Baelor was dead. Maekar seemed to have lost consciousness. Lost a piece of himself. And he blamed himself for it. He blamed himself until his chest ached, his jaw clenched too tightly, and he sighed heavily in the empty chambers.

However, it wasn't only he who was suffering. You had lost your father. Baelor was everything to you — support, protection, unconditional warmth and care. And to him, you were a ray of light, his little princess, whom he loved so dearly and of whom he had always been so proud. But now there was nothing left. Nothing but ashes.

You knew Maekar had struck. You knew, but you didn't blame him for a second, for you also knew how much he loved his brother and how much he tormented himself — silently and alone.

You found solace in each other. Maekar considered it his duty to be by your side, to protect you from any misfortune. You became more important to him than anything else in the world. He was afraid of losing you — it was clearly visible in the wistful gaze of his lilac eyes, hungrily searching you for Baelor's features.

It was painful. So painful. But together, at least you tried to heal each other's wounds. But it wasn't enough. Maekar was terrified that something would happen to you, that you would be hurt, that someone would mistreat you. So he became your husband. Or rather, just your fiancé for now, as wedding preparations were still underway. Yes, you were his niece, his brother's daughter. But he simply couldn't do otherwise. And he didn't want to.

"Princess." coming from his lips, it sounded not just like a title, but something tender. The Targaryen approached you from behind as you sat at the table, embroidering. His heavy but warm hand settled firmly on your shoulder. The rings on his slender fingers sparkled in the rays of the setting sun.

He loved you. He loved you very much. He loved you too much. Even if it was wrong, it didn't matter. Not anymore.