My Father's Image (1/2)
Summary:
You had been the only one to truly look like your father, Maekar. Spitting image, only female. Everything you did was his; as if cloned by old valyrian magic.
And Baelor noticed.
The way you both rolled your eyes annoyed, glared at what bothered you, and even how you smirked at something funny.
Baelor had come to see the resemblance more and more as you aged, disturbingly so. He could not have his brother, but perhaps he could have you.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Niece!Reader Warnings: Faint obsession, mention of Targincest
Original Post: LINK Part 2: LINK
[A/N] - I don't usually write One-Shots. I have no idea how to keep them short, sum everything up in one. So, here it is a Two-Shot because I wrote too much. First attempt at Targcest. I hope it met your expectations. Not Beta Read/Checked/Proofed because my Beta (understandably) does not support or like such relations.
Chapter 1/2:
When one is born in a family of many siblings, bonds tend to form differently. Hatred, compassion, connection and love. It often came as nothing new to a family known for marrying relatives.
Growing up, Baelor and Maekar seemed to fall into the same category. Despite the years between them, a connection had formed from the first time their eyes met. Deep, ancient; a pact none could understand.
Years later, they would become each other’s shadow, sharing everything from food to clothes to even women when they grew older. And if sinful thoughts ever crossed their minds, their eyes gave it away; lingering little longer than they should.
They explored, by the old valyrian gods they did; part of their childhood was around it.
But then, they married. Beautiful women occupied their minds, their thoughts, bringing them happiness like no other. They remained close, as dragon brothers could be, but their feelings cleared as the years passed.
Until you were born.
You were the first to be born in the family. The first grandchild of Daeron the Good.
The day of your birth, your cries echoed across the Red Keep. Servants would whisper for days, comparing your cries to the roars of an awakened dragon.
Loud, strong and a taft of white hair on your head.
A dragon born like your father, ancient valyrian blood coursing through your veins.
Baelor was the first man to hold you, after your father. His own wife was soon to give birth to his child as well.
Hands held you steady, his presence easing your war cries. Red from the stained blood, you looked as mighty as you could be. Your little hands shot up, aiming to grasp at anything for comfort.
You found his beard, tugging faintly at a few strands with surprising force. Baelor winced, unable to free himself.
Maekar laughed at the sight. You fell asleep right after, holding your uncle as if he were your lifeline.
Baelor never saw the resemblance you bore to Maekar until you started to age.
Your first years were spent at Summerhall with your parents, raised as the eldest child. Soon, brothers would follow, but you were always the first; no one could compete with that.
At age eight, you returned with your two new brothers and father to King’s Landing for your grandsire's name-day.
Slowly grown, your white hair and lavender eyes were the pride of your beauty and your lineage. A spitting image of your father, there was no sign of your mother in your features.
But Baelor did not see just how close you resembled his brother until the first family dinner.
Sitting next to your father, you occupied yourself with some bread. By your side, Daeron and Aerion were busy disasters. One was about to fall asleep on the table, head held up by his hand. The other, eager to pinch his tired brother with a fork, hard enough to draw blood.
You and Maekar leaned back on your chairs simultaneously. You rolled your eyes as if practised beforehand, scowling in the same manner as if trained.
Baelor’s goblet never reached his lips at the sight. He stared, blinking slowly at the uncanny resemblance.
In the days that followed, Baelor found the image haunting his waking hours. He chose to walk, praying some fresh air would ease his thoughts. He passed by the training yard, stopping short upon seeing you.
A princess of the realm, in a tunic and pants too big for you. A wooden sword held in your hands, hair tied back for convenience. Your opponent? Maekar, the Anvil, himself.
You were his firstborn, his most beloved. What you wished, he gave, questioning little of what was proper.
Baelor remembered once questioning his brother about it.
Maekar had shrugged. “She will grow; she will find other things to do. And if she can wield a blade better than most green boys, so be it.”
The Crown Prince watched you in silence, mismatched eyes darting between you and your brother.
When a hit landed too firmly and knocked your sword away, you scowled. The same way Maekar always did when younger, training with his brother.
When your father blocked your well-planned hit, you frowned, disappointed and tried again.
Baelor’s breath hitched momentarily, memories flashing into his mind. Each expression you pulled, each narrowing eye moment; he saw a younger Maekar in your place.
And feelings that had once plunged his dreams into pleasure Feeling he had once considered them buried and gone...
Had started to return. Not for your brother alone. But for the female image of him, in the body of his niece.
Your visits to King’s Landing were rarer the more you grew. Summerhall was too far, the trip too tiring for quick visits. Your mother's constant pregnancies kept the family busy, isolated behind the castle walls.
Having two younger brothers was one thing. Having four in total, with a fifth child on the way? It was becoming too much.
Perhaps that was what had started to make you scowl more, joining your father at the mess of this growing family. The hours you spent in his presence, finding solace from the migraines caused by your siblings.
He never turned you away, inviting you to continue your studies while he worked.
His influence on you only grew, his manners becoming yours without realising it. And the next time you visited your uncle, he was in for a surprise.
At your 18th name-day, your grandsire wished to host a tourney. To celebrate your coming of age, to parade his first grandchild, the realm’s beauty. And much to your disappointment and horror, I will find you a suitable marriage match.
Held at King’s Landing, lords from all over Westeros had promised to attend. Three days of festivities, competitions and feasts; an event like no other.
The celebrations had left Baelor drowned in paperwork, the widower Hand of the King busy tracking the expenses and plans for such an event. He had not come to greet you when you arrived with your family, but he had watched you from the window, from the top of the Hand’s tower.
The Banners of his family were visible from afar, the red winged dragon placed against black.
You did not arrive in a carriage befitting of your status.
No, you arrived on horseback alongside your father.
White long hair had been tied back and low, an identical style your father favoured since his youth. Instead of dresses, you wore a riding gear; your Targaryen cloak clasped around your shoulders.
Maekar’s horse stopped next to yours, the resemblance between you uncanny enough to spook the stable boys coming for your horses. Your sharp, hardened gaze was rivalled only by his.
Your brothers arrived right after. Daeron almost fell from his saddle, head pounding from the wine he consumed the night prior. For someone younger than you, he drank more than your father on tense days.
Aerion, on the other hand, barked at a stable boy to get to his horse first. Throwing an insult in the mix, just for self-pleasure.
A simultaneous groan left you and Maekar’s lips, already tired by their behaviour, unfit for their status and bloodline.
Only Aemon and young Egg seemed the most behaved, riding last on the same horse. At least there was hope for them, if insanity did not claim them first. Considering the chaos of your family, your own intact sanity was god gifted.
Baelor focused on his work, his thumb teasing his bottom lip in thought. Your arrival had shaken him; the resemblance from afar was a sight he did not expect. He had chosen to bury himself in work, knowing he would see you at night for supper.
That was his plan. But not yours.
A knock on his door startled him, mismatched eyes looking up. “Come in,” he permitted, grabbing a ledger from the pile to his right.
Hinges creaked as the heavy door was pushed open. You walked in, still in the riding gear you arrived in. Boots echoed on the stone floor before muffled by the carpet before his desk,
“You did not come to greet us, uncle.” Your voice was smooth, huskier than he recalled. “I feel I should be offended.”
Baelor looked up again, inhaling once. Sharp, short; the breath did not come out.
You stood before his desk, head tilted faintly in tease. Your white hair tied back, falling across your back in thin, tamed strands. Violet eyes bore into his soul, and that smirk... Maekar’s smirk.
He would be able to recognise it anywhere. A rare trait, a sight often saved just for him growing up.
“I have been drowning at work, dear niece,” he cleared his throat, leaving the ledger on the desk. “I would have seen you at supper.”
His mismatched eyes took in your appearance, your changes. No longer were you the small child trailing after her father, glaring with the hatred of an elderly man.
You had grown taller, stronger. Your chest had bloomed after your first bleed, your face thinned and shaped; cheekbones protruding more. A true Valyrian beauty, as wild and untamed as the dragons your ancestors rode into battle.
But it was not just beauty Baelor saw. It was also him.
You bore your father’s eyes, nose and lips. Your face, alas, more feminine, resembled Maekar more than any of his children or even his siblings.
Baelor stared a little too intently.
Growing up, the boys often wondered what it would be like to be born a woman. If marriage between them had been achievable, approved even. With Maekar’s long hair, it was not hard for Baelor to imagine back then.
Now, he barely had to put his mind to work.
What he often imagined and dreamt as a growing prince, you had brought into life.
His thoughts were halted when you leaned forward, a hand on his desk. Your low ponytail slipped aside, over your shoulder. In the silence of the moment, you had moved to his side.
Your breath tickled his skin. “What have you been working on, uncle?” you asked, your other hand snatching the ledger effortlessly.
Pushing yourself to stand, you scanned the pages in violet hues. Expenses, coins, grain shipments and endless numbers. A sight you had seen before, enough times to know how to handle it.
Baelor cleared his throat. “Like I said, dear niece, work.”
You sat on the chair, leaning back against the cushion. “Let me help you then, uncle.” You glanced at him above the open ledger. “It is my name-day that has you drowning in work, after all.”
He parted his lips to argue, but you had already stolen his quill, dipping the tip into ink before marking something on the old pages.
Inhaling once, he let you be, then fetched a different quill for himself. But his eyes would not stick to the work before him, nor would his mind focus.
Because you stood within arm’s reach of him. A sinful old dream coming true. An innocent niece who tempted him more than his brother ever did.
And all that, without you even understanding the war within his heart.
Or so he thought...
Jousting was the heart of Westerosi culture, the event everyone wanted to see. Men and boys trained endlessly to compete, egos boosted and bruised with each opponent they faced.
The stands were filled, the crowd wild as the competitors rode into the arena. They galloped up and down, intricate helmets designed to stand out. Their swords held up, their sigils carved on their chestplate.
You sat in the royal booth, shielded from the warm sun. A fancy dress of red and black clung to your blooming form, shoulders revealing enough to draw eyes. Your hair, the same low ponytail you favoured, a style you openly refused to change.
A style your father also supported, further showing your resemblance to him.
Aemon and Aegon were seated just below you, the youngest cheering for the knights he supported. Daeron sat nearby, nursing yet another hangover from his drinking.
He should have been down there to compete, but his condition left him unable to do so. A well-crafted plan by his side, earning another disapproving look from his father.
Your cousins Vaelar and Matarys would compete, the crowd cheering louder as they rode their horses.
Your brother Aerion, while far younger, had threatened his way in. His slender body drowned by his armour, yet his cocky smirk never left his lips.
He stopped before your royal booth, lifting the visor of his helm. His eyes fell on you, an obsession from his side that had grown over the past year. He licked his lips and winked before galloping away to take his position.
Your lips parted in disdain, the forced smile long gone.
Maekar copied you, the feeling mutual.
You exchanged a look with him, aware already how terribly this idea of Aerion would go. No words needed to be exchanged, your thoughts surprisingly in sync.
Heads turned towards the arena, noticing your uncle, who was busy looking at you.
Baelor stared at the two of you, seated by his brother on the other side. Long fingers played with the rings he often favoured, his breathing quietly laboured.
There, side by side, your profiles aligned... the resemblance was terrifying. You and Maekar could pass as twins if it weren’t for his brother's pox-scarred face.
He suppressed a groan, looking forward again. This day would be far longer than he expected.
Every tourney had to end with at least a feast. A celebration could not be called one if free food and wine were not served, and guests had not danced to their hearts' content.
You sat behind the royal table, always by your father’s side. Your brothers were already embarrassing themselves, at least Aerion and Daeron. Aemon and Aegon had long sneaked away.
You nursed a goblet in your hand, the watered wine swirling faintly. Lavender eyes cast up when you sensed someone approaching.
A common occurrence in the past hour. Brave souls daring to approach, to comment and ask for a dance. Only to leave humbled, rejected and sometimes mocked by your father.
“Princess,” the older Lord approached. He bowed his head. “Your beauty outshines every woman in this room. May you continue blooming with it each year.”
Your forced smile threatened to fade. The man before you could be older than your father. His words drew disgust, but you remained mannered, years of education and septa-wired etiquette wired into you.
Maekar, on the other hand, was not under any such expectations. “Where did you learn how to court, by a fucking Tyrell?” he scoffed, looking both annoyed and tired; a familiar feeling from the past decade.
The Lord was left stunned by the insult, lips parted in surprise. The glare coming from your father discouraged him further. He left the same way he had come, head hung lower in embarrassment.
With him gone, your smile turned into a snarl. The exact same one your father currently sported.
“Fuck me,” you cursed in a hushed tone, emptying the wine left in your goblet.
Maekar scoffed in amusement, head turned to look at you. “Say it louder, watch them come back.”
You lowered your goblet, looking at him. “Then I will grab your sword and defend my honour.”
His shoulders shook with a silent chuckle, amused by the dragon fire within you. You joined soon after.
Baelor had been watching you silently for the past hour, twisting his rings in worry each time a lord tried to approach you. Even he could not help but cringe at their attempts, some worse than others.
Yet you handled each one with restraint and grace, your comments holding back the poison you wished to drip.
He eyed the way your fingers wrapped around your goblet. How your lips rested on the rim, hiding your expression from the flirtiest advances. The way your hair almost glowed under the light of torches.
Your nose wrinkled in disgust when a comment felt too cheesy.
When a drunken lord fell during a dance, you scoffed and chuckled along with your father, not a second apart. Even your humour was the same as his.
And when you would look to the side, at your father, you would also look at him. Lavender orbs, all too familiar, stared into his sinful soul, as if they could read his thoughts.
Vaelar suddenly approached. “Dear cousin, may I have a dance with you?”
Your white eyebrows shot up. The invite was unexpected but not unusual. A quick glance at your father said it all.
“Only if you promise not to hand me to anyone else,”
He chuckled, spreading his hand for you to take. “I promise I will be the only man dancing with you.”
You smiled, truthfully this time. His hand held yours carefully, guiding you around the long table and then leading you to the dance floor.
A year younger, but Vaelar was taller, his growth spout having started. His face was kind, his Dornish dark hair softening his expression. A relief to see from Aerion’s smug expression.
Vaelar guided you with ease, hands never leaving their rightful place of respect. A sudden twirl made you chuckle; the dance gave you more joy than you expected. He stayed true to his promise.
Quick as a striking snake, he would switch places with you whenever a lord approached. His shoulder would bump into men who came too close. You trusted him, and he did not disappoint, truly bringing pleasure to the mundane event.
And while you two danced with the joy of youth and shared blood, your family watched, studied, and planned.
King Daeron smiled at the sight, leaning between his two sons. “They make a fine pair, don’t they?”
Maekar scoffed. “He is younger than her.” His argument was valid but weak, an excuse a caring father would throw.
You were of age, you should have been married already, but you hadn’t. Maekar had been living up to his name and his reputation. Any lord brave enough to ask for your hand was turned down as quickly as he had arrived.
Few braver men tried to approach you directly, only to find you were your father’s child through and through.
In his eyes, the decision was yours to take.
When he was married, he had been pleased.
Only Baelor knew he had been left speechless the first time his eyes landed upon Dyanna Dane. While not a man expressive with his feelings, he had made it work because he wanted to.
The same thing he chased for you, giving you the freedom to decide.
Dragon’s blood, you were. Granddaughter to the King, niece to the Hand. You held more titles than most men could dream of. No one dared to question your disapproval, your freedom, or the delay in marriage.
No one would dare to even try it, for he would personally hammer them down like he did to the Blackfyre rebels.
“Only by a year,” Daeron argued. “She would make a fine Queen one day, don’t you agree, Baelor?”
The eldest son had been staring at you and Vaelar from the start. Lips pressed into a thin line, a pained expression in his eyes.
Yes, you would make a fine Queen. A crown upon your head as you sat by his side on the Iron Throne. Your cunning mind finds solutions he missed, and your lips smirking at him across small council meetings.
Yes, you would make a fine Queen.... for him.
Beautiful Divider created by @uzmacchiato
