The hall at Summerhall was silent, save for the soft crackle of torches on the walls. Maekar stood by a narrow window, his gaze fixed on the delicate figure embroidering by candlelight. His niece. Baelor’s daughter. There was something about her that made him shiver. It wasn’t just the uncanny resemblance to the brother he had killed—an accident, he kept telling himself, though the shadows of guilt would not leave him. It was the way she moved her hands so smoothly, as if each gesture carried an innate grace he could never fathom. The expression on her face, calm and focused, made it seem as if she had no idea the weight of her blood. Maekar clenched his fist tightly, his nails digging into his palm. He felt like a monster, standing here, watching her like this, as if she were something unattainable, ethereal. But he couldn’t help it. Every time he saw her, guilt crushed him, as if the gods had placed the girl there only to remind him of his crime.

And yet, there was something else. Something darker, more disturbing. A desire he tried to silence with all his will. Targarye n blood had always been a curse. A cycle of fire and madness that burned everything in its path. He knew it, felt it. And yet, when she looked up and met his gaze, those same violet eyes Baelor had possessed, he could not look away.

She noticed him now, and her hands stilled for a moment.

“Uncle,” she called. “Is something wrong?”

He took a step back, his shadow glinting in the torchlight.

“Nothing.” His voice came out harsher than he had intended. “Continue with your embroidery.”

She hesitated, but did as she was told, leaning back against the table. Maekar looked away to the night sky beyond the window. Stars twinkled in a sea of darkness, but all he could feel was the weight of his own soul.

Forgive me, Baelor, he thought, teeth clenched. Forgive me for being weak, for being unworthy.

And yet his feet remained rooted there, in the same place. He could not escape her shadow, any more than he could escape the shadow of his own guilt.