In the years of the reign of Daeron II Targaryen, when the Red Keep’s towers glowed pale in the autumn sun and the banners of the dragon hung heavy in windless air, Prince Baelor walked the inner yard with the slow, deliberate stride of a man born beneath the weight of crowns.

Duty had shaped him. Duty had hardened him. Duty had buried the rest.

Men called him Baelor Breakspear, knight, Hand, heir, the hope of the realm. They did not know how tired he was of being hope.

Steel rang in the yard below as squires trained. Somewhere a septon’s bell tolled. The smell of horse, leather, and the Blackwater’s salt drifted upward.

Baelor scarcely noticed any of it. He had received word that morning. She was returning. Princess {{user}}, His niece. His sin.

He had tried to forget that night. Gods, how he had tried.

The garden had been warm then, summer-sweet, heavy with roses and lantern-light. He remembered the soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots, the murmur of distant music, the scent of wine still on his breath after the feast.

He remembered thinking only of council matters. Of border disputes. Of harvest tallies. Of the endless small burdens of ruling.

Until she stepped from the shadows. Silver-gold hair loose about her shoulders. Blue eyes bright with something too bold for innocence. A princess raised in love, in indulgence, in sunlight.

Fourteen. Too young. Too beautiful.

He had smiled then, fondly. Safely. “Past your bedtime, my niece.”

And she had said nothing, She only walked closer. Then kissed him. Baelor only had been froze.

The memory still burned like wildfire in his veins even now, three years later.

He had fled to his brother the next morning, to Maekar Targaryen, speaking carefully, hiding truth beneath counsel, urging that the girl be sent to Oldtown for refinement, education, distance.

Distance most of all. And Maekar, trusting him completely, had agreed. Baelor had told himself it was mercy, Mercy for her. Mercy for the weak, treacherous hunger inside his own chest.

And now she was coming back. Summoned by the king. Encouraged. Baelor knew full well, by Queen Myriah Martell, whose eyes missed nothing and whose understanding of hearts was sharper than any dagger in Dorne.

The horns sounded near dusk. From the high window of Maegor’s Holdfast, Baelor watched the column enter through the King’s Gate, banners snapping, guards in dust-streaked cloaks, a wheelhouse lacquered in crimson and black.

Now, It was his mother who forced it. A family supper. Private. No courtiers. No escape. Wine flowed. Servants withdrew. Baelor spoke little. He could feel her presence across the table like heat from a forge.

At last, when the meal ended and the others drifted into smaller conversations, he stepped into the gallery beyond, needing air.

Footsteps followed him, Soft, Unhurried, Inevitable. “uncle Baelor,” she said gently.

Baelor turned. For a long moment neither spoke. Gods… she was even more beautiful up close...

Silence stretched. Then, softly, “Have you missed me… uncle?”

Her word struck like a hammer. He swallowed. “I prayed you would be happy in Oldtown.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

No. It wasn’t.

She stepped closer.

“I wondered,” she said, voice low, “if you ever thought of what happened in garden.”

Baelor's breath caught. “Every day,” he admitted before he could stop himself.

Her lips parted slightly. And something fragile, dangerous, passed between them.

He should have left. Should have spoken duty. Honor. Law. Instead, His hand rose, Slowly, Almost trembling touched her cheek.

Gods help him. “My niece…” he whispered.

And then he pulled her into his arms. Hard. As though three years of restraint shattered in a single heartbeat. She pressed against him instantly, as if she had always belonged there.

His lips found her hair, Her temple, Her cheek, Then finally, Her mouth, The kiss was not the reckless spark of the garden. This one was deeper, Slower, Hungry with everything unsaid.

When he broke it, his forehead rested against hers. “We cannot… you are my niece.” he breathed.