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hi, i love your baelor fanfics, so i came to request one, if you'd like to write it. so, the reader is his niece, she has a more reserved and mature vibe for her age (age gap, please). she falls in love first, through the admiration and respect she feels for him. baelor notices, and his reaction isn't very good. he ends up distancing himself from her, being kind of cold and rigid, in order to hide the attraction and desire he feels for her deep down. there's a lot of pent-up tension, moral conflict on his part, and lingering glances too. a slow burn story with a lot of longing, she fell first but he fell harder.

note: if you could add a scene where she is courted by another lord and baelor is mad with jealousy (in his own way), i would be very grateful. thank you in advance!

I'm not me when I write fics about Baelor. I become a crazy, lovesick woman every time. While I was writing this, I was just going crazy and screaming with happiness.

saying something dangerous, like I love you

Baelor Breakspear x niece! reader

Word count: 8k

Tags: Angst, Uncle/Niece Incest, Mutual Pining, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Age Gap

She watched him all through her childhood. She hid in the dark, dusty corners of the library, watching the pages of ancient tomes rustle soundlessly under his elegant, long fingers. She watched from afar as he engaged in gallant and effortless small talk with ladies and lords, and always, even in passing, noticed how his shoulders would subtly relax in those rare moments when he was alone with his family — with his wife and children. She always quietly, almost reverently admired her uncle — a man who moved through life with that innate confidence and calm that was so desperately lacking in their castle world, where they had existed side by side for many, many long years. Baelor, without knowing it and without making any effort, became for his young niece not just a relative, but a role model. He could not have imagined back then what the future truly held in store for them both.

And Lady Fate, meanwhile, was not idle: she played and schemed, stealthily binding them with common, invisible ties, the existence of which neither she nor he even suspected.

Then, suddenly, like a whirlwind, disaster struck: the Unknown took the life of the beautiful Jenna Dondarrion in an instant, leaving Baelor utterly alone to bear an immense burden — to raise his children and to manage both the realm and his own grief. And the princess, who at the time was only ten and five, felt, with a surprising, burning clarity, an overwhelming need to be near her uncle during this period of his deep sorrow. She didn't know for sure, and couldn't know, if true, all-consuming love had existed between the spouses, but the crown prince certainly harbored the warmest and most tender feelings for his late wife. His grief was genuine.

And she was there. She would appear like a shadow, silently sit in the armchair by the fire in his chambers, bring cool water when he forgot to eat, trying to cheer the man if not with a timely word, then at least with her quiet, sympathetic presence. And Baelor endlessly valued his niece for this sensitivity, so beyond her years. The prince did not know, did not suspect, that even then, in those mournful days, something more than simple familial affection had been born in the maiden's heart. It was infatuation. The very first, fragile and tremulous infatuation, which began to bloom profusely in the light of his gratitude for the care shown during the most difficult period of his life, when, besides his wife's death, urgent state affairs also rained down upon him. King Daeron, feeling old age approaching, was gradually transferring all his duties and burdens of rule to his eldest son, but Baelor himself did not desire this. His soul had no inclination for the Throne. He had to submit, gritting his teeth, and accept his inexorable fate as heir to the Iron Throne.

And who could have known that unexpected help would come from this young, almost child-like niece? Yes, she was mature beyond her years, was even wise in her own way, even though she sometimes lacked personal, hard-earned experience. But, to his great surprise, she always intuitively knew just what to say and what to do, what advice to give, and which actions were definitely not worth taking. Sometimes, looking at her, Baelor clearly saw before him not a young girl, but a grown woman, wise with life, who had lived as many years as he had. But certainly not that young princess of dragon's blood, who should only be interested in new fabrics from the Free Cities and long, languid evenings spent embroidering and engaging in empty talk with her friends. The princess seemed, as it were, not of this world — so it occasionally, but very vividly, seemed to him. And Baelor received new confirmations of this in those moments when he happened upon her in complete solitude and deafening silence. She could for a long time, without blinking, stare at the same spot on the wall or out the window, completely motionless and unaware of the sounds of the surrounding world. He was always tormented by curiosity: what could this young maiden with hair white as moonlight, silver, be thinking about? What thoughts, what secrets could concern his beloved niece? But he never once dared to ask, preferring to remain a silent shadow behind her.

Years passed. Months gave way to one another, and that first, tremulous infatuation, which the princess in her naivety considered merely a fleeting fancy that would disappear without a trace after a couple of moons, only grew stronger with each new day spent in Baelor's company. Neither of them noticed how time had slipped by imperceptibly, and the young girl had transformed into a beautiful, stately beauty with a sharp and agile mind. The youthful softness and plumpness had finally left her body, revealing the true, perfect dragon beauty. And not a single lord at court, not a single visiting guest, could leave this change without greedy, admiring attention.

But the princess was no longer interested in marriage as such. Her heart had finally and irrevocably fallen prisoner to Baelor, caught in that very clever trap he had set without knowing it. This happened when she, despite all her mental maturity, had still recklessly surrendered to her first deep feeling. She liked to feel, to the point of trembling, the flutter in her chest at the mere sight of her uncle; she liked to catch his every word; she liked to receive his sparing, yet so desired praise. Especially when she, casually discussing some seemingly insignificant matter of state with him, would suddenly steer her thoughts in the right direction, sincerely delighting the prince with her un-childlike wisdom and sound judgment.

Once, during one such conversation by the fireplace, when the wind was howling outside and the room was warm and cozy, her uncle said something to her that she remembered for the rest of her life. He said that she would have made an excellent ruler — wise, just, and far-sighted. And if her memory did not deceive her or blend with imagination, Baelor had then gently stroked her head, brushing a strand of silver hair from her forehead.

"Perhaps so," she had agreed then, unable to suppress the broad, happy smile brought on by his unexpected and so valuable compliment. "It's just a pity I was born a woman."

She clearly remembered that moment: how her uncle had frowned then — as if heavy storm clouds had suddenly rolled over his always so open and kind face. He did not like her words, steeped in the bitterness of the accepted injustice of the world. He let her know this immediately, unafraid to broach the slippery and dangerous topic. He set aside the scroll he was holding and turned his whole body towards her.

"Don't you dare say that," Baelor said quietly, but with an unexpected steel in his voice. "Your mind is sharper than that of many lords sitting on the Small Council. Your blood is the blood of the Conqueror. Do you truly believe that your gender determines the value of your future decisions?"

The princess froze, not expecting such fervor. In his eyes swam something new, unfamiliar to her until then — not just pity for her words, but real conviction. This sparked something new in her — excitement, an even greater attraction to the man who was now defending her from herself.

"But such is the order, uncle," she replied quietly, lowering her eyes. "A woman is a pawn. Her lot is to bear heirs and be a beautiful shadow to her husband."

"Nonsense," Baelor cut her off more sharply than he probably intended. He took her palm in his, not taking his gaze from his niece. "Orders are written by people. And people, as is known, make mistakes. You... you are not just my niece," he faltered, as if the words were coming to him with difficulty, searching for the right definition. "You are my most faithful and wise advisor. And I want you to know: by my side, you will always have a voice. And that voice will be heard. Do you understand?"

A log in the fireplace cracked loudly, sending up a shower of sparks. In the ensuing silence, the princess looked at their intertwined fingers and felt something hot and immense growing in her chest, ready to burst from within.

After that memorable evening, when she had nearly broken her heart against his steadfastness, the princess seemed to shed invisible shackles. If before she had carefully hidden her feelings behind the mask of a respectful niece, now, in despair, she allowed herself more and more liberties. It seemed to her: if she was destined to burn in this fire, then let the flames burn bright. She sought any pretext to be near him.

A fleeting touch of their hands, when she handed him a cup of wine, made her heart beat faster, and his — hesitate, frozen in indecision. Glances across the table at some banquet — she would catch his eyes, even when he looked away, and in those glances there was so much left unsaid that the air between them seemed to crackle. She would loop her arm through his, pressing a little closer than etiquette allowed, inhaling the familiar scent of old wood, ink, and the subtle incense that clung to his clothes. Once, when they were alone in the small drawing-room, she casually went to adjust the Hand's brooch on his chest — her fingers trembled, touching the cold metal. And the next moment, obeying a sudden impulse, she slid her hand higher and playfully tugged at his short beard, in which more and more silver threads were appearing. Baelor froze then, not knowing how to react, and she laughed — brightly and desperately, to hide the tears that had risen to her throat at her own audacity.

Hiding her feelings became harder with each passing month. The princess fell into melancholy sadness more and more often whenever she was alone. She was afraid to speak directly to her uncle — the fear of rejection paralyzed her will. She was certain: to him, she was merely a dear niece, a valued conversationalist, perhaps a friend. But nothing more. He would not accept her love; he would refuse, turn away — too proper, too faithful to duty, too frightened of what others might think. She knew Baelor well enough to predict his reaction: first disbelief, then cold politeness, and finally, complete estrangement. And this estrangement, which she had already begun to feel, seemed to her a harbinger of disaster.

But Baelor suspected. He had begun to suspect long before he allowed himself to admit it. Her glances had become too obvious, her touches too tender, she spent too much time near him, forgetting about others. He saw how she blossomed in his presence and how she dimmed when he left. And this realization crashed down upon him, crushing a heart already tormented by doubts. He could not, did not have the right to reciprocate — neither his age nor his position as heir allowed him even to think of it. And he made the cruelest decision, but, as it seemed to him, the only right one — to distance himself. To shield them both from falling into that bottomless abyss from which there was no escape. Better to do it now, before it was too late.

But the prince did not understand one thing: this "too late" had already arrived. It had arrived the very moment he first caught himself looking for her in a crowd. When his hand froze an inch from her hair, but never dared to touch. When he realized that his decision to distance himself caused pain not only to her, but to himself as well.

The days dragged on, unbearably long and agonizing for both of them. Of course, she noticed his aloofness. She would not have been herself if she hadn't noticed how mercilessly her uncle turned away from her, how he stopped calling her to the library for those long, intense, mind-stirring discussions that had become the meaning of her existence. No more notes hinting at an interesting book, no more invitations to stroll through the garden, no more of those warm, semi-private dinners in a small circle where she felt needed. Days passed in a gray succession; she stopped feeling connected to the outside world, with each hour sinking deeper into the abyss of her own emotions, enveloping her soul in impenetrable darkness. She unconsciously dug her nails into her palms every time she was ignored. She suffocated, being in the same space as him, yet receiving neither a glance nor a word.

At one banquet, they were seated on opposite sides of the hall — whether by the king's will or by chance, but it eased life for neither of them. They became unwilling participants in others' conversations, surrounded by lords, ladies, brothers, and cousins. Baelor, unable to resist some invisible force, kept catching himself searching for her gaze. And when he finally succeeded, he regretted it. Her eyes, usually so alive, understanding, sparkling with intelligence, were now empty. Empty and indifferent — the way one looks at things that no longer matter. In that emptiness lurked such sharp pain that Baelor's breath caught. Resentment was also there, but the princess hid it even from herself, considering that feeling unworthy. She couldn't understand: why? What had she done wrong? When had she said something rude or made a misstep? It seemed to her there was no place in her life for such baseness. She had always tried to control herself, so that neither word nor action would betray her true emotions, but with each passing day, with each empty conversation, it became harder to keep the dragon in check.

The feast stretched on in an endless succession of toasts, the clinking of goblets, bursts of laughter, and that obligatory small talk which never truly ends but merely flows from one empty form into another. The Princess had learned long ago, in her early youth, to exist within this noisy vortex without being fully immersed in it. She smiled when etiquette demanded it, nodded when it was appropriate, and had long since stopped listening to what was being said around her. Too tiresome, too meaningless. Her thoughts wandered far from these walls, bathed in the light of a thousand candles—or rather, they were there, where he sat at the high table, encircled by lords, advisors, and ever-flattering courtiers.

Baelor did not look her way. Not for months now, for an eternity—since that day when something between them had broken. She had grown accustomed to the pain, though growing accustomed to such a deep, gnawing emptiness inside was as impossible as getting used to living without air. She had simply learned to hide it deep, in the very depths of her soul, carefully masking it with a facade of icy indifference. And credit where it was due, she did it masterfully. Lately, not a single soul had dared ask the Princess what had happened, why she was no longer seen in the company of the Crown Prince, where that particular light had gone that used to ignite in her eyes upon his arrival. She pretended to be perpetually busy—with affairs, with walks, with playing the lute, embroidery, reading—just to avoid unwanted questions and the sticky, web-like gossip. Though, truth be told, she hardly cared about the gossip when everything inside her ached with longing, twisted with unspoken words and the impossibility of simply approaching him and touching his hand.

"—...and so I tell him, this arrogant lord: 'My lord, if you are seeking a bride, you should look not at me, but into the book of noble lineages. All the names are written there, and I dare say, mine is not among them for you,'" finished Lord Mallister his long-winded speech, laughing loudly and smugly at his own joke, awaiting praise for his wit.

She smiled—politely, distantly. The lord was young, rich, favored by the king, and seemed genuinely intent on vying for her hand. The second one this month. And likely the tenth since the start of the year—the Princess was not in the habit of counting suitors; they faded from memory faster than frost melts in the morning sun. She had long stopped remembering even their names, because her entire being, every thought and every heartbeat, belonged to another Targaryen. To the one who now sat twenty paces away and did not even look her way.

"You are cruel, Princess," Lord Mallister suddenly said with playful reproach, stepping impermissibly close, his lips almost brushing her temple, his hand nearly touching her elbow. He reeked of wine and self-satisfaction. "It seems your thoughts are occupied with something else, and I must admit, it stings. Tell me, what could possibly concern the beautiful Princess, heiress to the ancient blood of Valyria?"

She opened her mouth to reply with something sharp—one phrase would have sufficed to put the presumptuous lord in his place—but she didn't get the chance. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a sudden movement where Baelor had been sitting motionless just moments before. Her heart skipped a beat, then began pounding somewhere in her throat. Emerging from the crowd's hum, from behind Mallister's back, came that voice—so familiar, so longed-for, at the very sound of which everything inside her turned upside down. He spoke evenly, coldly, and with authority:

"Forgive me, Lord Mallister. I need to speak with my niece. Immediately."

Baelor stood a step away from her, though just a minute ago he had been sitting at the table surrounded by other lords and the king himself. He extended his hand to her—a formal gesture, impeccably polite, as etiquette demanded when a gentleman invites a lady. But when her trembling fingers touched his palm, he squeezed them a little tighter than necessary. For one brief, searing moment, she closed her eyes, feeling that long-awaited warmth of his skin. It instantly dispelled the sticky, grasping fingers of darkness and despair that had been suffocating her for weeks.

He led her through the hall—neither fast nor slow, pacing his steps so as not to attract undue attention. But his hand did not release her fingers even when they stepped into the coolness of the nearly empty gallery, passed through an enfilade of rooms, and arrived at the balcony. Here, under the high canopy of stars, only the night, the moon, and the autumn garden below could witness their conversation.

"Baelor?" her voice came out soft, bewildered. "What happened? Why did you...?"

He was silent. He stood half-turned away from her, his gaze fixed on the darkness of the garden, the wind tousling his dark hair, where, in the moonlight, an early streak of silver glinted like a thread. His hand still held her fingers—and then, as if suddenly coming to his senses and regaining control over his body, he loosened his grip. But he did not let go completely. Instead, he ran his thumb over her knuckles—lightly, almost weightlessly, as if testing the feel of the most precious fabric in the world—and paused.

"That lord," he finally spoke, though the reason for his actions now seemed trivial to him, unworthy of the Crown Prince leaving the feast and taking his niece out into the night. "Mallister."

She froze, afraid to breathe, afraid to break this moment.

"What about him?" she breathed, barely audible.

"He..." Baelor faltered, as if struggling to find the right words. He turned his head, looked at her piercingly, searchingly. How long had it been since they stood like this—close, alone, not playing their assigned roles. There was a dull ache in his chest—perhaps his heart, withered during the months of separation, had finally shown signs of life. "He is not a suitable match for you."

She wanted to ask: why? Who could possibly be suitable for her? She wanted to scream in his face that she didn't care, that she would never marry anyone, that the only man she wanted by her side every morning and every night was him. But the words lodged in her throat like a lump, because Baelor suddenly stepped closer, cutting off any attempt to continue this agonizing dialogue. He stood right in front of her. So close that she could feel the heat of his body on her skin, hear his ragged breathing, see the pulse beating in his temple.

He leaned towards her—slowly, infinitely slowly, as if giving her time to retreat, to run, to hide. As if testing whether she would let him tear down all the walls that he himself had erected between them. And she did not retreat. She stood frozen in disbelief, gazing into his eyes, which in the moonlight now seemed almost black, bottomless, drawing her in. She would have given anything—everything to the last drop of blood—just to hear the cherished words now that would shatter the chains of this mad estrangement. Why else would he have come? Why else would he look at her like that?

"You deserve better," he whispered, and in that whisper there was anguish. "Far better than that... than any of them."

His hand slowly rose toward her face—and halted an inch from her cheek. She bit down on her lower lip until it hurt, feeling the searing heat of his palm, the almost-touch. Sparks seemed to leap between his fingers and her skin. But he could not bring himself to take that final step, to shatter that boundary. Just one touch—that was all she desired now, all she prayed for. His finger traced the line of her cheekbone in the air—without making contact, yet goosebumps raced across her skin, and everything tightened low in her belly with aching anticipation.

"Baelor..." she breathed, and in her voice there was a tremor, a plea, desperation.

He snatched his hand back as if burned by the sound of her voice. Stepped away, as though an invisible wall had once again risen between them. Ran his palm over his face, banishing the spell, banishing her image that stood before his eyes. He no longer looked at her, but her face still shone before his gaze, bathed in moonlight, making her features intoxicatingly beautiful, her eyes impossibly huge, knowing, absorbing all his pain.

"Forgive me. I should not have..." His voice failed, grew hoarse. He berated himself for this unforgivable weakness, for that single impulse that had made him rise from his seat and rush here, saving her from a lord who merely had the foolishness to stand too close. "It seemed to me that lord was too forward. Your reputation..."

"My reputation is perfectly fine," she interrupted more sharply than intended. Her chest trembled from his proximity, from this almost-touch, from the way he had looked at her. "And you, Baelor, know perfectly well that I do not intend to marry."

He glanced at her, eyes slightly narrowed, searching. Her words, contrary to his expectation, sparked not concern in his eyes but a strange flash of satisfaction, which he futilely tried to hide:

"Why?"

The question hung in the air between them. She could have answered. Could have told the truth—now, here, under this starry sky, when they stood so close. The words hovered on her tongue, burned it: "Because I love you, you fool. Because my heart belongs to you and you alone." But a sticky, all-consuming fear clamped her throat in iron jaws. Fear of rejection, fear of shattering this fragile moment, fear of hearing cold, polite pity in return.

"Because I see none worthy among them," she said, and her voice came out steady, though everything inside her screamed. And these words were partly true—let Baelor guess, if he wished, that the only man worthy of her stood before her now.

She saw him give a short nod, as if this was precisely the answer he had expected, as if he had been testing something for himself. Something elusive flickered in the depths of his eyes—relief? Or disappointment that she hadn't dared?—and vanished instantly, swept away by the familiar mask of composure.

"You should return now," he said, and his voice once again carried the steely notes of the King's Hand, a man accustomed to commanding and concealing his feelings.

"And you?" she asked, unable to move from the spot, tethered to him by an invisible thread.

"I will come later. I need to..." He didn't finish, only gestured vaguely into the darkness of the night garden. But at that moment, he was thinking of only one thing: how he longed to press her against the cold stone wall, to crush her lips—so unsmiling lately, so sad—in a desperate, hungry kiss, and erase with a single motion all those foolish boundaries he himself had built between them. Leaving only one thing—heat, pain, and maddening desire.

She slowly turned, took the first uncertain step toward the archway from which they had come. Stopped, looked back over her shoulder.

He stood exactly where she had left him—motionless, like a statue carved from stone. And he was watching her, silently following her with his gaze.

"Baelor," she called softly, almost timidly. But there was no continuation to these words. The Princess could not find them, and were they even needed?

He only gripped the balcony railing tighter, his knuckles turning white in the moonlight.

And she left. And in her chest, with each uncertain step, with each heartbeat, something warm, tremulous, long-forgotten and therefore frightening began to grow. He had come for her. He had taken her away from that pushy lord. He had looked at her as he hadn't looked at her in long, endless months. He had almost touched her face. He...

What did it all mean? Why had he done it?

She did not know yet. But for the first time in a long, dragging while, deep within her wounded soul, a tiny, timid flame of hope flickered to life.

Returning to the stuffy, noisy hall, she smiled absently at Lord Mallister, who immediately rushed over with concerned questions, and didn't even notice what he was saying. The hum of the feast, the clinking of goblets, the music—all merged into one distant noise. Her thoughts were elsewhere—on the cold balcony, under the stars, with him.

And Baelor returned to the banquet hall only an hour later, when the feast was in full swing. He sank heavily into his seat, accepted a full goblet from the hands of an obliging servant, raised it to his lips—and immediately, as if burned, set it back down on the table. The expensive wine tasted to him bitterer than wormwood itself.

She had almost stopped eating. The hope that had blossomed after their conversation on the balcony shattered into a million pieces in the following days, days filled with loneliness and silence. Food seemed tasteless, and her stomach clenched in a spasm at the very thought of dining in the great hall, where he sat so far away and yet so close. She spent more and more time in her chambers, voluntarily imprisoned within four walls. She paced her rooms—from door to window, from window to fireplace, day after day, like a caged animal. Sometimes she simply lay on the bed without moving, staring at the ceiling and counting the cracks. The rare moments she left the castle, she shared with her faithful horse, riding him into the Kingswood. Only there, beneath the canopy of trees, could she breathe freely. The wind tousled her silver hair, carrying the scent of pine needles and the sweetish aroma of rotting leaves—autumn had finally claimed its dominion. The forest was withering, and this withering seemed to her a pitiful reminder of her own feelings for Baelor—feelings she was afraid to put into words, to go to him for an honest conversation.

When King Daeron announced a great hunt, the Princess received the news with dread. She knew that all members of the royal family were required to attend. And that meant seeing Baelor again. Feeling again that high wall between them. Smiling again and pretending everything was fine.

The hunt began on a clear autumn morning. The sun gilded the treetops, the air was transparent and fresh. Baelor, as always, was the center of attention—stately, important, in a sturdy hunting tunic of dark green wool, a dagger at his belt. People looked at him with admiration and awe—the Crown Prince, the kingdom's pillar, the future king. And she... She was lost in the crowd, like a ghost, restless and forgotten by everyone, even him. She wandered among the pavilions, paying no mind to how strangers looked at her. Her thoughts were tangled, the sun blinded her, and the smells—roasted meat, horse sweat, leather, and smoke—assaulted her nose, causing a throbbing headache. She rubbed her temples with her fingers again and again, trying to quell the pulsation.

Finally, she could bear it no longer and, leaving the noisy camp, ventured deeper into the forest. Ancient oaks, which remembered her ancestors and those same endlessly repeated hunts, welcomed her into their shade. It was quiet here, only the rustle of fallen leaves underfoot and the distant call of hunting horns somewhere far away. She leaned her back against the rough trunk and closed her eyes, hoping the headache would subside. She cared nothing for the festivities in the pavilions, for the talk and laughter. It all seemed empty and false. And she preferred not to see Baelor at all—each meeting only brought a fresh wound.

But fate, as is well known, does not ask our permission.

She did not hear his footsteps—the leaves muffled them. But suddenly she felt someone's presence. She opened her eyes and started. A few paces away stood Baelor. He was alone, without his retinue, without his horse, and he was looking at her as he had not looked at her for many days—with concern, with pain, and with something else. Could it be?...

"You left," he said hoarsely, and in that single word there was so much: reproach, pain, and a desperate, almost angry relief at having found her. "I saw you heading into the forest. Alone. Do you have any idea what that means? It's reckless. It's unsafe."

She stood with her back against the rough trunk of the old oak, watching him. The autumn forest breathed cold and the scent of decaying leaves; somewhere far off, a crow cawed, and these sounds seemed the only reality in a world that had just been turned upside down.

"Since when do you care about my safety, Baelor?" she asked, her voice quiet and cracking, sounding so tired and bitter that it made his heart clench. "You don't even look at me. For months. You walk past me as if I don't exist. As if I were an empty space."

He stepped closer—impulsively, without thinking—but in the next instant stopped, as if hitting an invisible, yet no less real, barrier. His gaze, fixed on her, was filled with such a tangled knot of doubt, pain, and confusion that she could barely withstand its pressure. He himself, apparently, could not untangle his own feelings—or perhaps he was simply afraid to look too deeply. She lowered her eyes and saw his hands, hanging at his sides, clench convulsively and then release, and this gesture told her more than any words. He was tense to the limit. He was on the edge.

"You know perfectly well why I don't look."

"No," she slowly shook her head, and in her eyes, glistening in the dim sunlight, tears suddenly appeared—the very tears she had held back so long, so desperately, all these endless months. All her learned composure, all her feigned maturity and impenetrability, dissolved in an instant, falling away like dry leaves. Now before him stood not the princess of dragon's blood, not the statue everyone was used to seeing. Before him stood simply a young woman whose love—the one and only, all-consuming love—remained unrequited. Or so she thought. "I don't know, Baelor. I don't know anything. You just disappeared. From my life, from my days, from everything. You wouldn't even spare me a glance. Explain it to me. Please. I deserve at least that after everything that was between us… I deserve to know the truth."

He was silent, and in that silence, in the resonant stillness of the autumn forest, there was so much unspoken anguish… Why? Why did he have such expressive eyes when he allowed it? Why did they speak louder than any words, but only when he let them?

Finally, he exhaled—hoarsely, brokenly:

"If I allow myself to look at you… if I allow myself to be near you, to breathe the same air as you, to touch you… I won't be able to stop. Whether you understand it or not, I won't be able to. I won't be able to pretend anymore that you're just my niece. Just my brother's daughter. Because that is a lie. A lie I've told for too long, and it's a vile one."

"You're afraid," she said quietly, but with complete, absolute certainty in her words. She straightened up, squared her thin, tense shoulders, and met his gaze. Fearless. Stubborn. Desperate to the last spark. "You've always been afraid, Baelor. Of your own feelings, of what others think. Of what people will say, what the lords will think, what the council will decide. You hide behind your duty, behind your crown, behind your age… But I'm not afraid of anything. Do you hear me? Nothing, except one thing—losing you. I would rather burn in this fire myself than spend my whole life warming myself at someone else's cold hearth."

She stepped towards him herself—swiftly, not giving herself time to think, not allowing fear to bind her hands and feet again. In a rush, in a desperate lunge, she grabbed the collar of his traveling doublet with both hands, pulling him towards her with a strength he hadn't expected from her. The heavy Hand of the King's brooch, the symbol of his power and his damned duty, flashed and was immediately hidden beneath the folds of his cloak. Before Baelor could pull away—and did he even want to?—their faces were inches apart. To keep his balance, to avoid falling onto her, pressed against the tree, he had to brace his hands against the rough oak trunk on either side of her head. He was taller, broader, stronger—and yet he felt like a cornered animal, no longer knowing if it even wanted to escape.

"You won't lose me," his voice broke as he breathed these words directly onto her lips, almost touching them. "I will always be near. Always. As your uncle, as a friend. As an elder who is duty-bound to protect you."

He said this, but… did he himself believe what he was saying? Did he fully understand the meaning of the words he was uttering, words meant to be a saving lie for them both? He wanted to believe there was some truth in them, that he could somehow—reshape his feelings, compress them into acceptable familial boundaries. Only somewhere deep in his soul, in its darkest, most honest corner, he understood: such a relationship, if forced into the accursed bed of duty, would bring only pain. And the main thing—was he himself willing to suffer like that for the rest of his life?

"And what if being just a niece is not enough for me?" the princess whispered passionately, barely breathing, and as she spoke, her lips almost brushed against his. "What if being just your brother's daughter, whom you are obliged to teach and protect, is not enough? What if I love you not at all the way a niece should love her uncle? You know this. You've always known it."

He slammed his eyes shut—sharply, as if she had struck him—and a shadow passed over his face.

"Don't say that. Please," he exhaled, and his own voice sounded foreign to him: hoarse, almost pitiful. He wanted to laugh bitterly at himself, at his helplessness, at how easily this girl, whom he still remembered as a foolish child, shattered all his armor to pieces.

"Why?" she didn't relent. Her fingers, still clutching his doublet, loosened slightly but didn't let go. "Because it's the truth? Or because you feel the same way yourself, but you don't have the courage to admit it?"

He opened his eyes wide, and in them, in those bottomless dark eyes, such despair blazed, such raw, uncovered pain, that she froze, afraid to move. She searched them, trying to read the answer to her question, and suddenly felt her hands, still clinging to the thick fabric of his tunic, slide upward of their own accord. To his neck. To his heated skin, which she had so desperately wanted to touch all these long months. Her palms, chilled by the damp autumn air, by the cold that penetrated even her thick cloak, came to rest on his neck, and this contrast—her icy fingers and the heat of his blood—burned them both.

"Yes," he exhaled, and his face contorted into a grimace as if, at that very moment, a spear had pierced him, had run him through, and his insides were flooded with hot, salty blood. "Yes, I feel it. Damn you, girl, I feel it. And every night I lie awake, thinking of you. And every time you walk past me, I want to grab your hand, pull you to me, and never, do you hear me, never let you go. Every damned moment you smile at someone else, I want to break that someone's neck. Satisfied? Is this what you wanted?"

She looked at him, pale, with dilated, enormous pupils, and her lips trembled—whether from the cold or from what was happening inside her.

"Then why are you tormenting us both?" she whispered, barely moving her lips, and in that whisper there was a plea. "If you feel… if I mean something to you… why this torture?"

"Because I am your uncle," his voice cracked into a rasp, almost a moan. He said it as if the word itself was a sentence he had passed on himself and was powerless to appeal. Targaryen traditions, the customs of their ancestors, the incestuous marriages that were once the norm—all of it was foreign to him. He had grown up in a different time, at a different court, when close-kin unions in their house had faded away, become a dark legend, a shadow of the past not spoken of. But the princess could not, would not accept this attitude from him. To her, it was a betrayal—not of tradition, but of them. "Because I am nearly forty, and you have only just turned nineteen, and your whole life is still ahead of you. Because I am the heir to the Iron Throne, the King's Hand, and if a single living soul finds out what is happening here… do you have any idea what filth they'll throw at you? What slander, what vileness? They'll call you a wanton, a seductress, practically a witch who bewitched a foolish old man. And me—a dishonorable old fool who defiled his own niece. I cannot allow that. I have no right. I cannot let you ruin your life, ruin your future, ruin everything you could have, because of a foolish… because of some girlish infatuation."

She dug her fingers into his neck with such force that crimson marks would surely remain—bruises that would become for him a painfully sweet reminder of this day, of this mad forest, of her despair turned into victory. She wanted to feel him under her fingers—alive, real, hers. To prove to herself with every touch, with every cell of her body, that this was not a dream, not another painful delusion, not a trick of an imagination inflamed by long solitude, which had so many times painted similar pictures for her, only to shatter her heart with cruel reality come morning.

"This is not a foolish infatuation!" she exclaimed, and her voice, rising to a cry, tore through the silence of the autumn forest. But in that cry there was no anger, no reproach—only a desperate, plaintive plea to finally be heard by the one whose voice meant more to her than all the songs of all the minstrels in the world. "And I don't care about the filth! I don't care! What dare they say against the blood of the dragon? What do I care for their gossip, for their filthy tongues, for the whispers behind my back, when you stand here now, before me, and confess that I haven't been going mad alone all this time? I can endure anything. Anything they dare throw in my face, if you are by my side. If I know that in the evening I will go not to my empty, cold chambers, but to you. But if you push me away now..."

She sobbed—convulsively, brokenly, no longer able to hold back the tears that had long been a lump in her throat, suffocating her at night, threatening to overwhelm her at the most inopportune moments. She had balanced on this damned edge for so many days, so many endless nights, that now, when the dam had finally burst, it flooded out with unstoppable force. Tears streamed down her cheeks—large, salty, hot—falling onto the withered autumn leaves at their feet, and she didn't even try to wipe them away. Let him see. Let him know what his silence had cost her, those averted eyes, that damned propriety of his.

"...then life will no longer be worth living," she finished in a barely audible whisper, and in that whisper there was so much resignation, so much quiet, hopeless despair, that Baelor's heart would have shattered into pieces, had it still been made of flesh and blood, and not of that frozen stone he had so diligently tried to make it all these long months.

He grabbed her by the shoulders—sharply, impulsively—shook her so hard her head snapped back and her silver hair whipped across her face. Roughly. Desperately. Trying to reach her through the haze of her hysteria, through this flood of tears and confessions that threatened to sweep them both away. His eyes blazed with angry fire, but that anger was not directed at her—oh no, not at her. At himself. At his cowardice. At his damned propriety, at his duty, at all those years he had spent keeping his distance from her, years that had nearly destroyed them both.

"Don't you dare say that!" he growled, his voice, low and hoarse, coming out as almost an animal snarl. "Never! Don't you dare."

"Then stop turning away!" she cried back, looking at him through her tears, and in that outcry there was as much pain as there was defiance. Her voice, ringing and desperate, startled the birds in the crown of the old oak—they rose into the rapidly darkening sky in a noisy, frightened flock, showering them from above with a veritable rain of crimson and gold leaves. "Stop pretending I don't exist! If we are destined to burn—let us burn together. But I can no longer suffocate in this loneliness! I cannot wake up every morning with the thought that today you will again walk past me without even a glance!"

Her chest heaved beneath the fabric of her dress, large, salty tears burned her cheeks, her soul cried out for mercy—or for execution, she no longer distinguished between the two. She needed only one thing: for him to save her from herself, from this endless wavering between the hope that smoldered somewhere in her heart and the black, hopeless despair that engulfed her every evening. For him to free her from the power of his own hands and his own heart, which tormented her more cruelly than any sophisticated torture—with their damned inaccessibility.

He looked at her, and in his eyes a true storm raged. Desire, accumulated over years, suppressed, trampled down by the heavy boots of duty and honor. Fear of the inevitable—fear that stopping this now would be impossible, that there was no turning back. And an all-consuming, wild, no-longer-restrained love, which he had buried for so long under a bushel of propriety and decency. All of this now swirled in his soul in a frantic, frenzied dance, depriving him of the last crumbs of reason, sweeping away all the barriers he had built over the years.

And then, unable to bear another second of this torment, he wrenched her to him—wrenched her so hard that she slammed against his chest—and crushed his mouth to hers in a kiss.

Desperate. Hungry. Frenzied.

Like a drowning man who, after long minutes underwater, when his lungs are already burning and the last sparks of life are flashing in his mind, finally gasps for life-giving air. Like a starving beast finally reaching its long-awaited prey, no longer controlling its animalistic, primal nature. Like a boy experiencing for the first time the intoxicating, maddening taste of first love—though what boy, what first love...

She gasped.

The entire world—the autumn forest, the cold wind, the rustling leaves, the cries of startled birds—all disappeared, fell away somewhere, compressed into a single point of contact: their lips. Every sensation sharpened to an impossible, painful degree. She felt every moment: the searing touch of his lips—so firm and yet so gentle; his hands, like a steel band gripping her shoulders—his fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, surely leaving bruises; the frantic, mad pounding of his heart, which she felt even through the thick fabric of his tunic and her own ribcage. Her knees suddenly buckled, lost all strength, and she hung on him, suddenly powerless, like a rag doll. Her legs no longer held her—all the strength, all the fury, all the inhuman pain of the last weeks and months had drained out of her with her tears, leaving behind only an emptiness, which was instantly, immediately filled by a pulsating, all-consuming, painfully sweet desire to be even closer. To dissolve into him. To become him.

But her uncle's strong arms—beloved, the only one—did not let her fall. Caught her under her back, pulled her to him, pressed her against his body so tightly, as if afraid she would dissolve into the autumn air, disappear, turn into a ghost to mock him one last time. She clung to him with her hands—convulsively, feverishly, in a frenzy digging her fingers into the thick, rough wool of his travelling cloak on his back, crumpling the expensive fabric, not caring about anything in the world. She arched in his arms, pressing closer, grinding her hips against his, instinctively, by touch seeking that singular closeness she had been deprived of for so long. Feeling how tense his body was, how every muscle, every sinew trembled with barely restrained, bursting-forth passion, with years of hunger that now demanded its due.

She moaned—deeply, brokenly, unable to bear this sweet tension any longer, tension that still sought release. Her whole body trembled with a fine, uncontrollable shiver—whether from cold or from an excess of feeling—as Baelor's hands slid down her back, pressing into her sharp shoulder blades, tracing the line of her spine, descending lower, to her waist, pulling her even closer, if that were possible. She was burning. Burning alive in this dank autumn forest, under ancient oaks, and she wanted no salvation. No other salvation but him.

He tore his lips from hers only to draw in a ragged, whistling breath—and immediately pressed them to hers again, no longer kissing but seemingly devouring her, trying to drink her in, to sate himself with her for all the years he had deprived himself. To quell a hunger that tormented him more fiercely than any dragonfire. His palms roamed her back, buried themselves in her silver hair, tangled in it, gently tugging at strands, making her tilt her head back and bare her throat to his greedy, wet, burning kisses.

"My girl," he breathed into the hollow behind her ear, into the sensitive skin behind her lobe, and his voice sounded so unfamiliar, so foreign to the composed, impenetrable, calm prince and Hand he had been just an hour ago. "My little girl... What are you doing to me... What are you turning me into..."

She sobbed—not from pain anymore, but from an excess of feeling that swelled in her chest, finding no other outlet. From happiness so immense it barely fit within her body.

"I love you," she whispered into his neck, pressing her face into his heated skin, inhaling the scent she had known since childhood and which now, mixed with the smell of the forest and decaying leaves, seemed the most intoxicating aroma in the world. "I've loved you for so long... You have no idea how long. Since I was fourteen, and you first praised me for giving good counsel. You didn't even notice then, but I remembered it forever."

He froze for one endless moment, and then his hands clenched on her buttocks with such force that she nearly cried out—but it was a pleasant, sweet pain.

"I do," he replied hoarsely, burying his nose in the crown of her hair. "Oh, believe me, I do. Because I've loved you almost as long. I just never allowed myself to even think about it. I forbade myself. I strangled every feeling, every thought of you. And I thought I was succeeding."

She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes—those bottomless, multi-hued eyes that now, in the forest's half-light, seemed like two stars fallen from the heavens. There were no more storm clouds in them, no more lightning flashes, no more of that agonizing struggle that had tormented him just minutes ago. Only a quiet, calm, boundless sea, reflecting the autumn evening sky and her own face—happy, wet with tears, flushed with color.

"And now?" she asked almost soundlessly, with just her lips, afraid to frighten away this fragile, newborn happiness with a loud noise.

He ran his palm along her cheek—gently, tenderly—wiping away her tears with his thumb. Paused for a moment, tracing the line of her cheekbone, then moved to her chin, tilting her face up. And he smiled—that very smile she had loved so much in childhood: warm, a little sad, endlessly dear. The smile for which she would have done anything.

"And now," he said quietly, but in that quiet there was such strength, such resolve as she had never before seen in him, "we'll have to learn to live anew. Together. Not hiding, not looking back, not being afraid. If, of course, you haven't changed your mind. If this mad hour in the woods hasn't sobered you."

She laughed—ringingly, happily. Laughed, throwing her head back, and that laughter scattered through the forest, startling yet more birds, echoing somewhere in the distance.

"Never," she breathed, still laughing and crying at once. "Never in this world."

And she reached for him for another kiss—no longer that desperate, frenzied, almost bestial kiss like the first one. But a tender, long, promising one. The kind all their subsequent kisses would be.

Somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded again, drawn-out and bassy, reminding them of the world that existed beyond their small forest, beyond this oak, this clearing, this evening. Reminding them of the feast, of the guests, of the king, of duty, of the thousand little things that make up a life.

But they had no concern for that world. Today, that world could wait. Today, they had the right to nothing but each other.

Only someone thought otherwise.

Maekar's grumbling, dissatisfied voicerangg out quite nearby—seemingly just behind the nearest bushes:

"Where in seven hells are they?" He was clearly looking either for them or for his perpetually disappearing sons, who had taken it into their heads to go on a nighttime escapade. "I've walked the whole forest, and those scoundrels are nowhere to be found!"

They froze, staring at each other with wide eyes. The Princess pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from laughing—hysterically, from the surprise and absurdity of the situation. Baelor, cursing under his breath—something he'd never been known to do before—hurriedly began straightening her cloak, smoothing her disheveled dress, tucking away stray strands of hair. She, in turn, with trembling hands, straightened his tunic, smoothed his ruffled hair.

"Easy," he whispered in her ear, quickly kissing her temple. "We go out one at a time. You first. I'll follow in a few minutes. And pretend you were just walking and got lost."

She nodded, still unable to suppress a happy, foolish smile. And throwing him one last look, full of such light that it took his breath away, she stepped out from under the oak's canopy toward Maekar's voice and the life that awaited them ahead.

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