Chapter Text
The Great Hall is full and loud. Ale flows, food is plentiful, and the Red Keep’s guests laugh and dance and sing for the pleasure of it. The sight would bring a smile to the face of most—her father included, grinning wide above them all, a leg of lamb clutched tightly in his grip—yet the drink sours on Rhaenyra’s tongue and the food curdles in her stomach.
There is no cause for celebration this evening. Not for her. Rhaenyra is not the centre of attention tonight. No, it belongs to Aegon, a fact he once would have enjoyed, indulging in wine and food, in leering at women and bothering her.
Instead, he is subdued. It is his nameday, the nameday, and he is fevered and shivering, hunched over his full plate, face devoid of all colour. A sickly thing, better suited for bed rather than a royal dinner. But, this evening is about him, and so he must stay.
Rhaenyra remembers it all too well. The aches and the sweats, the way even the lightest of garments becomes hot and restrictive. The deep, twisting want which seems to take over all senses. The slick wetness dripping down trembling thighs long before anyone has even begun to touch.
Their father throws an errant arm around Aegon, the first time his son has ever sat to his right. On Viserys’ left, Alicent’s face is made of stone. She does not approve of the pageantry, nor the ritual, of the entire situation.
Rhaenyra has little sympathy. Targaryen customs—Targaryen physiology—is not a secret any longer. The Hightowers knew what they were marrying into.
Rhaenyra watches Aegon tremble under the weight of their father’s grip. She does not fault him, for the king has never had the opportunity to assist with his children’s heats and has long since forgotten the agony of a change. His own father assisted with his and Daemon’s. Prince Baelon was a strong, natural guide; a trait he did not pass down to his eldest son.
Discomforted by the contact, Aegon pushes away and stumbles from the table, face flushed and eyes hazy. He stumbles into a passing woman. He does not apologise.
He has thoroughly ruined his own nameday feast by insisting he drink more wine than recommended. Rhaenyra advised him that being drunk would impede his senses and bring on the change quicker. He did not listen to her, nervous at the prospect of submitting to one of the dragonseeds. She does not blame him.
“The first is by far the worst,” Laena says, sympathetic to a fault, her hand held protectively over her swollen belly.
“I enjoyed my first,” Rhaenyra muses.
Aegon is followed closely by Ser Erryk, the tense Kingsguard tasked with protecting the young prince as he navigates his own feast. It wouldn’t do to have the prince unduly touched before his heat.
“I imagine so. Three days with Daemon at your beck and call?” Laena laughs. “If only we were all so lucky.”
Rhaenyra tears her gaze away when Aegon disappears into the crowd to focus once more on her cousin.
“Only after the humiliation of being caught by the gold cloaks in a rat infested alleyway.” They laugh. “Yours was with your mother?”
Laena wrinkles her nose. “She spoke of little else but her own first heat, how gentle and caring her father was, how honoured she was to take him. My heat lasted days longer than it should have.” She rolls her eyes, exasperated but fond. “I believe she was disappointed no one else fought for the honour—but what did she expect, marrying a Velaryon? My father’s ancestors have not been able to shift for centuries, long before the Doom. My uncles were prepared to fight for the honour of wedding me, if only for my dragon blood.”
“Father wanted to be mine,” Rhaenyra says wryly. “It was better for all of us that Daemon found me instead.”
Viserys had planned for years, had everything ready to fulfil his duty as her father during her heat—and Rhaenyra snuck out, through the winding tunnels of the Keep and into the city below. She fell victim to her baser instincts and would have become prey to the miscreants of Flea Bottom had her uncle not slunk out of a nearby brothel, lured by her scent.
“I know King Viserys is the preferred option, but…” Laena asks softly, knowing it is a difficult subject.
Their eyes drift to where Rhaenyra’s ailing father sits. He is half-asleep despite the weight of the festivities. This is only his second child going through their heat, and yet he gorges himself on roast meat, ale, and milk of the poppy. He will be lucky to get hard at all, let alone complete his gods given duty.
“Father holds out hope he will be able.” Rhaenyra scoffs as Viserys falls asleep, a lock of stringy white hair falling into his soup. Alicent fusses, her shaking hands and dark circles visible even from Rhaenyra’s table.
Laena scoffs. “The man can hardly stay upright let alone become upright.”
Rhaenyra laughs. “I’m hardly fond of my half-brother, but I wouldn’t wish that on him.”
Laena hums in sympathy. “Then a suitor was chosen for Aegon in the king’s absence?”
“Father was supposed to choose tonight,” Rhaenyra answers under her breath, both women now staring at the suitors, all five soaking up the attention of the nobles.
When it became clear Viserys would be unable to perform his duty, the Hand arranged a competition. All dragonseeds flooded the capital; the prize: fucking the prince through his heat.
It was a mummer’s farce, half the realm storming the city’s gates claiming insignificant drops of dragon blood. Any peasant with light hair or with unusual eyes wished for a chance at a prince, and at the handsome reward given after their duty was fulfilled. Fame and riches and a title, as if Aegon would want the brute around after the fact.
Otto’s plan came to fruition with five unlikely candidates, all lowborn, rough and self-serving, but proven dragonseeds by virtue of shifting in the Dragonpit. The display was ostentatious and the victors cocky, soaking up the cheers of the smallfolk, performing for them like the lowborn whelps they are.
The two boys who claim ancestry from a Velaryon-born Targaryen bastard shine turquoise as the sea and grey as the clouds. They’re courteous, if cocky, and either would be her preferred suitor for Aegon.
The only girl is small and lithe and calls herself Nettles—how ridiculous—and shifts into an equally small, scruffy dragon with scales the colour of dirt. Aegon would likely prefer her.
The last two, however—
Rangy Ulf is pale white, sleek, long like a snake and twice as traitorous. He is drunk more often than not and has made many passes at maids and servants in the Keep. Rhaenyra mislikes the way his eyes follow all of her siblings, not just Aegon.
Then there is the large, monstrous Hugh. His dragon has scales so dark they appear black, but shine a sickly bronze in the sun. His wingspan is gargantuan, and his mass frightens even Rhaenyra. Tales of his cruelty on Dragonstone are plenty and worrying, yet he is the favoured candidate by gamblers.
Outsiders do not understand size is not everything when it comes to a dragon. Speed and flame and the brightness of their scales all add to the attractiveness of a mate, but the humans see only raw strength and power. The fools.
Rhaenyra finds all of the candidates lacking in some way, be it standing or manner, brutality or inexperience. They seek to raise their own fortunes, to either reap the rewards of slaking Aegon’s heat and leaving, or staying to take the rest of them.
It rankles her knowing Aegon’s time has become a spectacle. He is difficult and unruly and a disgrace, but he is her brother, a Targaryen of Valyria with dragon blood flowing through his veins. His heat deserves the respect that has been afforded to—almost—every Targaryen before him.
She sleeps easier knowing her boys are spoken for, as she would never let another soul touch them but herself; yet Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron are frightfully vulnerable.
“To face this with a stranger,” Laena murmurs, sympathy colouring her tone. “I cannot imagine how nervous he must be.”
Her hand brushes against her belly, and Rhaenyra wonders if she is thinking of her own babe. The slumbering child will go through their own heat in time, and someone must be chosen for them, too. Daemon or Laena, or Baela or Rhaena. Jacaerys might, if he grows to be a worthy suitor. Blood of the dragon is a requirement, such is the way of a Targaryen.
When a dragon comes of age, they enter their change, their time, their heat. An overwhelming urge to be fucked and bred full by a dragon; usually a parent, or someone unattached and unbonded, like an older sibling or cousin, occasionally an aunt or uncle.
Daemon was excluded for the pretty scar which mars his neck, as was Laena. Viserys was the ideal choice as the parent, if only he were not falling apart before their very eyes.
Alicent is lacking the correct equipment.
And Rhaenyra is, in the eyes of gods and men, already bonded to a man who has never once managed to fuck her, nor she him. She was not even considered.
The dragonseeds were gathered instead.
Desperate anger coils deep in her gut. This is her place, her role, her right. She should be the one to guide him through this time, to fuck him gently through his heat, knot him full, and bury her teeth so deep in his neck there would be no question who Aegon belongs to.
Yet, here she sits as Aegon begins his suffering. Alone. Confused. Abandoned.
“I cannot abide by this,” Rhaenyra mutters as her father falls asleep again, slumping forward in his seat. “Every moment he wastes, Aegon is hurting.”
“Speak to him,” Laena urges. “Perhaps you should be the one to choose. You understand him, you know what he needs.” She pushes her. “Go.”
The walk to her father is long, all eyes in the hall trained on her. She senses those of the dragonseeds most of all.
“Father,” she says, once she has rounded the table to speak to him softly. “Father, I must speak with you.”
Viserys groans, head lolling to one side then the other, sightlessly trying to find her. “Daughter…”
“He has had too much poppy,” Alicent says wearily before escorting her to the wings of the hall. “I apologise. I told the maester, but…”
Rhaenyra begrudgingly understands. “Aegon needs someone,” she says uselessly, and gestures subtly to the impatient five. “It is Father’s place to choose.” The words sour in her gut as Alicent’s face twists.
“Must we?” she pleads, and Rhaenyra’s good will dries up. “Perhaps Aegon can do this alone. He is a strong boy, and it will not be for long. I will bring him food and water and bathe him.”
Rhaenyra scowls. “It is not food or water, nor your love which will help him through his time,” she says coldly, affection draining from her in an unpleasant rush. “I thought you understood. He needs—”
“I know,” Alicent hisses, tears welling in her eyes. “I know, Rhaenyra, I do, but the thought of… of one of those brutes touching my son when he is so vulnerable, so scared. It is almost too much to bear.”
“How will he bear it if forced to endure this alone?” she responds. “Give him this, or you risk a worse fate.”
“What could possibly be worse than being taken by that?” Alicent hisses, eyes trained on the bulk of the blacksmith, the sneer of the man-at-arms. Even the Velaryon bastards and the girl must seem a horrifying outcome to her.
“Saera Targaryen sells her heats to the highest bidder in all of Essos.” Rhaenyra smiles, sharp and cruel. “It could be much worse.”
“And Septa Maegelle sequestered herself rather than fall prey to her needs,” is Alicent’s terse, narrow-minded response. Her lips pressed together so firmly they appear white and bloodless.
“For the rest of her heats, yes.” Cruel satisfaction curls behind her ribs, hot like dragon flame. “Her first was tended to by her father, as is tradition.” She clicks her tongue. “It is a dangerous thing to suppress a dragon’s heat. It can stunt growth, cause impotence, and madness. Viserra Targaryen chose to throw herself from her horse rather than face her heats alone with an old Andal. I do wonder what Aegon will do, as he is already so very destructive.”
Alicent is wroth. “Aegon will not stoop so low to be controlled by his baser instincts and submit to—”
“—Aegon the Conqueror’s appetite was so large it took both of his sisters to quench his lust. King Jaehaerys would have slaughtered the entire realm for his sister-mate.” Rhaenyra sighs, finding it all quite romantic. “It is in our blood, to use and be used, to be someone’s mate, Alicent. It is in Aegon’s blood—and he will, rest assured, be used. It is up to my father to choose who will be using him, and I suggest he choose quickly.”
“Not the large one,” comes in a slurring of words. Alicent and Rhaenyra startle, and find Aegon standing behind them, leaning heavily on his sworn shield, a cup of strongwine clutched tightly in his hand. “He looks… quite—daunting.”
Alicent makes a noise in the back of her throat and—by the gods—starts tearing up.
“How are you feeling, Aegon?” Alicent’s voice warbles. She reaches out to touch him, but Aegon flinches away.
“Fine,” he mumbles, although the thin sheen of sweat on his brow says otherwise. “I… I’m fine.”
He says it like he is trying to convince himself. Rhaenyra sees the way his gaze darts to the dragonseeds, particularly the hulking blacksmith Hugh. His giant form dwarfs the others, yet size does not mean he is the worst of the lot. A dragon’s human form means little when they shift. Laena is proof, her dragon far larger than all others alive and her human form is diminutive in comparison to Hugh the Hammer.
However, the blacksmith is large in both forms, and Aegon is untouched—in the ways which matter, for even if he wet his cock long before this, the change is another beast entirely—and as such requires some level of gentility. Understanding. Experience.
Rhaenyra’s source discovered that the blacksmith spent own heats fucking his way through the women of Dragonstone, whether they were whores or not, he took indiscriminately and left a trail of destruction in his wake. Through his indiscretions alone, he has fathered dozens more dragonseeds to plague her in the future. Rhaenyra will not abide by her brother being treated the same way—he is a prince.
“Alicent,” she says softly, ignoring her brother’s reticent response for the time being. “May I have a moment of privacy with Aegon? I seek to offer him a pearl of wisdom from my own experience, but… well, it is of a delicate nature, you understand.”
Alicent pales, nodding vaguely as she drifts away. “Yes… yes, that is a good idea. Listen to your sister, Aegon. I will assist your father…” She trails off, her gaze mournful as she leaves.
“She has been hovering for weeks,” Aegon grumbles, swaying back and forth. “As if she has any concept of my cursed affliction.”
Rhaenyra frowns. “It is not a curse, brother.”
“What would you call it then?” he sneers.
“A blessing from our gods. The gift of fertility from Syrax, passion from Meleys, strength from Balerion. We honour them with our heat, by making love and breeding.”
Aegon flushes red. “You cannot just—“ He releases a shuddery sigh. “Please.”
Poor boy. He is shackled by his Hightower blood.
“What is wrong, Aegon? You can tell me,” she whispers leaning close to him. “I would not betray your trust, and… I do understand your fears.”
Aegon eyes her warily. If he were of sound mind, he would have pushed her away like he has time and time before. “You do?”
“Mm. For all I praise the Valyrian gods, my own first heat was disastrous. In an alleyway, next to some drunkard and the gutter rats. Father was wroth.”
Aegon seems to loosen at her offered information. “I imagine he was…”
“So, tell me what is on your mind,” she prods.
Aegon purses his lips. “You say it is a blessing to… breed. But—“ He squeezes his eyes shut, body shaking from head to toe. She aches to reach out and steady him, but refrains. “How can it be a blessing if it is with someone I do not know? Do not even care for? To be so vulnerable in front of one of them?” He glares at the dragonseeds.
None of which have been overly charming towards Aegon, all too busy attempting to impress Viserys and Alicent than the boy they are meant to be courting. The bastardisation of an ancient, hallowed practice sickens her.
“They are an unsavoury bunch,” she drawls, watching the way they stuff their mouths full with the bounty of the Red Keep. “I suppose the eldest Velaryon is palatable. The girl, too… But experienced? Doubtful.”
Aegon does not answer her, and when she turns, she is surprised to see him deathly pale and trembling, forehead dripping sweat. Pupils blown wide. Panting. Halfway to his heat, and hurtling toward falling completely victim.
“Aegon…?”
“Do you…” He shrinks in on himself. “Do you think you could be the one to assist me? Please. I do not trust them. I do not trust anyone but you.”
Her heart sings and breaks. “Aegon… you know I cannot. I am already mated to Laenor.”
He crumples, tears welling and shoulders slumping. As though she has cut the marionette strings keeping him standing. He wraps his arms around himself, a facsimile of the comfort she could offer him.
It is a necessary evil, but an evil nonetheless.
“I… yes. Of course. I forgot. I’m sorry. I’m—sorry. I think I need to…” He exhales, once pale face turning alarmingly red. Hot. Burning from the inside.
He is close, she realises with mounting anticipation. Closer than she thought. She had avoided his presence ever since the dragonseeds came to court, unwilling to torture herself with what she could not have. But now that she is so close, has her mere presence in his vicinity accelerated his heat?
Rhaenyra must know. She reaches out and touches him, a simple hand on his shoulder, but it is enough to send Aegon into near hysterics.
“Aegon, are you—?”
“I need to lie down. I’m dizzy… no, sick, no…” His face twists and he leans into her, seeking her warmth, pressing his face into her bare neck, where her scent is most potent. He inhales deeply and groans. “Please help me, Rhaenyra.”
Her fate sealed, Rhaenyra orders him escorted to his chambers immediately by her own trusted guards and the amiable Ser Erryk, telling them not to let anyone else inside.
Aegon is moaning softly, sightlessly staring, when he is walked away. A few eyes in the Great Hall watch him with keen interest, including the two eldest dragonseeds.
Rhaenyra mislikes their hungry stares, and makes her way to Alicent at the uppermost table.
“Aegon has descended to the final stage of his heat,” Rhaenyra tells her softly. “He is in his chambers, guarded.”
Alicent’s eyes fill with tears. “My poor boy,” she whispers. “He must be so scared.”
Because of Father, Rhaenyra silently spits. Because he insisted on this mummer’s farce rather than even considering releasing me from my false vows.
“I need you to stall my father’s decision,” she says, hoping there is still good will remaining in Alicent’s heart. If not for her, then for her son. “Two hours, three at most.”
Alicent leans back to stare at her, untold depths in her damp gaze. “Rhaenyra…”
“Please, Alicent.”
Rhaenyra slips out of the Great Hall a half hour later, inconspicuous and silent. She takes the long, winding route to Aegon’s chambers, ensuring she isn’t followed. By the time she arrives, an hour has passed. Necessary, although not ideal.
Ser Erryk and her guards straighten when they see her.
“No one is to disturb us,” she orders firmly. “If any come seeking Aegon, turn them away. Unless it is the king, the queen, or one of my siblings, you have permission to use force.”
Once she has their assurances, she steels herself and slips into Aegon’s chambers.
It is time to take that which should have been hers all along.