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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.

Chapter Text

Sweetness. Rich, heady, musk permeates the room and infiltrates every inch of the space. The pillows and lounges and drapes all carry his scent, intoxicating to her heightened senses.

Rhaenyra is made to respond to the call of a first heat as an unmated dragon—despite what the realm believes, her union with Laenor exists on paper only—and especially that of a sibling. It is in her bones to want to assist. To take. To claim.

Once Rhaenyra regains some semblance of control over her senses, her gaze drifts to the pile on Aegon’s bed.

When given the time and the means before a heat, dragons like to hoard their most precious belongings. Trinkets or blankets, food or jewels. Objects of all shapes and sizes and value, piled up to create a comfortable, soothing space to spend a very unsettling time.

Rhaenyra had no time to collect anything, and even if she did, she endured her heat in Flea Bottom guarded by whores of the White Worm’s brothel. It was fine, but it also wasn’t.

The Keep has been anticipating Aegon’s heat for moons now. He has been irritable and snappish—more so than usual—but also clingy and prone to tearful fits. Once the maester sat with him for what was almost certainly a deeply awkward conversation, he would have known what awaited him. He would have had ample opportunity to prepare.

And that he did, she notes as she approaches.

The sweet, heady scent of a dragon in heat grows stronger the closer she gets to his nest. She steps around her brother’s scattered belongings, the mess of clothes strewn around along with armour—scarcely used—and weapons, half-consumed food and cups of half-drunk wine. Phalluses of many shapes and sizes litter the floor, but covered in a thin layer of dust telling Rhaenyra they haven’t been used for a good time.

Nothing she would instinctively call a hoard. Nothing worth anything, at least to her, but to Aegon the mess must be a comforting treasure.

In the middle of the gauzy canopied bed, lies Aegon. He is surrounded by finery, blankets and pillows and soft, stolen mementos. 

She spies a blood red shawl tucked under his head that she recognises as having once belonged to Alicent when she was younger, lined with Targaryen black. Rhaenyra gave it to her for her thirteenth nameday. She cannot discern the heady floral notes of Alicent’s perfume from the fabric—none of her natural scent, that which she does not possess—and believes the cloth must have long since belonged to Aegon instead.

While the shawl holds nothing but the scent of Aegon’s heat, he has clearly collected more comforting items.

There is a cloak of Helaena’s bunched around his shoulders. The thick, sky blue velvet is embroidered with fine, silver-threaded spiderwebs, interwoven with Hel’s soft, childlike lavender scent. Two shirts are in the pile, dark green tunics a young squire might wear in the training yard, imbued with the scent of Aemond and Daeron. Warm and citric, like hopeful youth. All three carry the promise of childhood. Unpresented sweetness. Untouched. An antithesis to Aegon’s own transformation, but it is logical.

His change denotes an availability, a purpose, a future. A place in House Targaryen to continue the line of dragons, to ensure the survival of their species. It suggests the possibility of children, his own, either as a sire or a dam.

Rhaenyra has birthed three children herself. She does not have the time for another three.

Aegon is sprawled out on his back in the middle of his hoard, face flushed red and body covered in a thin sheen of sweat, he pants in his sleep. Hurried, desperate little intakes of breath, like he cannot get enough air. His body twitches in slumber, harsh movements that wrench his neck.

Rhaenyra cannot help but wince when he yelps and curls in on himself, arms circled around his waist. She understands the pain of this, why a young dragon’s need must be denied until the perfect moment. Beforehand, the body is a blank slate, no traits beyond that of a child. It is the first time, the first heat, which brings life to them.

Aegon’s adolescent body is slowly preparing him for this moment, to be taken and bred by a suitor chosen by the king.

Rhaenyra throbs inside. No, she thinks to herself deliriously, He is preparing himself for me.

It is only when Rhaenyra stands over her brother that she realises Aegon has not only surrounded himself with the mementos of new life, but he has also paid homage to herself. The realisation makes her mad with lust.

Rhaenyra can see her gloves, her stockings, her small clothes. Nothing so large and noticeable as a gown or a cloak—but small, intimate items. Things she was certain were stolen or lost—although not untrue—was instead taken by Aegon, to ease him through his time. Fabric that has pressed close against her body and soaked up her mature, fully-realised scent. Her belongings are strewn around him. Aegon stole them from under her nose to build his nest, the scraps all close to his face, close enough to press his nose into. 

He sought her out, even when told she would not be assisting him. How cute. How perfect. Her sweet little brother. He was always supposed to be hers.

She hovers over his pained form and notes the lack of one particular scent. There is not a single hint of her father in this nest. Aegon decided, subconsciously or otherwise, that their father is unworthy of the honour.

She shuffles closer, her slippers making the barest noise against stone, but it is not the noise she watches for. It is her scent.

Grown dragons are trained and have extensive experience. They can transform at will, choose parts to modify, can breathe dragon flame and claw enemies to ribbons. Younger dragons do so with alarming irregularity. It is why heats are so dangerous, why Aegon can be so volatile. But Rhaenyra is strong, she is experienced, and knowledgeable. She knows how to gentle this little beast.

She releases her scent, strong and heady, the call of a powerful, prepared mate. There is nothing better to wake a sleeping dragon.

Aegon rouses in steps. The flutter of his eyes, the twitch of his nose, and then all at once. He gasps, hands grasping out to the sheets, staring around with temporarily blind eyes, scared and alone until he locks eyes with her.

“Sister…” he breathes, a hazy grin breaking out across his face. “You came. You… did you… is Father…”

He cannot seem to form a full sentence, the throes of sleep already falling way to his heat. Rhaenyra warms at the trust he has in her.

“Can I come into your nest, little one?” she coos softly, exuding a calming presence. There is still a sliver of a chance that Aegon does not want her, despite his nonverbal cues. It doesn’t matter either way, whether he wants to submit or not, by the end of the night she will claim him.

If he does not want her, it will be easier to be kind now. A dragon in heat may be weak and susceptible, but they are still a dragon. There is a reason only a Targaryen will do. He is just as likely to lash out in anger, to injure and maim, as he is to turn over and take the fucking he desires.

Aegon reaches out for her, a reedy whine echoing from the depth of his throat. He is open for her, wanting, needing. A clear sign of submission.

“Please,” he cries, stretching out towards her. “Please, Rhaenyra. Touch me. Just—just hold me. I need you…” He collapses under the strain of his own weight, severely weakened by desire and dehydration.

Rhaenyra has mercy on her poor, confused little brother and crawls into his nest of intimate valuables. She curls around him, allowing him to cling to her. 

Sweat beads on Aegon’s forehead as though the fireplace is ablaze, but Rhaenyra knows the truth of it. He is burning from the inside out, a flame which can only be quenched by a thorough mating, a fat knot, a dragon’s release.

Heat is named appropriately. Dragons are cold blooded in both forms, but when a youth is in the throes of heat their skin heats to a blister to rival flame. During their time, a dragon cannot release. Their body burns too hot, their seed killed in their body before it can leave the body. But—it is the perfect environment to grow a babe. The warmth is akin to a hearth, and dragons require fire to thrive. They stay warm the entire pregnancy. So many young dragon’s wombs quicken after their first heat—it is a miracle Rhaenyra did not—and she intends for this to take.

Rhaenyra noses under his chin, the place where his neck meets his shoulder, where the flesh and muscle under his skin throbs with blood, with scent. She can smell his growing distress as easy as seeing it, from the sweetly-sour rotten-worry smell to the way his eyes well with tears and how his brow sprouts beads of sweat. He has her in his bed, claimed that was all he wanted, but she knew he would not be satisfied with such scant contact for long.

She licks a droplet of sweat away as it trails down his jaw, the taste as potent as his scent. “What’s wrong, sweet boy?”

“This isn’t—“ he gasps wetly, grappling with a battle unseen. “This isn’t how it should go, sister. We should… am I not supposed to…?”

Rhaenyra’s body hums with approval. Yes, she crows with silent approval. Yes, my good boy.

“I know,” she soothes, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his throat, lips grazing his neck with every pass. “I know we are not following tradition, but I cannot allow you to be taken from me.” Her teeth graze his spot, the place where he will bear her mark, and he shivers wildly in response. “I cannot take five grown dragons to have you, brother. I am not strong enough.” She pauses, faux concern bleeding into her scent. “Unless… you would prefer one of them?”

A cruel blow, but she wants to hear it for herself.

“No!” he gasps, hands grasping at her, unconsciously stretching his body and neck to present himself to her. “No, never, I never wanted any of them. Only you, sister, like it always should have been.”

Rhaenyra purrs. “Will you allow me to assist you?” She rakes her teeth over his sensitive neck. “Will you submit to me, brother? I can make you feel better.”

Aegon nods, shy but welcoming, and Rhaenyra begins to devour him.

She presses loving, wet kisses over his heated flesh, removing his light clothing as she goes. Every few kisses, she nips him, soaking up his answering squeals. 

He is so responsive, a perfect example of a healthy heat. He stretches and writhes in her grip, instinctively trying to turn over and present himself, even if he does not understand why. He cries all the while, overwhelmed.

By the time she has made her way to his pelvis, kneeling between his bent legs, he is near inconsolable in his lust.

With gentle pressure, Rhaenyra nudges his legs apart to bare his sex to her. She breathes a sigh of relief.

Aegon has the same anatomy of all Targaryens; a new, slick cunt, and above, a sealed slit now concealing his cock. She wondered once if Alicent’s blood might have changed him, might have given Aegon the ability to shift, heightened senses, and a devastating heat—but no cunt, no womb. 

It is possible. Rhaenyra’s own mother was in possession of one and not the other. For Aegon, it seems his Targaryen blood has won out.

Rhaenyra has Aegon hold his legs up before she slides her fingers through his fleshy folds, gathering the wet over her fingers. She spreads him wide and stares at his little hole, where she will soon bury herself and fall deep into her own heat. A beautiful, instinctual response to breeding her chosen mate.

“What,” he gasps, not a true question, as she slips one long finger into his cunt. “What is that?”

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow, pulling it out with a wet squelch before pushing it back in. Aegon sighs, nervous and shuddery, wide eyes trained on her.

“Your cunt, brother,” she coos, petting his thigh as if to soothe him. “It’s very pretty.”

Aegon flushes a deeper red. “Why do I—“ He trails off, clearly embarrassed as he averts his gaze. His hands shake from their position holding his legs up.

Rhaenyra frowns, sick realisation dawning on her. She does not cease her movements, however. “Did the maester not tell you?” she asks, curling her finger up to stroke against the soft spot inside him.

Aegon shudders and hunches forward. “Tell me—ah—tell me what?”

“About what is happening to you,” she says, “about the change, about your purpose as a Targaryen. About what you are going through right now.”

“He said that I-I’m ready to take a wife, that I am becoming a man in the eyes of the Seven,” he whimpers, shaking his head. “I do not feel like much of a man, Rhaenyra.”

She snarls, claws on her left hand sharpening. The tips prick into Aegon’s skin, but he doesn’t notice. If anything, the scent of blood riles him more and his cunt grows wetter.

“We should have never entrusted mere humans with our knowledge,” she hisses. “They twist our history, our honour to suit their own needs.”

She presses a kiss against his thigh and forces another finger in alongside the first. The fit is tight, and Aegon is not ready, but time is not on her side. She should take him now, but she is much larger than two of her slim fingers. He has to be helped along as much as possible, but time is short. Yet if she waits, she risks being found, risks losing him to one of the dragonseeds their father is choosing from at this very moment.

Aegon sobs, squirms, shakes in his own grip. “Rhaenyra, what’s happening?” he begs, sweet even through his pain.

There is no time to explain, and Aegon is barely coherent enough to understand.

“Targaryens have been marrying brothers and sisters for centuries,” she whispers, fucking him brutally with her fingers, curling and stroking and stretching until she can bully a third in too. “To keep the bloodline pure, to stop outsiders from taking our powers.“

“Like the Conqueror and his sister-mates,” Aegon cries, his hips giving aborted little thrusts to meet her.

“Yes,” she praises, nipping little bites into the flesh of his thighs, desperate to see the same marring his pale neck. “But it is not always brothers and sisters, sometimes it is brothers and brothers, or sisters and sisters. Sometimes, for us, men carry the babes. Sometimes women are the sires. Do you understand, Aegon?”

“I—do you think—am I going to—?” Her little brother cannot form coherent sentences any longer, and can only shake his head and tremble in her grip.

Rhaenyra thrusts her fingers inside him a final time, firm and bruising, before extracting them. He will achieve no release with her fingers. It is one of the reasons why a dragon is required for a first heat—nothing but her knot will fix this insatiable lust.

She sucks his slick into her mouth and groans as the taste of him coats her tongue.

“You’re going to take my seed, brother,” she says and slaps his thigh. “I want to fuck you now. Show me how good you can be. Follow your instincts, sweet boy.”

Aegon rolls over with a weak groan and pushes onto his hands and knees, canting his hips up for her. His slick slit shines sticky with desperate want, cunt drooling until his thighs are wet and slippery.

He is ready for her. He has been ready for her for hours, or even days, perhaps. They could have done this weeks ago had her father not been so stubborn to deny her.

“Please,” he begs, hips thrusting back as if he can make her fuck him. “Please, sister, please.”

Rhaenyra strokes his backside soothingly with one hand while the other slips down to her own sex. She teases the slit which conceals her cock, barely needing to stimulate herself at all before it slides from its sheath. Wet and dripping clear seed already, she is more than prepared to fuck her mate.

Aegon jumps in surprise when she kisses her cock to his cunt.

“You’re so pretty here, brother,” Rhaenyra murmurs, sliding her cock through the flesh of his folds, marvelling at the way his needy hole grasps at her. “You’re sucking me in. Desperate for it, for anyone’s cock to fill and breed you. What a slut you are.”

“N-Not,” he whispers wetly, shaking his head as if his life depended on it.

“Mm?” She is distracted by the way his cunt flexes under her gentle touch, contracting, gasping. “What was that?”

“I’m not,” he cries out when she presses her cock firmer against his hole, barely dipping in and out, teasing. “I’m not a slut, sister, I’m—I never wanted anyone else!”

Rhaenyra ceases her movements, the very tip of her cock lodged against his warm, suckling cunt. “Go on.”

“I always wanted it to be you,” Aegon sobs, shivering and shaking, hands grasping wherever he can find purchase. It dislodges her cock, and he whines at the loss, hips thrusting back to try to get her to return. “I dreamt of this, I wanted it so badly but you never s-said—“ He hiccups, tears streaming down his red cheeks. “You ne-never said anything and I didn’t want to push it and make you angry, Rhaenyra, I didn’t want you to leave, but I wanted you, and no one else. Not the seeds, not that man, I would never have submitted to any but you.”

Liar, she thinks, not unkindly, for she knows what it is like to be in the throes of a heat, how single-minded one becomes, how desperate to fuck and be fucked, how anyone with dragon blood will do regardless of sentiment or want.

It is still nice to know he wants her.

She shushes him, pressing gently on the back of his neck. He moves beautifully, shoulders and head falling until his face is against the pillow. His hips raised high, ready to receive her.

“You will never have to suffer their attentions again, brother,” she promises, sliding her shaft through his wet lips, slicking herself until she is dripping with their combined fluid. “I’ll never let you leave you now.”

Rhaenyra notches the tip of her cock against Aegon’s pink, swollen cunt and presses forward against the resistance. She pushes and pushes until the head pops inside, snugly held in the cradle of his pussy.

“Oh,” Aegon sighs, head craned to look at her, at where they’re connected more intimately than he has ever experienced before. “You’re… I do not know if—“

Rhaenyra rubs soothing circles in the small of his back as she feeds more of her cock into his hole. “You are taking me so well, brother.”

Aegon whines and squirms, his body parting against her unrelenting member. “T’ much,” he whimpers. “Pl’se—“

“You can do it.” She will not pull out now, not even if he begs for it. She would take him regardless, until he bares her marks and carries her babe. She is past the point of no return. Rhaenyra forces another inch in. “Breath in, sweetling. In and out. Relax…”

Her little brother trembles under her like a leaf, sweat pouring from him causing his scent to become stronger, more potent. It invades her senses and edges her closer to breaking. She is borderline feral, and only half-in.

Rhaenyra’s fangs grow sharper, and she toys with his stretched rim. Her cock has forced him wide, pushed to his limits already. More preparation would have helped, but time is short.

She slides the tip of a finger in next to her throbbing shaft. Aegon wails.

“Wait, wait! I can take it, I can—please wait, sister, it’s too much, I’ll rip, I’ll—“

Rhaenyra stretches him wider, and feeds more of her cock inside. More and more, until she has bottomed out. Her pelvis sits flush with his backside, her cock buried deep in his cunt. She can just feel the cap to his womb against her head.

“You did well,” she praises, and leans down to kiss his trembling spine. “You were made for this.”

Aegon is held tight, tense, he is crying and clutching his stolen objects in a death grip. He humps back against her in tiny, insignificant movements. Needing her even through his pain.

“Good… good… have to…” Aegon babbles, tears dripping down his cheeks as his cunt milks her; wet, throbbing heat the perfect fuck. “…be good.”

She smiles indulgently and allows the haze to fall, her own heat building in response to his own. Her cock throbs, the base already starting to fill. She wants to knot her little mate, and seal them together until the end of their days.

“So good,” she murmurs, and drags her cock out until only the head remains. He whimpers, then screams when she forces her way back inside.

Rhaenyra holds him by his hips as she fucks him, quick and brutal. Their combined slick coats their thighs and turns them sticky, and every movement squelches obscenely.

Aegon can do nothing but cry and whine and writhe, mouth hanging open as she gives him what he so desires. Her cock makes a home inside him, bullying in and out, in and out. Every so often he tries to buck her off, a remnant of a different ritual, of an ancient hunt, but Rhaenyra proves herself. She holds him down with her hands and her thighs, pinning him to the bed until he can do nothing else but take her.

When Rhaenyra’s cock begins to catch on his rim, she knows she is close. From the high cries of her brother, she knows he is, too.

“You’re going to be a wonderful mother,” she tells him, almost tenderly. “Better than you would have as a father.”

“Rhaenyra…” Aegon slurs, fucked out of his mind.

Rhaenyra thrusts once, twice, three times, her knot expanding with every push. She presses intimately against his most private parts, where no one but she has ever been, and will ever be.

“Cum for me, brother,” she orders, nails digging into his hips and drawing pinpricks of blood. “Cum.”

Aegon cums in a rush of slick, flooding his bed with his release. He squirms and cries, bucking his way through his orgasm, stuck and forced to take her growing knot. His skin shines yellow gold, faint scales dotting his flesh a mirror of hers against candlelight. 

Rhaenyra, lightheaded and possessive, folds herself over his back until she covers him entirely. She scruffs him around the neck and forces his head down into the pillow until his sobs are muffled. Her cock throbs as she bullies her way in deeper, further, forcing her knot around his stretched and bruised flesh until his cunt swallows her hole.

“Fucking made for me,” she growls, fangs elongating and slurring her speech. She thrusts forward again, useless now that she is buried deep, but she revels in his punched-out whines with every slow grind. “Father fucked you into your mother so I can breed you, a perfect little hole to hold my seed.”

“Pleasepleaseplease—“ he begs through the pillow, whining high and reedy and desperate. He trembles from oversensitivity, the pleasure forced on him after his own orgasm. “Please, sister, please. Cum in me, breed me, fill me. I’m so empty, Rhaenyra, please—“

Rhaenyra’s knot swells to its full size, plugging him deep, as her own orgasm crashes down around her. She fucks her seed inside him, into his womb, ensuring it is so deep he will never be able to get rid of her.

“Fuck!” she bellows, her growl echoing through his chambers. She empties herself in him for what feels like hours, slowly grinding her knot into his abused hole. She stays hunched over him, covering him with her body in this vulnerable time.

Aegon whines and sobs under her, welcoming her, receiving her seed with love.

When the need passes and she can breathe easier, Rhaenyra sits back on her haunches to observe her efforts. Although pleasure still sings through her blood and her release continues to pump deep inside Aegon’s womb, she cannot help but admire her debauched brother, bruised and bleeding and stuffed full with her seed.

Aegon’s cunt is clenches possessively around her pulsing cock, her thick knot plugged deep inside. His hole is red and shiny wet around her, stretched so wide it threatens to tear. Perhaps it would have had she acted quicker, spent less time preparing him.

The thrill of that shouldn’t arouse her this much, but she has a desperate desire to see him bleed. She knows he has. The scent of it was clear when she first bullied her way into him, breaking his maidenhead and claiming his as her own, but the small spot of blood has long since been pushed deep, mingling intimately with their combined release. She wants to pull out early just to see him tear, to see him bleed for her ruinous affections.

“You are such a good boy,” she breathes, the praise falling from her lips unbidden.

“Am I?” he warbles, wet and ruined. Tears and spit, cum and slick cover him from head to toe. “Did I—am I a good boy?”

Rhaenyra tilts his chin to capture his lips. It’s not a kiss, too vicious and depraved. She is desperate to take him and he aches to give it.

Spit connects their mouths when she pulls away, ignoring Aegon’s painful whine as he chases her.

“Do you feel it?” She cups a hand around his stomach, distended and stuffed full with her cock and cum, and strokes gently, as if he already is carrying her babe. Perhaps he is. “I’ve given you so much of my seed, your womb may have already quickened.”

Aegon whines, becoming nonverbal in his heat as all shifters do when they fully submit to the flame. His cock plumps up again, and Aegon hiccups tiny tears. He trembles under the slightest touch, a brush of her fingers over his shoulder, skin breaking out into gooseflesh.

“Aegon?” she breathes, chest heaving. “Brother, do you understand what I am doing?” He nods, eyes unfocused, drool dripping down his chin. Debauched, bred, changed. Rhaenyra grins in victory and presses a wet, sharp kiss to his cheek. “Good boy. Now, rest while you can. I have no intention of letting you leave this nest before you’re well and truly mine.”

It is hours before Rhaenyra’s disappearance is discovered, which means it is hours before her father made a decision about Aegon, longer than Rhaenyra requested. The idea he would have been abandoned for so long, left to suffer alone in agony, curls into righteous disgust in her gut. A natural response. He is her mate now, hers to protect and hers to nurture.

Rhaenyra takes good care of her mates.

The door to his chambers is forced open by a dozen of the palace guards, her own guards overwhelmed by the numbers. The men come to a standstill when they take in the scene waiting for them.

Rhaenyra bares her long, dripping fangs, hissing as steam erupts from her mouth. Her eyes feel sharper, narrower, and are almost definitely bright yellow and slitted dangerously. Her sharp nails dig deep gouges into Aegon’s hip, the boy whining pathetically in pain under her as he hangs off her cock.

Blood flows sluggishly from his torn neck, one of many marks to prove he is hers. It has been hours after all, and countless matings, numerous releases. His belly is distended low, appearing entirely as if he is already with child, and she strokes him possessively.

“Interrupting a mating is tantamount to a challenge, sers,” she says through her fangs, lips curling into a vicious grin. 

She thrusts her hips forward, forcing her spasming knot further into her little brother’s swollen, bleeding cunt. He groans into his featherbed, barely cognisant of his surroundings.

One clears his throat, unsettled. “Princess—“

“Do fetch my father, ser,” she says as she pets Aegon’s backside. “I believe the ritual is required. I have, after all, taken a new mate.”