts. But Baelor gently removed her hand and, without ever leaving the delicate curve of her neck, unbuckled his own belt—and moments later, his younger brother’s as well.
A surprisingly generous act.
Maekar, deeply embarrassed and intimidated by the gesture, slid a hand between his niece’s thighs, massaging her swollen, slick little pearl. Her silk robe had fallen open in a way that offered her completely to both men.
They were already achingly hard, swollen with need. Dahenora took wicked pleasure in stroking them with bare, eager hands, drawing ragged breaths from the brothers. While Maekar continued to knead her throbbing clit, Baelor suddenly slipped a finger inside her—his index, without warning. In the heat of the moment, Maekar couldn’t help thinking how his brother never wasted time on tenderness. When he felt his niece clench sharply at the sudden intrusion, a flicker of concern crossed him. But Dahenora quickly captured his lips again, silencing any such thought.
He kept touching her gently, even as his elder brother thrust his finger in and out of her dripping, trembling core with growing frenzy.
Utterly overwhelmed, caught between the two men who enveloped her, Dahenora no longer knew where to turn or what to do next.
Baelor delicately untied the sash of her robe, which had become an encumbrance. He revealed her slender, lightly sun-kissed body—toned, trembling with bliss beneath the dual caresses of her uncles.
He captured one of her breasts between his teeth, grazing the soft curve with a possessive bite.
She barely had time to breathe his name before Maekar claimed her mouth once more, swallowing her moan.
She continued stroking both brothers, her arms beginning to ache with fatigue. Baelor understood. He freed himself from her grip, slid between her legs, and without warning, took her pussy into his mouth. Dahenora arched violently in pleasure, Maekar barely holding her steady.
She kept working the younger uncle’s cock with her hand while Maekar—strangely humiliated yet intensely aroused—found himself mesmerized by the obscene tableau before him. Pearls of precum began to bead at his tip. Starving, Dahenora could wait no longer. She needed him in her mouth. Now.
She moved with exquisite care so Baelor could follow without breaking contact, and soon found herself on her knees between her uncle’s legs on the couch, with Baelor devouring her from behind, still kneeling on the floor. Dahenora took Maekar deep into her throat, stretching herself to welcome him fully. Feeling the hot, velvet walls of his niece’s mouth close around him, Maekar let his head fall back heavily, his silver hair cascading into the void.
The scene was worthy of a decadent Renaissance painting. The Targaryen family. The eldest, the crown prince. The youngest, the Prince of Summerhall. And the young Princess Dahenora. All three indulging in the ancient Targaryen custom.
But not for political necessity, not to preserve the purity of the bloodline—which had long been diluted by marriages to other houses, as evidenced by the varied hues of Baelor’s and Dahenora’s hair.
No. This was pure carnal pleasure. Calculated. Willful. Dark. Hidden. Taboo.
All the while, with wet, sloppy strokes, Dahenora continued swallowing her uncle as best she could, her eyes watering, her inner walls fluttering helplessly beneath the relentless assault of Baelor’s tongue. Her knees trembled.
So small between her two towering uncles. The Targaryen men. Fathers. Respected, feared, and admired figures.
One buried between her legs, the other’s cock buried to the hilt in her throat.
Maekar seized her dark hairs and began to fuck her face with raw, violent thrusts, filling the room with filthy, wet sounds. Baelor, refusing to be outdone, simultaneously pushed two thick fingers deep inside her. The cry she let out vibrated around Maekar’s cock as she fought desperately not to gag.
Baelor held back any words, unwilling to unsettle his brother. He kept fingering her furiously, her slick walls greedily sucking at his fingers, desperate for more.
As Maekar felt his own climax rising, he refused to finish in her mouth. He wanted to leave that pleasure to his brother. He abruptly pulled his niece’s head back. Their eyes met as Dahenora slumped forward.
For a dizzying moment, both brothers hesitated—tempted to kiss each other in the drunken frenzy of the night.
Because Dahenora had already moved onto all fours in front of her younger uncle, gently shaking her ass, legs spread, offering herself to him like a creature in heat. Baelor, facing her, understood instantly: it was now his turn to fill her mouth. She would mix the precum of both men on her already ruined, dripping lips—swollen and red.
Maekar gripped her hips with bruising force and positioned himself at her entrance, while Baelor pressed his cock against her lips.
In perfect unison, both men pushed into their niece.
A shared, broken moan escaped their throats.
Dahenora was so tight. So vulnerable. So utterly helpless. Completely defiled.
Maekar drove into her with powerful, relentless thrusts, his cock stretching and filling her until she lost her balance. With every stroke, he shoved her harder onto his elder brother, forcing her to take him deeper, her nose buried in the salt-and-pepper curls at the base of Baelor’s shaft.
The room grew thick, hot, and humid—a heady blend of oud, vanilla, sweat, and raw sex. The sounds of skin slapping skin, desperate cries of pleasure, hands grasping flesh, and furniture creaking formed a dangerous, forbidden symphony.
Dahenora felt everything with shattering intensity: the taste of Baelor at the back of her throat, Maekar buried to the hilt inside her cunt, pulling her in every direction. In that moment, being consensually used as their sexual object sent a dark, exquisite thrill twisting through her belly.
She didn’t know how to escape their embrace—nor did she want to. Not yet. Not before she had felt both of them come inside her.
Fortunately, Maekar withdrew from her just in time, sensing that one more thrust would push him over the edge. Dahenora seized the moment and straddled her younger uncle, offering her dripping core to Baelor instead.
Baelor could not resist. He entered her violently, her walls already loosened and slick from Maekar’s earlier pounding. He could feel the lingering heat of his brother mixed with his niece’s arousal, and the sensation made his head spin. Gripping her even harder than his predecessor, he fucked her with savage intensity, filling her as deeply as he could.
Both brothers were roughly the same size, yet Maekar was slightly thicker while Baelor was longer. Dahenora savored the difference, smothered against Maekar’s silver-furred chest as he held her in his arms while Baelor relentlessly claimed her from behind. She felt caught between hammer and anvil.
Maekar watched the scene for a few moments, precum dripping down his thigh. He held Dahenora close, as if to steady her.
Baelor kept going—again and again—his cock swelling even harder as his niece’s hot, greedy pussy pulsed around him.
After a few final, punishing thrusts that made his balls slap wetly against her, he pulled out abruptly, panting. The three of them stared at one another, eyes wild with lust. Maekar sat up. Dahenora followed. Still straddling him, she took his cock and guided it back inside her abused entrance, sinking down slowly, agonizingly, drawing a raw groan from Maekar’s throat.
Once fully seated, she leaned forward, timidly offering her other entrance.
Her second hole was already slick, clenching around nothing, silently begging for Baelor. He spat on the tight ring and gently pushed a finger inside, feeling her stiffen at the unfamiliar intrusion.
Meanwhile, Maekar’s hands locked around her hips, letting his niece set the pace. She rocked with small, desperate movements, trying to please him despite the overwhelming sensation of Baelor slowly adding a second finger, preparing her for more.
She knew exactly what was coming.
And she was dying for it.
Once she had grown accustomed to his two fingers, Baelor coated his cock with saliva one final time and pressed only the head inside her—slowly.
The stretch was exquisite agony. Both men filling her completely.
Maekar gripped her tighter as she nearly slipped off him from the intensity.
Baelor and Maekar let her find her own rhythm, her own pleasure, until the sensation turned from overwhelming to blissful. Completely naked between her two still half-dressed uncles, she sank down as far as she could onto Baelor while staying impaled on Maekar. Beads of sweat formed on her back and between her breasts; she was utterly lost to sensation.
After a few moments, she began to move.
Both brothers groaned in unison—a completely new experience for them: watching each other take pleasure in such raw, carnal entanglement. They had crossed the final barrier of modesty between them.
Maekar admired the way his brother looked lost in ecstasy; his features darker, dirtier, more beautiful. His heterochromatic eyes deeper, lips parted, posture triumphant as he gripped Dahenora’s shoulders. Baelor, in turn, admired his younger brother—usually so upright, reserved, and proper—now completely undone by desire, silver hair tousled, his normally hard gaze flooded with emotion, mouth open, his powerful body strangely vulnerable beneath their niece as she took his cock in her ass.
Everyone was aroused by everyone.
And then, as if on cue, Maekar and Baelor began to thrust violently into the young woman. Without mercy, shaking her in every direction. Trapped in their embrace, she could only surrender to the pleasure.
Her uncles felt enormous inside her. Both holes swollen and stretched to their limit around them. Yet they continued, pounding her in a frenzied rhythm, a slick mixture of precum, saliva, and her own arousal soaking the fabric of the couch.
Dahenora could feel the distinct shape of each man perfectly. The way Maekar’s grip was slightly gentler than Baelor’s. The way Baelor sweated more profusely. The way Maekar’s thrusts were shorter and sharper, while Baelor’s were longer and more powerful.
The combination was perfect.
So perfect that she felt herself beginning to climb.
“Uncles… Seven gods, I—ah…”
Her own words made her head spin with dizzying intensity. She wanted to come for both of them—on both of them. A powerful, unfamiliar heat was rising deep inside her, a molten wave she had never felt before.
At last, she truly belonged to them. To both of them. In one final, perfectly synchronized thrust, the brothers fucked her harder until they felt their little niece clench violently around their cocks—her front and back walls pulsing and fluttering, coating their thick lengths again and again with her slick release. They kept driving into her, relentless, until Maekar felt his own climax surging. His eyes were locked on his elder brother, their gazes dark and burning, sinking into each other. Baelor’s lips were slightly parted as he continued to ravage Dahenora, her hole now completely relaxed, stretched, and utterly at his mercy. He thrust deep, his heavy balls slapping frantically against her ass with every stroke. Staring at his younger brother—so raw, so vulnerable, teetering on the edge—only made Baelor drive into her with even wilder frenzy.
At the sight, Maekar lost all restraint. He came hard, spilling deep inside his niece’s belly, filling her with thick, pulsing ropes of cum and tearing a raw, uncontrollable moan from her throat.
The moment Baelor saw it, his own orgasm crashed over him. With frantic urgency, he pulled Dahenora off his brother’s cock and thrust back into her abused, cum-slick entrance—still warm and dripping with his younger brother’s seed. He fucked her savagely, again and again, until his own pleasure spiraled out of control. Dahenora cried out loudly against Maekar’s broad, silver-furred chest, her voice hoarse and broken.
Then, with one last brutal thrust, Baelor buried himself to the hilt and filled his niece as well, their combined releases mixing deep inside her.
All three were panting, breathless.
Dahenora looked up at Maekar, then at Baelor. The two brothers held each other’s gaze one final time before Baelor slowly withdrew. A thick, abundant flood of their mingled seed immediately began to leak from her, spilling down her thighs.
Trembling, sore, and utterly spent, she collapsed onto her younger uncle. Baelor, the elder, gently lowered himself over her, covering her with his warmth.
