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“Oh, uncle, come quick!” Daella had burst into his solar flapping her arms frantically, swirls of sable hair stuck to her wet cheeks like drizzles of sticky Eastern caramel. “Oh, hurry, Uncle Baelor! I do not know what to do!”
“What has gotten you so upset, child?” He asked gently, bending slightly to cup her small, brown face, wiping away fat tears with his thumb. She let out hiccuped sobs and terrible gasping sounds, little hands pawing at his velvety, double-breasted doublet as if it would help her catch her breath. “Hush, tell me, what’s the matter?”
“It is Aerion, he has done something awful!” She cried, a mess of snot and salty tears beading on her Cupid’s bow.
Aerion was almost always up to something awful, it came as no surprise to Baelor that he was the source of Daella’s distress. Aerion taunted her often. Aerion taunted all of his siblings often. He was typically the singular cause of distress for everyone at all times. Jena, before she passed, had always thought him to be comely, but never quite right. She did not like to leave you nor Matarys alone with Aerion, the latter after Aerion had come into the boy’s chamber at night and told Matarys he would make a fine wife with that head of long, red hair. The boy is no good, she would tell him, plenty beautiful, but I do not like the way he looks at the younglings. She did not like when Maekar brought his boys to spend the summer in Dragonstone. She insisted on leaving you and Matarys with the nursemaids when they left for Summerhall. Valarr had somehow been spared his cousin’s unkindness, and instead Aerion vied for his praise and affections. Though Baelor had liked to think his nephew was merely troubled, spoiled rotten as so many young boys tended to be. It was simply a mean streak and he would grow out of it by the time he ripened for marrying, he would blossom into a genteel young prince, he would. Baelor was certain. So sure nobody could be born unwhole. Nobody could be so completely wrong.
“What has Aerion done, Daella?” He asked once more, firmly now.
Unable to talk, Daella took his steady hand in her trembling one and led him through the halls. Baelor thought it would be another inane act of cruelty. He flipped through the little black book in his mind. A torn gown. A burnt book. An injured stable-boy or a frightened maid. Broken statuette in the garden, a desecrated shrine, something lewd etched on the wall. Dunked Aegon in the fountain again. Held his head underwater too long. A dead animal. Perhaps something bigger than a kitten this time. The dog that stayed in the stable and her pups. All the eggs in a nest cracked. The new black foal with the white diamond on its forehead. But Daella had continued towards your bedchambers, little legs pumping to take him there as quickly as she could, tripping over her lavender skirts, all of her mother’s gold jewellery clinking and clattering like coins.
There was this awful sound echoing from within - moaning akin to a wounded animal.
Somebody was awfully hurt.
You were hurt.
There you were beyond the door. The apple of his eye. His tender-hearted darling. Velvet noose around his neck. His sin and soul. Split open like a blood orange. All its gutted crimson flesh dripping out from between your legs. Writhing on your bed like a serpent on marble steps. The sheets were soaked, and Aerion stood in the corner adjusting his clothes. Unaffected. Like he had done nothing at all.
Aerion’s lower lip carries a nasty welt where Maekar has struck him. He spreads out lazily in his high-backed seat like his back does not sting from the flogging Baelor knows his little brother has given him, trying to beat sense into his unruly boy, but alas it is no use. Maekar’s firm hand came too late. The boy is already no good. Little dragon born sideways.
“You should thank me, uncle,” Aerion starts, voice light like he has not crushed Baelor with the weight of his cruelty, “my cousin was on her way to becoming a spinster.”
Baelor looks away from him, eyes fluttering shut. Maekar shoves Aerion so hard he almost topples over, murmuring threats through gritted teeth. “You have gone too fucking far, boy, you’re lucky he hasn’t made a eunuch out of you,” he spits.
“I only want to marry her, father,” he says, huffing like he does not understand why he has had his feet whipped and his back stripped raw by a whip and his hands hit until his fingers turned fat and purple as plums. “This is good for our family, a tradition, no? You always refuse me when I ask for her hand, you always refuse me the old ways. I only intend to preserve what is ours, uncle, you must understand that.”
“Aerion,” Baelor inhales, fists clenching and unclenching. “It is a matter of honour, of my daughter’s honour, not of tradition. You have maimed—“
“Uncle,” Aerion cuts in, ignoring the scathing look his father throws at him. “Come now, I have taken her honour so I can take her hand. You need not worry about such things, I intend to take responsibility.”
“You have hurt her, Aerion,” he says, shaking his head to rid himself of the broken body flashing behind his eyes. Your bloody thighs, the limp when you walk even though it has been days now. Aerion is a thorn in his side. Knife in his back. Serpent in his garden. Oh. The joy to his world thrown in the dirt by this boy. “She does not sleep or eat. She does not let anyone touch her because of what you have done to her, Aerion.” Baelor’s voice thins, he has nothing wise to say, only harsh words perched on the tip of his tongue like a bird waiting to be set free. “Why must you be so…”
So horrid. Mad. Childish. Wrong. Gods. Aerion is . . . no good at all. The boy has never been any good.
Aerion blinks at him, tilting his head to the side innocently. “Do you find me to be wicked, uncle?”
“If only it were that simple, Aerion,” Baelor says with a shaky sigh, rising slowly. “My daughter is suffering. I must tend to her.”
Maekar stands and grabs Aerion by his shirt, yanking him up and dragging him out of the room by his ear like he has done since Aerion was small enough to tuck under his arm. “Do you wish to die, boy?” He hisses. “Is that truly what you want?” There is a thud, perhaps Aerion’s body hitting the wall or the floor. “Gods, you will be the death of me, Aerion. I think I shall kill you myself one day.”
“Father, do not say that,” Aerion whines distantly, likely pouting like a babe.
“Go,” Maekar grinds out, voice fading as they get further. “take off your boots and wait.”
The hearth is the only source of light in your room. All the candles are blown out. Curtains drawn. Oil lamps empty. Torches burnt. Baelor moves the logs with a poker, the flames roar back to life, casting an orangey-yellow glow over the walls.
“Father,” you complain as you wish to go unseen, kicking your feet in discomfort under the furs and quilt.
Baelor approaches the bed carefully, hand brushing over your damp hair and forehead. “Daughter,” he greets softly.
“I do not want to eat or drink, father, leave me be,” you mumble, twisting away from him, hiding your face in the goose-feather pillows. “I am fine.”
“I have spoken with Aerion.” He keeps his hands in his lap, watches as you go stiff as a board beneath the sheets. A violent shiver racks your body at the mere mention of your cousin.
You bring your hand to your mouth, biting at the skin around your nails. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Child,” Baelor says quietly, but you shake your head, tears beading your sheepskin-thick lashes like morning dew.
“Don’t, father, don’t speak of him,” you sniffle, shuddering once more. “How could you let me go to him? He is cruel, father, he is awful!” So fragile and furious. “Aerion is awful and wretched and he will kill me, father! If he doesn’t, I will do it myself!”
“Oh, my sweet girl—” Baelor inhales sharply, gentle hands clasping yours, the words bring a throbbing ache to his entire body. As if every nerve is being flayed open.
“He is mad, father, and worst of all he is short!” You grasp his ringed fingers tightly, shaking so hard your teeth chatter and the bones in your hands grind against his own. “How could you let him take me? I don’t want to leave you, father.”
It is like a killing blow to the head. It feels as if he is drowning in this vast, black ocean.
“I would never give you away,” Baelor whispers, forehead pressed to yours, so close he feels your lashes kiss his skin, noses nudging, eye to eye. “I will keep you by my side till I am no more, you won’t go to him.”
“But no one else will want me now.” Your salty tears drip onto his face. “I’m soiled, father, no one will take me.”
Baelor closes his eyes, and the words escape him without even thinking. “Nonsense, child, I will take you.”
There is silence. He keeps his eyes closed. Cannot look at your face. Cannot bear to see his wife in your eyes. But loves you too much to ever let you stray far. The greatest temptation. His daughter. Darling little girl. Centre of his world. Heart thief. He will take you. Your father will take you because he made you. The same flesh and blood. Nobody else could ever do.
“Will you really, father?” You murmur finally, eyes half-lidded as you look upon him. His beautiful girl. Charming girl. “Will you have me?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“You don’t have to be so gentle, father.” You giggle as his beard tickles your thighs, they are clean now, there is no dried blood, only an expanse of buttery soft skin that moulds wonderfully beneath his fingertips.
It has been two weeks and you have only now stopped limping. Aerion has been skulking outside your door often, but there are two extra guards now, and your lady-in-waiting sleeps on the floor beside the bed. You tell Baelor that you feel better now. That it is okay to touch you. Feel you. Squeeze you. Do more than just kiss you and lightly stroke up and down your spine.
“I do,” he insists, kissing your stomach, then below your belly button and then your mound.
You had been afraid to show him at first, worried Aerion had disfigured you forever, that Baelor would recoil at the sight. That your father would not want you. He told you that was impossible. Fathers must love their daughters. No matter what. Daughters are made for their fathers - the place between your legs will be the sweetest fruit he has ever tasted, a fruit handgrown by the gods for him.
For your father. All of you is for him. Just as he is for you.
“Quickly,” you urge, and he obeys, tongue licking the seam of your plush cunt. It is so pretty. A fruit he must pry open, index and middle finger spreading your soft, puffy lips so he can get to your sticky centre.
Baelor’s mouth latches to your clit, sucking and then pulling back to press featherlight kisses to it. You gasp, nails raking over his scalp, unable to grip his short hair.
“Father . . .” You whine, hips jerking up and grinding against his mouth. You look so pretty. So perfect. O-shaped mouth and glazed over eyes. Pouting because you know he will give you whatever he wants when you make that face. When you gaze at him through your lashes and jut out your bottom lip.
“I know,” Baelor mumbles, sucking on your bud once more before he pulls off with a wet pop, “I know, don’t worry, sweet girl. I’ll take care of you,” he promises.
You whimper when his tongue prods at your hole, he looks up at you with kind eyes, thumbing your clit as all of the tension eases out of your body.
“Not yet?” He says gently, reaching to hold your hand.
You intertwine your fingers with his and shake your head. “Not yet.”
“That’s alright, my girl,” your father coos, he kisses anywhere he can reach as he rubs you to completion. Until your back bows beautifully, and your eyes roll back into your skull and you call for him, for your father like you always have since you were a babe in your cradle. You have always needed him to keep you safe, how stupid your father has been to not have taken you sooner.
Gods, forgive him.
“Father,” your murmur as he settles beside you, throwing your leg over his body, one small hand playing with the hair on his stomach. “Show me how to help you . . . If I am to be a good wife to you, father, I need to know how.”
Baelor bites back a groan.
“It’s my duty,” you insist, soft tits pressed to his side, batting those lashes, pouting again, hand rubbing up and down his stomach.
He takes your hand and lets you feel his cock. The sheer weight of it. The length, the thickness, the leaking head, his heavy sac. This is what you have done to him.
“For me?” You ask, wrapping your hand around the shaft and giving it a squeeze.
“For you, daughter.” He nods, smiling. “For my wife.”