Prompt: Duty calls Maegor away from you and blood is spilled in his absence. What waits for him upon his return will change the shape of his fury forever.
This was very rushed at the end, apologies for any grammar mistakes
He was all the way across the Narrow Sea when the word reached him. You had gone into labor during his absence, and the birth had been difficult. The letter detailed exactly how it went, from the labor lasting a full day, the babe coming out the wrong way, and the amount of blood you lost. Due to the distance between Westeros and the Free Cities, the message arrived three days after it was sent, and by then only the gods knew what became of you. Your condition was left uncertain, and for Maegor Targaryen, uncertainty was a cruelty he did not endure well.
His advisors begged him to remain and finish the negotiations. He ignored them all, commanding the talks be concluded in his name before mounting the Black Dread and turning him toward Westeros.
During your years of marriage, you borne him five strong sons. For every one of them, Maegor was present in some fashion, more involved in some than others. This time, duty dragged him across the Narrow Sea. You were angry when he told you he was leaving, but he brushed it aside, claiming duty came first.
Fool he thought bitterly now.
The journey back was torturous. Miles of open sea stretched endlessly beneath Balerion’s shadow, offering no distraction. His thoughts returned to you again and again. The wife he had come to cherish in his own guarded way. The wife who had taught him gentleness and love, things that had been uncommon to him before you. The image of you bleeding, suffering…..dying without him at your side filled him with a mix of rage and unfamiliar fear.
Maegor’s grip on the reins tightened until his knuckles turned white.“Faster,” he roared, unsure whether it was an order or a plea.
Balerion felt it, the Black Dread flew faster than Maegor had ever pushed him, massive wings beating the air with punishing force. Ships below rocked violently as they passed, sailors surely believing a storm had found them.
When they landed, Maegor did not bother to fully dismount. The instant Balerion’s talons struck stone, he leapt down and strode toward the keep. Guards attempted to address him, but he shoved past them without slowing. Servants yelped courtiers before scattering immediately as soon as they saw him pass. No one dared interrupt his path once they saw the look on his face.
He took the stairs three at a time, barely feeling the burn in his muscles.
Please he begged with every step. Please, gods. Let her live.
It was strange, he never truly prayed to the Seven. His faith had always been performative, simply a tool to keep the Faith placated. He never cared whether they listened. Now, for the first time, he wondered if they would refuse him outright for the sins he committed, the sacred laws he shattered. If this was his punishment, he would pay any price to undo it.
When he reached your chambers he didn’t waste time entering prepared for whatever he was going to be faced with.
And there you were.
Seated in a chair near the hearth, a swaddled babe cradled in your arms.
He paused.
For a long moment, he could only stare. You looked smaller, weaker, exhausted, but unmistakably alive. Candlelight softened your features, catching on the faint smile you wore as you rocked the babe gently. Even after everything you’re still able to hold such deep love for your children.
He shed the rest of his armor and approached slowly, as though afraid you might dissolve if he moved too quickly. He lowered himself onto one knee before you, violet eyes searching your face, tracing every line and shadow seeking proof that you had truly survived.
The back of his hand brushed your cheek tenderly. A gentleness that had taken him years to learn.
His mouth opened then closed it. He struggled, as he always did, to name what he felt when it was not anger.
“I am fine,” you said quietly, sparing him the effort.
“I should have been here,” he replied at last.
“And what would you have done if you were?” you asked, not accusing or mocking, but being practical. Something you had, funny enough, learned from him.
“I would have summoned every maester in the realm,” he said. “Would have cut down any man who failed you.” His hand fell from your face, fingers curling into a fist. “Would have held you as you bled dry.”
You did not tell him how close to the edge you had truly been. Even now, your body felt foreign, hollowed, but there was no sense reopening wounds already sealed.
“It is a girl,” you said instead. “Our first.”
The words landed heavier than any blow Maegor had endured during his years of wars and tournaments.
A princess, not another son forged for war or the throne. Something he had never truly considered. Something he believed the gods had never seen fit to give him before.
His gaze lowered, her head barely peeked from the blankets, but he could already see echoes of her mother’s beauty in her face. He opened the swaddling more to look and scoffed quietly at the fact that the babe was already dressed in gold and white, lavish even now, but still soft enough for a newborn.
“She is small,” he stated. “How does one keep something so breakable alive?”
Being his wife for so long, you knew he did not say it with malice. What he truly asked was how he was meant to raise a daughter when he had only ever known sons.
You smiled faintly. “You underestimate her, she has your temper. She refuses every wet nurse but me, would rather starve than yield.”
A corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile. “Then it is your stubbornness she has inherited, wife.”
Still, his eyes never left her and after a moment he leaned pressing a gentle kiss to her brow lingering there for a moment. When he looked back up at you, his expression had hardened into something you knew better than to defy.
“You will rest,” his tone firm. “You will have meals more frequently, and the maesters will remain on watch until I am satisfied with your full recovery.”
He rose with the idea of freshen himself for both relief from the long journey and to be clean enough that he could properly hold her.
“What of her nameday. We could not do anything without the king present.”
“She will not be paraded,” his voice low. “She will not be gawked at or claimed by banners and alliances before she can speak her own name. We will have our own celebration, in private.”
You smiled. You had always hated nameday celebrations. They were too loud, too much for a child who did not even know it was for them, nor would remember it. Worse still were the lords and ladies, their fake smiles and obvious attempts at securing alliances. The gods knew it would be far worse for her, given she was the first and only daughter of the king. You already knew you would struggle to hide your disgust when a lord presented his son, hairline already receding, for your infant daughter’s hand one day.
You smile softly at that, “If you wish it, so be it, my king.”
- Summary: After Aegon’s death, Princess Y/N is caught between Aenys’s fragile crown and Maegor’s dangerous ambition, while her forbidden desire for Maegor becomes a secret that could shake the realm.
The night King Aegon died, Dragonstone seemed to remember every death that had come before it.
The castle had never been a gentle place. It had been raised by Valyrians who thought stone should look like something that had screamed itself into permanence. Towers bent like black claws against the sky. Gargoyles watched the sea with frozen hunger. The walls sweated salt and old heat. Even in mourning, even under rain, the island did not soften. It crouched above the water with the patience of something older than grief, something that had watched kings come ashore with crowns in their hands and watched their bones leave in silence. You had been born beneath those towers, Princess Y/N Targaryen, daughter of Aegon the Conqueror and Rhaenys of the bright laugh and quick hands, sister to Aenys, blood of the dragon on both sides and still somehow treated like a delicate thing whenever men wanted your silence. It would have been funny, if it had not been so tiring.
Your father was dead.
That was the truth every candle tried and failed to soften. Aegon Targaryen, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Shield of His People, Rider of Balerion, the man who had bent Westeros around the heat of his will, was gone. Not slain in battle. Not burned in dragonfire. Not dragged down by some heroic enemy with a song already forming around the corpse. He had died as men did, suddenly, obscenely, inside the body that had carried all that conquest. The Stranger had not cared for titles. The Stranger never did. Men built thrones and banners and lineages because they could not bear that little truth. Death came anyway, rude and unimpressed.
In the great hall, Aenys wore grief like a robe made for someone broader. Your brother sat beneath the carved dragons with the new crown near his hand rather than on his head, pale, shaken, gentle-eyed, already surrounded by lords speaking in careful voices. They called him Your Grace now, but they watched him as men watched thin ice beneath their boots. He thanked them. He listened. He nodded. He looked toward you once, helplessly, as if the two of you were children again and he had found himself lost in a corridor too dark for comfort. You had wanted to go to him. You had wanted to put your hand over his and remind him how to breathe. But the hall was full of men measuring weakness with the quiet industry of butchers checking the fat on a lamb.
So you had remained still.
That was one of the first lessons you had learned as Aegon’s daughter. Stillness could be a blade if held correctly. Your mother had taught you that before she died in Dorne, though she had never said it so grimly. Rhaenys had danced through rooms other people stalked through, but she missed nothing. She had known when to smile, when to cut, when to charm a man so thoroughly he thanked her after she opened his throat in public without spilling a drop of blood. You remembered her hands braiding your hair on a warm morning before she flew south. You remembered her perfume, orange blossom and smoke. You remembered Meraxes’s shadow swallowing the yard, and your mother laughing at some jest Aenys had made, her face turned toward the sun.
Then Dorne had eaten her.
After that, nobody spoke of softness in your presence without earning your contempt.
Visenya stood apart from the others in the hall, straight as a spear, black and silver, her lined face giving nothing away. She had not wept. You did not think she had forgotten how. You thought she considered tears a private language, and Visenya Targaryen did not give language freely to those who had not earned it. Her gaze rested on Aenys with a coldness that might have been judgment or might have been fear wearing armor. Beside her, half in shadow, stood Maegor.
Your half-brother had been a hard boy and had become a harder man. There were men who grew into their faces as they aged, and then there was Maegor, who seemed to have been carved for war before his cradle was built. He was broader than Aenys, taller than most lords, with shoulders made for mail and violence. His silver hair fell loose tonight, damp from the storm, and the dark tunic he wore made his eyes seem paler than usual. He did not fidget. He did not offer comfort. He did not pretend grief had turned him kind. The lords near him kept a careful distance, the way men avoided stepping too close to a chained beast even when assured the chain was strong. Sensible of them, really. A rare outbreak of intelligence in a royal hall.
Maegor’s gaze found you through the smoke and candlelight.
It did not ask if you mourned. It did not offer sympathy. It held you with the old, unspoken recognition that had existed between you since he had first been old enough to understand that you were not like the simpering girls presented at court, not like the pretty hostages dressed as companions, not like the ladies who lowered their eyes and called obedience virtue because some septon had told them fear was holiness. You had been Aegon’s daughter and Rhaenys’s shadow, smiling when you wished, silent when you chose, but never tame. Maegor had seen that before most. He had been a boy with a wooden sword and too much force in his hands. You had been older, already expected to behave like a princess, already bored of men telling you how princesses should breathe.
He had struck a training dummy so hard one morning that the post split.
“You will break every blade they give you,” you had told him then.
He had looked at you, sweat on his brow, fury in his mouth. “Then they should give me better blades.”
You had laughed. He had stared as if nobody had ever laughed at him without fear before. Perhaps nobody had.
That was years ago. Before Aenys’s marriage. Before Maegor’s disastrous match with Ceryse Hightower, that pale Oldtown offering laid at the feet of politics and the Faith like a lamb dressed in silk. Before the realm learned to whisper that Queen Visenya’s son had no heir and King Aenys’s children were too many, too fragile, too soft, too beloved by the wrong factions. Before your father’s body cooled and every lord in the hall began pretending loyalty had not already become arithmetic behind his eyes.
You left before the feast of mourning turned into a council by another name.
No one stopped you. A few glanced your way, but no man reached out. Even after all these years, even after marriage offers rejected, alliances proposed, bargains dressed up as concern, there remained something about you that reminded them of the mother you had lost. You were not Rhaenys. You lacked her easy brightness, the lightness with which she disarmed fools. Grief had made you more deliberate. Court had made you smoother. Watching men exploit Aenys’s kindness had made you cruel in small, useful ways. Still, you had her mouth, her eyes, and when you chose to smile, men remembered too late that Rhaenys Targaryen had conquered as surely as Visenya and Aegon had.
The corridors of Dragonstone were colder away from the hall. Torches hissed in iron brackets shaped like dragon jaws. Rain struck the narrow windows and ran down the glass in trembling lines. Somewhere below, the sea hurled itself against the cliffs with mindless devotion. You walked without escort, skirts whispering over black stone, your mourning gown heavy with dark embroidery worked in the shape of wings. Around your throat rested a ruby your father had given you when you were ten, too large for a child then, perfectly suited to a woman now. Aegon had fastened it himself and said you had your mother’s fire. You had believed him because children believed fathers before they learned fathers were men, and men, even great ones, were full of failures dressed as duty.
You reached the gallery overlooking the eastern yard and stopped.
Below, Balerion slept like a hill of darkness.
No, not slept. Rested. Waiting. There was a difference with dragons. The Black Dread lay coiled in the rain, vast beyond reason, his scales drinking what little moonlight escaped the clouds. Steam curled from his nostrils. Every breath moved through the yard like a bellows stirring a forge. He had carried your father across seven kingdoms. He had burned Harrenhal. He had made kings kneel. Now he lay riderless, and the world seemed wrong for it.
“He will not take Aenys.”
Maegor’s voice came from behind you.
You did not turn at once. “You sound certain.”
“I am.”
“Dragons are not swords, brother. They are not passed from hand to hand because men think inheritance should be tidy.”
“No,” Maegor said. His steps came closer, slow, measured, no jingle of ornament, no wasted sound. “They choose strength.”
You looked down at Balerion’s enormous head, at the closed eye larger than a shield. “And you think strength is always loud enough to be recognized.”
“I think weakness is always loud enough to be punished.”
There he was. No comfort, no false gentleness, no attempt to place flowers on a corpse and call that governance. You turned then, finding him only a few paces away. The torchlight carved his face into bronze and shadow. Maegor wore grief strangely, if he wore it at all. Not as sorrow. As insult. As if Aegon’s death had offended him by leaving too much unfinished.
“Aenys is king now,” you said.
Maegor’s mouth tightened. “Aenys is crowned. That is not always the same thing.”
“You should not say that where stones can hear.”
“These stones have heard worse.”
“They have,” you agreed. “Mostly from our family. A proud tradition of giving architecture trauma.”
His gaze moved over your face. There was no humor in him, not tonight, but something almost alive flickered behind his eyes when you spoke. Maegor did not laugh easily. You were not sure he laughed at all anymore. But he listened to you with a focus that had always felt more dangerous than affection from another man. Other men admired. Other men desired. Other men thought wanting you made them brave. Maegor looked at you as if he had long ago decided you were inevitable.
“You left him alone in there,” he said.
“Aenys is not alone. He has half the realm pressing its tongue to his boots.”
“He needed you.”
“He needed Father not to die.”
Maegor accepted that with a faint tilt of his head. “That too.”
You looked back toward the rain-streaked window. “I will speak with him when he can hear me. Not while lords crowd him, not while septons murmur about divine order, not while every man with land and vanity tries to carve a future from his shock.”
“He will listen to them before he listens to you.”
“Perhaps.”
“He loves you. That does not mean he understands you.”
The words landed too close to a truth you had spent years folding neatly and hiding beneath silk. Aenys loved you. He had loved you all his life with the open warmth that made people forgive him things they would have condemned in another king. As children, he had followed you through Dragonstone’s halls, coughing in winter, laughing in summer, asking questions until you threatened to feed him to the crabs. You had protected him from courtiers, from his own anxieties, from the knowledge that your father’s disappointment hurt him more because Aegon rarely needed to say it aloud. But Aenys wanted peace so badly that he often mistook appeasement for mercy. He wanted love from a realm built by flame. He wanted the Faith to bless what it had barely survived. He wanted lords to remember oaths when ambition smelled blood.
It terrified you how much you loved him. Love made women stupid in songs. In life, it made them tired.
“And you understand me?” you asked.
Maegor stepped closer. “Better than he does.”
“You understand what you want of me. Men often confuse the two.”
“I have never confused wanting you with anything else.”
There it was, finally spoken plainly enough to make the torches seem louder. The rain kept falling. Balerion breathed below. Somewhere deep in the castle, a door shut, voices faded, the machinery of succession grinding on because humans, being ridiculous little creatures, saw a dead king and immediately began arranging chairs around the corpse.
You held Maegor’s stare. “Careful.”
“No.”
The answer was immediate. Flat. Perfectly Maegor.
Your pulse changed, not quickening like a maiden startled by a kiss, but deepening, turning heavier. You were no maiden. No untouched ornament kept in a tower for bards to ruin with metaphors. You were a woman grown, a princess of House Targaryen, old enough to know desire from threat and foolishness from fate. You had known men’s eyes, their hands, their hunger carefully wrapped in compliments. None of them had unsettled you like Maegor because none of them had ever looked at you without trying to make himself smaller first.
“You have a wife,” you said.
“I have a Hightower bargain.”
“A wife,” you repeated.
“A barren one.”
The cruelty in it should have repelled you more than it did. Perhaps that was a sin. Perhaps that was blood. Perhaps the difference mattered only to septons and other professional cowards.
“Do not speak of her as if she chose the bargain more than you did.”
“I did not choose her.”
“No. Your mother chose ambition. Father chose peace. Oldtown chose influence. The Faith chose its own reflection and called it holy. Ceryse chose obedience because women are praised for swallowing knives politely.” You moved past him toward the next archway, needing air that did not taste so strongly of smoke and Maegor. “Do not pretend you were the only one chained.”
His hand closed around your wrist.
Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to stop.
You looked down at his fingers, then up at him. “Release me.”
For one moment, he did not. The pause was small, but it contained every brutal thing in him, every lesson Visenya had carved into her son, every instinct that told him possession was safer than pleading. Then his grip loosened. He did not step back.
“You think I would force you?” he asked, voice lower now.
“I think you would force the world if it stood where you wished to walk.”
“Yes.”
“At least you are honest.”
“Not with everyone.”
“No. With everyone else you are blunt. That is not the same as honest.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger. Interest, perhaps. Hunger wearing thought. “And with you?”
“With me, you are dangerous because you do not lie enough.”
The corner of his mouth moved. Not a smile, not quite. “You prefer liars?”
“I prefer men who know the difference between desire and destiny.”
“Destiny is a word weak men use when they want permission from the gods.”
“And desire?”
“Desire needs no permission.”
You should have left. Truly, you should have. There were a hundred sensible reasons, and the fact that you could name them all made it even more irritating that your feet remained planted on the stone. He was your half-brother. He was married. He was Visenya’s son, all iron where Aenys was silk, all appetite where other men had manners. The realm was shifting beneath you. Your father’s death had made every private choice political. Any fool could see that.
Unfortunately, fools were often less tempted.
“You came after me,” you said.
“I came to find you.”
“Why?”
“Because when they crown him, they will start killing him slowly.”
You did not answer.
Maegor’s voice roughened, not with softness, but with conviction. “Not with knives. Not at first. They will flatter him. Frighten him. Bleed him agreement by agreement until nothing remains but a king who signs what stronger men place before him. The Faith will smile and call it guidance. The lords will call it counsel. You will call it what it is.”
“Cowardice,” you said quietly.
“Predation.”
That made you look at him again.
He stepped nearer, and this time you did not move away. “You know it. You watched them tonight. You saw their eyes.”
“I saw them.”
“You know what must be done.”
“I know what you think must be done.”
“I know what Father knew when he burned Harrenhal.”
You felt anger flare then, clean enough to be useful. “Do not use my father’s name as a cloak for every violent thought in your head.”
“Our father,” Maegor said.
“Our father,” you allowed. “And he conquered, yes. He burned. He killed. He also stopped. You never learned that part.”
His face hardened. “Stopping gave the realm time to remember disobedience.”
“Stopping gave the realm time to become a realm instead of a graveyard.”
“And now?”
“Now Aenys is king.”
“Now Aenys is prey.”
The silence after that was uglier because it was not empty. It was full of things both of you knew and neither wanted to confess cleanly. Aenys was kind. Aenys was legitimate. Aenys was loved. Aenys was not made for a throne built from swords. The realm might survive him if the gods were unusually generous, but gods, as a rule, seemed to enjoy watching House Targaryen solve problems by becoming worse.
“You speak treason on the night of our father’s death,” you said.
“I speak truth on the night truth is needed.”
“You speak hunger.”
“For the throne?” he asked.
“For power. For war. For me.”
Maegor’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
There was the answer, honest as a wound.
“Yes,” he said.
The word went through you with more force than it should have. You had been desired before, but desire from Maegor was not a perfumed note, not a courtly song, not some knight’s trembling confession beneath a balcony. It was a door barred from the inside. A torch lowered toward oil. It was the knowledge that if you stepped closer, neither of you would pretend surprise when the fire took.
“You should go back to your wife,” you said.
“You do not want me to.”
“Do not tell me what I want.”
“I have watched you refuse every lord Father placed near you.”
“Most men become unbearable when encouraged. I was performing a public service.”
“I watched you smile at their gifts and leave them untouched.”
“They had poor taste.”
“I watched you look at me when you thought no one saw.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it. A small betrayal. Maegor saw it, because of course he did. Men like him survived by noticing where armor shifted.
“You were a boy when I first knew you,” you said, hating how unsteady the words felt beneath their composure.
“I am not a boy now.”
“No,” you said. “You are not.”
The storm pressed itself against the windows. The torches snapped. The castle seemed to lean inward, nosy old beast that it was, eager for another family disaster to add to its collection.
Maegor lifted his hand, slowly this time, giving you every chance to move away. You did not. His fingers touched the ruby at your throat, then the skin just above it. The contact was not gentle in the way singers praised gentleness. It was careful, which from him meant more. His thumb rested at the hollow beneath your jaw, feeling your pulse. Your body, treacherous thing, answered before your pride could organize a proper defense.
“You are trembling,” he said.
“I am angry.”
“You tremble when angry?”
“I tremble when I am deciding whether to strike.”
His gaze burned down into yours. “Then strike.”
You did.
Not with your hand. That would have been simpler, cleaner, and much less catastrophic. You caught the front of his tunic and pulled him down to you, and Maegor came willingly, mouth meeting yours with the violence of something long denied. The kiss was not sweet. Sweetness had no place there, not under those stones, not with your father dead and your brother newly crowned and the realm already sharpening its teeth. It was heat and grief and blood answering blood. His hand went to your waist, gripping through black silk. Yours slid into his hair, dragging him closer when he made a rough sound against your mouth.
You had imagined this before. Seven save you, you had. In idle moments, in angry ones, in the hollow hours after court when every lord’s face blurred into another and only Maegor remained vivid because he never begged to be liked. You had imagined his hands. His mouth. The weight of him. You had imagined telling him no and meaning it. You had imagined telling him yes and damning yourself with open eyes.
He backed you against the stone between two dragon-carved arches. The cold bit through your gown. He kissed your throat, not with courtly reverence but with a hunger that made your fingers tighten in his hair. You turned your face toward the ceiling, breathing hard, and saw one of the gargoyles staring down with its ugly stone mouth open. Typical Dragonstone. Even the masonry lacked decency.
“Maegor,” you said.
He stopped at once.
That, more than the hunger, nearly undid you. He lifted his head, his breathing rough, his hand still at your waist but no longer pulling.
“If you tell me to leave,” he said, “I will.”
You searched his face. You believed him. Not because he was harmless, not because he had suddenly become good, not because desire had purified anything. You believed him because his pride would survive denial better than begging. Because he would not want you like a conquered town. Because some part of him, buried deep beneath all that iron, knew you would rather throw yourself from the cliffs than be taken unwilling.
“And if I tell you to stay?” you asked.
His grip flexed once. “Then I stay.”
“With all that means?”
“With all that means.”
You should have asked what all meant to Maegor. A more cautious woman would have. A better woman, perhaps. But better women often ended up traded between houses while men congratulated themselves on peace. You were tired of caution being demanded from women so men could spend recklessness like coin.
You took his hand and led him from the gallery.
Neither of you spoke as you passed through the inner corridors toward your chambers. Speech would have made the choice smaller. Servants had withdrawn for the night, either out of mourning or survival instinct, and the few guards you passed lowered their eyes with impressive commitment to staying alive. Maegor walked beside you, not behind, not ahead. The restraint in him was visible only because you knew how little he possessed by nature. Each step seemed to pull something tighter between you.
Your rooms had once belonged to your mother.
Aenys had offered to have them changed after she died, but you refused. You had kept the carved screens she liked, the Myrish carpets, the painted chest with silver hinges, the old harp in the corner no one touched because nobody living played it as she had. You had changed the colors over the years, less gold, more deep red and black, less girlish brightness, more flame under ash. But Rhaenys remained in the bones of the chamber. Her laughter was gone, but sometimes at night, when the sea wind slipped through the shutters, you could almost imagine the echo of silk and music.
Maegor entered and looked around once.
“You think of her here,” he said.
“Always.”
“She would hate the hall tonight.”
“She would have smiled through it first.”
“And then?”
“Then someone would have discovered too late that her smile had teeth.”
He looked at you then with something close to approval. “You are like her.”
“No,” you said, walking to the table where wine waited untouched. “I am what was left after Dorne took her.”
Maegor was silent behind you.
You poured wine, drank, and let the burn settle your nerves. When you turned, he had not moved far from the door. That was almost amusing, in a bleak way. Maegor Targaryen, terror of yards and tourneys, standing in your chamber like a man awaiting sentence.
“Are you afraid?” you asked.
His jaw shifted. “No.”
“Liar.”
“I am afraid,” he said, as if forcing the words through his teeth, “that if I touch you again, I will not be able to forget the shape of you.”
The honesty stripped the mockery from your mouth.
You set the cup aside and went to him. The space between you disappeared slowly this time. No storm-driven collision, no grief disguised as fury. You reached for the clasp of his cloak and unfastened it. The heavy black fabric fell from his shoulders to the floor. He watched your hands as if they were doing something more dangerous than undressing him. Maybe they were. Armor could be replaced. This could not be put back into silence once named by touch.
“You speak as if forgetting was ever possible,” you said.
His hands found the laces at your back. “Not for me.”
“No. I know.”
He worked the ties loose with surprising patience. Men always liked to claim women’s clothing was mysterious when really they were simply impatient and undertrained. Maegor, at least, had the decency to treat the matter like a siege requiring skill rather than brute force. The gown loosened, heavy fabric sliding from your shoulders, pooling at your feet with all the quiet drama court ladies spent fortunes trying to achieve. Beneath it, your shift clung lightly to your body, thin enough that the room’s chill raised gooseflesh along your arms.
Maegor touched your shoulder. One finger first, then his whole hand, warm against your skin. His eyes moved over you with naked want, but not the shallow kind that made women feel consumed by stupidity. This was darker. Reverent, if reverence could have a blade in it.
“You look at me as if I am a crown,” you said.
His hand slid to your throat, not pressing, only holding. “No crown was ever worth this.”
You laughed once, breathlessly. “That is the sort of thing that ruins kingdoms.”
“Kingdoms ruin themselves. We only give them songs to blame.”
Then he kissed you again, and whatever clever answer you might have offered dissolved.
You undressed him with less patience than he had given your gown, tugging at fastenings, pushing fabric aside, needing the proof of him beneath the black severity he wore like a second skin. He was scarred in small places, marked by training yards and tourneys, by the ordinary violence of a man raised to believe pain was instruction. He was warm under your hands, alive in a way the mourning hall had not been. When your palms pressed to his chest, his breath changed. When your mouth touched the base of his throat, his hand clenched in your hair, then loosened at once, restraint snapping into place like a chain pulled tight.
“Do not be gentle because you think I might break,” you said.
His eyes darkened. “I have never thought you breakable.”
“Then do not handle me like glass.”
That was the last mercy you gave either of you.
He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, and you wrapped yourself around him with a gasp you would deny under oath if any god had the nerve to ask. He carried you to the bed that had belonged to your mother’s rooms but never, thank every sane power, to your mother’s marriage, since the royal household had always operated with enough separate chambers to let everyone pretend dignity survived dragon incest. He laid you down and followed, bracing himself above you, his hair falling around his face, his mouth swollen from yours. For one suspended moment, you saw him not as the realm saw him, not as Visenya’s weapon, not as Aenys’s dangerous brother, not as the man lords feared and septons would someday curse until their throats grew raw. You saw the boy who had split the practice post because no blade was strong enough. You saw the man he had become because nobody had taught him wanting did not always need to become conquest.
You touched his face.
He went still.
“Y/N,” he said, and your name in his mouth was not soft. It was worse. It was needed.
You drew him down.
The night took shape in heat and breath and the storm beating against the shutters. He learned you not like a courtier seeking praise, but like a warrior studying terrain he meant to remember in darkness. His hands were firm at your hips, your ribs, your thighs, never timid, never careless. Your body answered him with an honesty that pride could not polish into something respectable. When he entered you, slowly despite the strain in his arms, your nails bit into his shoulders and his forehead lowered to yours. The world narrowed to the ache of being opened, the rough sound he made when you pulled him closer, the old Valyrian curse he breathed against your mouth as if prayer and profanity had finally admitted they were cousins.
There was no innocence in it. No pretty lie that this was an accident born from grief. You moved with him because you wanted to. Because the realm had taken your mother, your father, your peace, your usefulness, and tried to leave you with only duty in exchange. Because Maegor was dangerous and you knew it. Because some part of you was dangerous too, and he had never made the mistake of pretending otherwise. He drove you upward until the bed ropes creaked, until your breath broke, until pleasure pulled the room apart and remade it in flashes of candlelight and skin. He watched your face when you came undone, jaw clenched, eyes fierce with something almost like pain. Then he followed you over, burying his face against your neck, his body shuddering with a loss of control so complete it felt more intimate than any vow.
Afterward, the storm sounded farther away.
Maegor remained over you for several breaths, heavy but not crushing, as if the act of moving might restore the world too quickly. You traced the line of his spine with your fingertips. He turned his head enough to look at you, and there was a vulnerability there so brief most would have missed it. You did not. You had been raised among dragons. You knew rare things when they appeared.
“You are quiet,” you said.
“I am thinking.”
“A tragedy for everyone nearby.”
His mouth twitched against your shoulder. There. Almost a laugh. Someone should have recorded it for the histories, since the maesters would otherwise insist such a thing was anatomically impossible.
He shifted to your side but kept one arm around you, possessive in the old way, as if his body had declared law before his mouth could draft it. You let him. For now.
“What are you thinking?” you asked.
“That I should have done this years ago.”
“You were young years ago.”
“So were you.”
“I was less foolish.”
“No,” he said. “You were better at hiding it.”
You turned your head to glare at him. “You are very bold for a man in my bed.”
“Our bed, tonight.”
“Do not get ambitious.”
“I am always ambitious.”
“Yes, I had noticed. Subtle as a dragon landing in a sept.”
He looked at the ceiling, then back to you. “Come with me when I return to King’s Landing.”
The warmth in you cooled by a careful degree. “There it is.”
“I do not want you left here with ghosts.”
“How touching. I was worried you had gone soft.”
“I want you where I can see who approaches you.”
“And there goes the touching part, murdered in infancy.”
His arm tightened. “Lords will come now. Suitors. Envoys. Men with sons. Men with brothers. Men who think Aenys can be persuaded to sell your hand for quiet.”
“Aenys would not sell me.”
“Aenys would persuade himself he was protecting you.”
That one struck, and Maegor knew it.
You sat up, taking the sheet with you, hair spilling over your shoulders. Candlelight moved over the ruby at your throat, still somehow in place, stubborn little thing. Maegor watched you with guarded intensity.
“You think I do not know?” you asked. “You think I have not heard the suggestions? A Baratheon cousin for Storm’s End. A Lannister for gold. A Hightower arrangement to soothe the Faith further, because one Hightower bride was not enough perfume poured over rot. Every man at court thinks a woman’s body is a bridge if he can convince himself the river matters.”
“I would kill any man who tried to take you.”
“Yes, Maegor. I know. That is not the reassuring declaration men seem to think it is.”
“It should be.”
“It really should not.”
His gaze hardened. “You would prefer I do nothing?”
“I would prefer men stop deciding possession is protection.”
“Sometimes it is.”
“And sometimes it is just a prettier cage.”
He sat up then, the sheet falling to his waist, his expression shutting piece by piece. You hated that you understood why. Maegor knew cages too. Not the same sort. Not silk, not smiles, not marriage contracts sealed with hymns. His cages had been expectation, comparison, Visenya’s hand on his shoulder, Aegon’s vast shadow, the realm whispering that he was too much and never enough. But pain did not absolve him. It only explained the shape of the weapon.
“I will not be hidden behind you,” you said. “Not as mistress. Not as shame. Not as some secret you visit between council meetings and your wife’s cold bed.”
“Ceryse means nothing.”
“She means something to the Faith. To Oldtown. To the realm. Do not insult me by pretending politics vanish because your cock is satisfied.”
His eyes flashed, but not with offense. If anything, the bluntness steadied him. Maegor had always preferred ugly truth to scented evasion.
“What do you want, then?” he asked.
You looked toward the shutters. Beyond them, the sea was black and restless, and somewhere in the yard below, Balerion dreamed without a rider. “I want Aenys protected.”
“He will not accept protection from me.”
“Then make him accept usefulness.”
“He fears me.”
“Most people with a pulse fear you. Learn to work around this shocking inconvenience.”
Maegor’s mouth tightened again, that nearly-smile returning despite himself. “You ask me to serve him.”
“I ask you not to break him because you can.”
“He will break without me.”
“Then stand near enough that others think twice.”
“And when thinking twice is not enough?”
You turned back to him. “Then we will speak again.”
“We.”
“Yes,” you said. “We.”
That word changed the room more than the bedding, more than the storm, more than the evidence of what your bodies had done. Maegor heard it as you meant him to hear it. Not surrender. Not promise. Alliance.
He reached for you, but this time he only took your hand. His thumb moved once over your knuckles, rough and warm.
“You would make a hard queen,” he said.
You smiled faintly. “I was not aware we were discussing crowns.”
“I am always discussing crowns.”
“Exhausting man.”
“You would,” he insisted. “Hard, but not cruel without cause. Loved by those who remember Rhaenys. Feared by those clever enough to see Visenya in your spine.”
“I am not Visenya.”
“No. You are worse.”
You arched a brow.
His gaze held yours. “Visenya does not make men want to kneel. She makes them understand they should.”
The air shifted again, intimate in a different way. Dangerous, yes. But then, everything in your bloodline was dangerous. The trick was deciding whether danger served you or devoured you.
“You speak treason again,” you said.
“I speak prophecy.”
“Prophecy is what people call ambition when they want candles around it.”
“That sounds like something you would accuse me of saying.”
“You are a bad influence.”
“I have not begun to be.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. It surprised you, and him too. For a moment, grief loosened its grip enough to let something else breathe. Not happiness. That would have been too clean. But something warmer than despair, something living.
Then a knock sounded at the outer door.
Both of you went still.
The knock came again, tentative this time. “Princess?”
You recognized the voice. Elinda, one of your ladies, young, loyal, and inconveniently awake.
Maegor’s expression turned lethal.
You put a hand on his chest. “Do not murder my lady because she has timing fit for a mummer’s farce.”
“She should not be at your door.”
“It is my door. People do occasionally approach it. Civilization continues its tragic march.”
“Princess?” Elinda called again, more worried now. “Forgive me, but King Aenys asks for you.”
That changed everything.
You rose at once. Maegor caught your wrist, not restraining, only stopping you long enough for his gaze to search yours.
“He calls,” Maegor said.
“He is my brother.”
“So am I.”
“Yes,” you said, looking down at him. “That is the problem and the point.”
You pulled away and dressed without allowing your hands to shake. Maegor watched from the bed, silent as you stepped into a dark robe and belted it at the waist. The mirror showed your hair mussed, your lips bitten, your throat marked faintly where his mouth had been. You stared at yourself for one heartbeat too long, then took powder from the small silver dish on your table and softened what needed softening. Women had been repairing the visible consequences of men since the dawn of time. Another proud tradition.
When you turned, Maegor had risen and dressed enough for decency, though not enough to pass unnoticed by anyone with eyes and a working brain. Fortunately, most courts trained people out of both.
“You cannot come with me,” you said.
“I can.”
“You will not.”
His face darkened.
“Aenys asked for me,” you said. “Not for you. If you enter behind me now, half the castle will understand before morning, and the other half will invent something worse.”
“I do not fear rumor.”
“No. You only underestimate it because you prefer enemies with armor.”
He came toward you, stopping close enough that you could feel his heat through the robe. “This is not finished.”
“No,” you said. “It is not.”
“If he offers your hand to someone else, I will not stand idle.”
“If he offers my hand to someone else, I will refuse.”
“And if he commands?”
You looked at him then, really looked, letting him see Rhaenys in your face, Aegon in your blood, and something entirely your own beneath both. “Then he will learn I am not his to command in that.”
Maegor studied you for a long moment. Then he nodded once.
It was not submission. Maegor did not submit. It was recognition. That would do.
You opened the door only wide enough to step into the corridor. Elinda stood outside with a candle, pale and anxious. Her eyes flicked once past your shoulder before she stopped herself, which proved she was not stupid, merely doomed to serve in a family where private life was designed by dragonlords.
“Princess,” she said carefully.
“Say nothing,” you told her.
“I saw nothing.”
“Excellent. You may yet survive court.”
Her mouth trembled as if she nearly smiled, then she lowered her head. “His Grace is in the painted chamber. He dismissed most of the lords. He seemed distressed.”
Aenys distressed. Poor water, still wet.
You followed Elinda through the corridors, your body still carrying Maegor’s touch beneath the robe, your mind already armoring itself for your brother’s grief. By the time you reached the painted chamber, dawn had begun to pale the edges of the storm. The room smelled of wax, wet wool, and old maps. Aenys stood near the table where the Seven Kingdoms lay painted in careful colors, as if borders were not simply wounds men agreed to respect until greed made them forget.
He turned when you entered.
For one moment, he was not king. He was your brother, hollow-eyed, silver hair loose, hands trembling faintly at his sides. The crown sat on the table beside him. He looked afraid of it. Sensible man. Crowns had a long history of ruining the heads beneath them.
“Y/N,” he said.
You dismissed Elinda with a glance and went to him. Aenys reached for you, and you embraced him. He held on tightly, face pressed briefly against your shoulder, and the child he had been lived again in that gesture. Your heart hurt with sudden, savage tenderness.
“I cannot do this,” he whispered.
“You can.”
“No.” His voice broke. “No, do not say that because you think you must. Father was... Father was Father. He could silence a hall by breathing. Mother could make men love her while she took everything from them. Visenya frightens men into remembering their knees. Maegor frightens them into remembering their graves. And I...” He pulled back, shame in his eyes. “I make them comfortable.”
“You make them less afraid.”
“That is not enough.”
“No,” you said, because love did not require lying. “It is not enough by itself.”
He flinched, but he listened.
You took his hands. “You need counsel you trust, not flatterers. You need strength near you, even when it displeases you. You need to stop believing every man who kneels has yielded anything more than his knees.”
Aenys swallowed. “You sound like Visenya.”
“Then Visenya must occasionally be right. Horrifying, but survivable.”
A weak breath of laughter left him. Then his face sobered. “She wants Maegor named Hand.”
You had expected it and still felt the floor shift beneath the words.
“And what do you want?” you asked.
“I want peace.”
“Peace is not a man. It cannot serve as Hand.”
“Do you think I should name him?”
You thought of Maegor in your chamber, his hands on your skin, his voice saying prey. You thought of the lords in the hall. You thought of the Faith waiting in Oldtown, already calculating how far it could push a king eager to be blessed. You thought of Aenys, gentle and frightened, and Maegor, brutal and certain, and yourself between them like a bridge no one had built safely.
“I think,” you said slowly, “that if you keep him far from power, he will become a threat outside your reach. If you bring him close, he will be dangerous, but visible.”
Aenys stared at you. “That is not comforting.”
“No. It is advice. Comfort is usually less useful.”
He looked down at your hands. “Do you trust him?”
There were many answers. None clean. Trust was too simple a word for Maegor. You trusted him to be himself. You trusted his hunger, his pride, his violence, his refusal to bend without deciding how to break what pressed him. You trusted that he wanted you. You trusted that he would burn cities before admitting fear. You did not trust him with mercy. You did not trust him with Aenys’s softness. You did not trust him with a crown.
“I trust him to protect what he considers his,” you said.
Aenys looked up. “And does he consider this family his?”
You almost laughed, but the sound would have been cruel. “Yes. In his way.”
“That is what frightens me.”
“As it should.”
He turned away, pacing once around the painted table. “The Faith will oppose him. The lords may resent him. Ceryse’s kin will demand favor. Visenya will press. I can already hear them all. I can hear Father telling me to decide, and I do not know which choice ruins us more.”
You went to the table and touched the painted shape of the Blackwater. “Then do not decide tonight.”
“I must.”
“No. Men who want something from you will tell you urgency is duty. Sometimes it is merely theft.”
Aenys went still.
“You are king,” you said. “Let them wait. Let them wonder. Let Maegor wonder too.”
His brow furrowed. “You think delay is strength?”
“I think choosing when others demand haste reminds them the choice is yours.”
For the first time that night, Aenys looked at you not as a drowning man looks at shore, but as a king might look at counsel. It gave you hope. Naturally, hope in Westeros tended to behave like a candle in a rainstorm, but still, there it was.
“You should be Hand,” he said quietly.
You smiled. “The realm would choke.”
“I might enjoy watching that.”
“There is my brother.”
He smiled back, faint but real. Then his gaze softened. “Stay near me.”
“I will.”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
He embraced you again, and over his shoulder, through the narrow window behind him, you saw the yard below. The storm had begun to break. In the gray before dawn, Balerion lifted his head.
And there, at the edge of the yard, stood Maegor.
He was too far away for you to see his expression clearly, but you knew he was looking up. Not at Aenys. Not at the crown. At you.
Balerion’s massive head turned toward him.
The world seemed to pause.
Aenys did not see it. His face was still pressed against your shoulder, his grief warm and human and painfully fragile in your arms. You held him, but your eyes remained on the yard as Maegor took one step closer to the Black Dread. The dragon’s nostrils flared. Steam poured white into the dawn. No guards shouted. No one moved. Even Dragonstone seemed to hold its breath, grotesque old pile of stone that it was, thrilled to witness another omen men would later pretend had been obvious.
Maegor stopped before Balerion.
The dragon lowered his head.
Not fully. Not submissively. Dragons did not bow, whatever singers claimed after enough wine. But the Black Dread lowered himself enough that Maegor could reach out and lay one hand against the dark scales of his snout.
Your heart struck once, hard.
Aenys pulled back, noticing your face. “What is it?”
You looked away from the window.
“Nothing,” you said.
A lie. A necessary one.
By midday, all Dragonstone knew.
Prince Maegor had approached Balerion and lived. More than lived. The Black Dread had accepted his hand, then his weight, then his command. At dawn, while King Aenys mourned and lords slept badly in borrowed chambers, Maegor Targaryen had mounted the greatest living dragon in the world. By afternoon, men spoke more softly when his name passed their lips. By evening, ravens were being drafted with trembling fingers.
Aenys took the news with a stillness that hurt to watch.
“He was Father’s dragon,” he said in your chambers later, voice thin.
“He was never only Father’s dragon.”
“No. I know.” Aenys sat near the window, the crown now on his head because you had told him if he feared it, he should wear it until the fear grew bored. He had laughed when you said it. Then he had put it on. Progress, apparently. “The lords will see meaning in it.”
“The lords see meaning in burnt bread if it helps their argument.”
“Y/N.”
“Yes. They will see meaning.”
“And you?”
You stood behind him, looking out at the sea. Far above, a dark shape moved through the clouds, too large to be any bird. Maegor had flown Balerion twice already. Once around Dragonstone. Once far enough that the island seemed smaller when he returned. Men had watched from the yard in silence, and Visenya had looked satisfied in a way that made your skin prickle.
“I see danger,” you said.
Aenys closed his eyes. “So do I.”
“But danger can be used.”
“That sounds like him.”
“It is mine.”
He opened his eyes and looked back at you, studying you more closely than you liked. “Did he speak to you last night?”
You kept your face calm. “Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That you are prey if you insist on trusting wolves because they wag their tails.”
Aenys winced. “Charming.”
“You asked.”
“Did he say anything else?”
Many things. Your name. Stay. Prophecy. Not finished. No crown was ever worth this. Desire needs no permission. Dangerous things, each of them still alive beneath your skin.
“Yes,” you said. “But nothing you need carry tonight.”
Not through the halls this time. Subtlety, it seemed, had briefly visited him and found the accommodations poor but tolerable. He entered through the narrow passage behind your mother’s old solar, a private route built in Valyrian days, when families apparently expected betrayal often enough to include convenient architecture. You had known he would come. You had left the candles burning low and dismissed your ladies early. A stupid risk, perhaps. But grief had burned away your patience for pretending.
Aenys accepted that because he trusted you. The guilt of it sat beneath your breastbone like a small knife.
That night, Maegor came to you again.
He wore riding leathers, blackened by rain and smelling faintly of dragon, smoke, and storm air. His hair was wind-tangled. There was something different in him now, not softer, never that, but expanded. Balerion had not made Maegor more arrogant. He had made the arrogance seem justified, which was deeply inconvenient for everyone who preferred their dangerous men unsupported by cosmic symbolism.
“You rode him,” you said.
“I did.”
“And?”
His eyes found yours. “The sky is smaller than I thought.”
Trust Maegor to mount the largest dragon alive and insult the sky afterward.
“You will be unbearable now.”
“I was unbearable before.”
“At least you have self-knowledge.”
He crossed the room and took your face in his hands, kissing you with less desperation than the night before but more claim. You let him for three breaths, four, then pushed him back.
“We need to speak.”
“I dislike those words.”
“Most men do. They usually precede consequences.”
His hands remained at your waist. “Speak.”
“You cannot move against Aenys.”
His face closed. “If he endangers the realm...”
“No. Listen to me. You cannot move against him because I will not forgive you.”
That stopped him more effectively than any threat could have.
You continued before he could answer. “You think the realm needs force. Perhaps it does. You think Aenys needs steel near him. I agree. You think men are already circling him. They are. But if you become one more danger he must survive, then you are no better than the rest, only larger and louder.”
“I am not like the rest.”
“No. You are worse if you choose to be.”
His jaw worked. “You ask me to kneel.”
“I ask you to stand where your blood needs you.”
“To serve a weaker man.”
“To protect your brother.”
“He is your brother more than mine.”
“He is still yours.”
Maegor looked away, toward the hearth where the flames burned low and red. “He has always looked at me as if I were a blade left too close to a child.”
“Were you not?”
“Yes.”
The answer was so immediate, so coldly honest, that it hurt.
You stepped closer. “Then become something else.”
His laugh was quiet and unpleasant. “Men do not become something else because women ask nicely.”
“I have no intention of asking nicely.”
He looked at you again.
“You want me,” you said. “Not as a passing bedmate. Not as a secret. Not as comfort. You want me beside you in whatever future you keep imagining when you stare too long at crowns. Then hear me clearly. If you bring ruin down on Aenys for ambition alone, you lose me.”
For a moment, the room felt as if it had no air.
Maegor’s eyes were pale violence. “Do not threaten me with yourself.”
“It is the only threat you might heed.”
“You think I would let you go?”
“No,” you said. “I think I would leave anyway.”
The terrible thing was that he believed you. You saw it strike through him, saw the anger, the denial, the instinct to seize, the deeper knowledge that if he caged you he would destroy the very thing he wanted. Maegor could break doors. He could break men. He could not break you and keep you.
He turned from you, hands flexing at his sides. For several breaths, he said nothing. Outside, the sea pounded the rocks as if trying to get into the conversation. It would probably have offered better advice than half the council.
At last, Maegor said, “What would you have of me?”
The words were rough. Costly.
You went to him and stood at his back, not touching yet. “Take the office if he offers it. Refuse insult from lords, but do not create insult where none exists. Let the Faith expose its appetite before you feed it fire. Give Aenys victories he can survive. Give the realm reason to fear disobedience without making them pray for your absence.”
“And you?”
“I remain with Aenys.”
He turned sharply. “No.”
“Yes.”
“You belong at my side.”
“I belong where I choose.”
“At his side, you are surrounded by men who would use you.”
“At yours, I am surrounded by one.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. “You think I use you?”
“I think you would, if I let love make me stupid.”
The word slipped out before you could dress it in something less dangerous.
Love.
Not affection. Not desire. Not blood answering blood. Love, that reckless little arsonist.
Maegor went very still.
You could have taken it back. You did not.
His voice changed when he spoke. “Do you?”
You swallowed. “Do not make me say it like some girl in a song.”
“I am not asking for a song.”
“No. You are asking for surrender.”
“I am asking for truth.”
You hated him a little then. For wanting it. For making you want to give it. For standing there like judgment in riding leather while your entire life rearranged itself around a word you had not planned to use.
“Yes,” you said. “Damn you.”
Maegor crossed the distance between you and kissed you with such force that your back struck the wall. His hand cradled the back of your head before impact could hurt, the other arm locking around your waist. The kiss was not triumphant. It was furious, almost desperate. You understood with a strange twist of tenderness that Maegor had expected loyalty, desire, fear, obedience from the world, but not this. Not love freely given with teeth still bared.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I love you,” he said.
The words sounded unused. Dragged from somewhere deep and poorly lit.
“I know,” you whispered.
“I will not be parted from you.”
“You will, when we must be careful.”
“I hate careful.”
“Yes, that has been made painfully obvious to the realm.”
“I will not let them give you to another.”
“They will not.”
“If Aenys tries...”
“You will do nothing until I ask.”
His expression made clear that this instruction offended every natural law he recognized.
“Maegor.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “I will try.”
For him, that was practically a religious conversion. Alarming. Someone should inform the septons so they could panic in a more organized fashion.
You touched his mouth with your fingers. “That is enough tonight.”
His eyes opened. “Tonight.”
“Yes. Tonight.”
He kissed your fingers, then your palm, and the tenderness of it was so unexpected you almost pulled away. Not because you disliked it. Because tenderness from Maegor felt like finding a flower growing from a sword wound. Impossible. Unsettling. Too alive.
You did not speak again for a while.
The second time you took him to your bed, it was slower. No less hungry, no less forbidden, but less ruled by grief. He undressed you as if committing each motion to memory. You unfastened his leathers and pushed them from his shoulders, pressing your mouth to the places where riding straps had marked his skin. He said your name when your hands moved over him, low and strained, and you learned there was power in making a man like Maegor lose words. You liked it more than was wise.
He held you beneath him, then let you turn him onto his back when you pressed against his chest, his brows drawing together at the novelty of yielding even that much. You smiled down at him, hair falling around your face.
“Do not look so betrayed,” you said.
“I am considering whether I allow this.”
“You are in my bed. You allow many things here.”
His hands settled on your hips. “Only for you.”
“Good.”
You moved over him, taking him in slowly, watching his control fracture by degrees. It was a beautiful thing, in the way storms were beautiful from towers built too close to the sea. His grip tightened, but he let you set the pace. Let you bend, let you kiss him, let you draw those rough sounds from his throat until he sat up and wrapped you in his arms, unable to remain beneath you any longer without making a war of restraint. You laughed against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him.
After, you slept.
Not for long. Dawn came gray and thin, spilling over your bed with no respect for ruin or revelation. Maegor woke before you but did not leave. When you opened your eyes, he was standing at the window, bare to the waist, looking out toward the yard where Balerion was no doubt terrorizing the local concept of scale.
“You should go,” you said, voice rough with sleep.
He looked back. “You say that often.”
“You ignore it often.”
“I am consistent.”
“You are impossible.”
He came back to the bed and sat beside you. For a moment, his hand rested on your hair with surprising care. “Aenys will name me Hand.”
“You sound certain.”
“He fears what happens if he does not.”
“He also hopes what happens if he does.”
Maegor considered that. “You gave him that hope.”
“Someone had to. The court was hardly overflowing with useful emotional labor.”
“I will stand beside him,” he said. “For now.”
You studied him. “And when for now ends?”
His gaze did not move from yours. “That depends on him. And you.”
There was no perfect answer in him. No promise that ambition would never curdle into violence, no lie that he would become gentle for your sake, no miraculous transformation to satisfy a septa’s moral lesson. Maegor was still Maegor. The dragon had not become a lamb because you had touched it. But he had listened. He had bent one inch where most men would have broken themselves pretending they had not heard.
In your family, that counted for more than it should. A sad little standard, really, but House Targaryen had never been known for emotional moderation.
You sat up and kissed him once. “Then we keep the realm alive one day at a time.”
“And if it refuses?”
You looked toward the window, where Balerion’s shadow moved across the yard like night remembering itself.
“Then we remind it why dragons were feared before they were crowned.”
Maegor smiled then.
Not kindly. Not safely.
By the time the bells rang for council, Prince Maegor Targaryen had left your chambers by the hidden passage, and Princess Y/N Targaryen entered the painted chamber dressed in black and red, hair braided with rubies, face calm enough to fool men who thought composure meant innocence. Aenys sat at the head of the table with the crown on his brow. Visenya stood at his right. Maegor entered last, wearing dark mail beneath his cloak, Blackfyre at his hip, and something newly terrible in his stillness.
But for you.
The lords quieted.
Aenys looked at you first.
You inclined your head.
Only then did he speak.
“My lords,” he said, voice not strong, not yet, but steadier than it had been the night before. “The realm mourns my father. So do I. But grief does not excuse disorder, nor will mourning be used as a cloak for ambition.”
Several men shifted, suddenly fascinated by the painted table.
Aenys continued, “I will take counsel. I will hear petitions. I will honor the laws and oaths that bind this realm. But let no man mistake kindness for surrender.”
Visenya’s eyes flicked toward you.
Maegor did not move.
You stood behind Aenys’s chair, hands folded, expression serene. Inside, your heart beat hard, but no one saw that. Let them see Rhaenys’s daughter. Let them see Aegon’s blood. Let them wonder how much of Visenya’s steel had found its way into you despite all their tidy assumptions about mothers and daughters and which women made which kinds of monsters.
Aenys drew a breath.
“I name my brother, Prince Maegor Targaryen, rider of Balerion, as Hand of the King.”
The chamber erupted.
Not loudly. These were high lords, after all, and high lords preferred to perform outrage through controlled coughing, meaningful silence, and the occasional strangled objection dressed as procedure. Lord Massey began to speak. A septon murmured something about consultation. A Bar Emmon cousin looked as if he had swallowed a fishbone. Visenya’s expression remained carved from satisfaction and old ice.
Maegor stepped forward.
The room quieted again.
He knelt before Aenys.
That was the moment they would remember. Not the objections. Not the murmurs. Not the political calculations breeding like rats behind every polished face. They would remember Maegor Targaryen, brutal and unbending, kneeling before his brother with Blackfyre at his side and Balerion waiting outside the walls.
“I accept,” Maegor said. “And I swear to defend your reign against all enemies.”
Aenys looked down at him. He knew, as you knew, that the oath was both shield and blade. But he placed his hand on Maegor’s shoulder.
“Rise, brother.”
Maegor rose.
His eyes found yours for one brief second.
No one else would have understood the look. Good. Let them be confused. It would give them something harmless to do with their time.
That evening, ravens flew from Dragonstone to the realm.
King Aenys had taken the crown. Prince Maegor had taken Balerion and the handship. Princess Y/N remained at court, beloved daughter of the lost Queen Rhaenys, trusted sister to the king, watched closely by the dowager queen and more closely still by every lord with ambition enough to fear a woman who stood too near power without asking permission.
The histories would write that this was the beginning of Aenys’s troubled reign.
They would write that Maegor’s rise began with Balerion.
They would write that Visenya’s influence darkened the court.
They would write many things, most of them incomplete, because maesters had a gift for missing women unless a war forced them to notice the blood on the floor.
They would not write of the storm. They would not write of your mother’s chambers. They would not write of Maegor’s hand at your throat without pressure, of his voice speaking love like a threat against his own nature, of your promise to abandon him if he devoured the brother you had sworn to protect. They would not write of the private bargain beneath the public oath.
But Dragonstone knew.
Dragonstone always knew.
And far below the castle, where waves broke themselves endlessly against black rock, Balerion lifted his head into the salt wind and roared until every candle in the painted chamber trembled.
my fave targs and their kinks 😼 just straight up smut idk what else to say, dark content with maegor, mentions of aerion just being himself
edit: if anyone wanted me to expand on any of these ideas lmk ;)
dacryphilia, maegor targaryen
Maegor is mean, there's no doubt about it. Maegor the Cruel is what they call him. Ever broad and tall, he took up more space than anyone else. They say he was born to be a warrior, swung a sword before he took his first steps. He craved violence; he craved control. You first met at the tourney held for your brother’s nameday; he arrived atop Balerion the Black Dread, scaled banners flying in his name. A ferocious beast, one fit for him.
He made you cry that day in front of everyone, shouting cruelty and curses. Just because he could—he was a dragon; he had a dragon twice the size of any mountain you could see. There was something wild in his eyes when those first tears fell. Pleasure and absolute entertainment. You considered throwing yourself off the highest tower when he said he'd make you his wife.
Even now he still loves to make you cry. Fat tears rolled over the tender plains of your face as he plunged into your heat. His cock was as brutal as he was, flushed blood red as you sobbed. You hated him, how determined he was to make the seed take root. Hated how badly he wanted a son, how many women he'd gone through just to make it happen. Hated how cut-throat he was, he killed his own brother just for the crown. You especially hated just how much you loved it.
brat-taming/impact play, aerion targaryen
Aerion could never be as heinous as his ancestor, but he was getting close. Spiteful and mad, Brightflame was a heat no one could smother. No one except you, and gods, did you love it.
He had just come back from training in the knights' yard, a wide smile on his pale face. He came to you, hands latching onto your waist like he could, talking gleefully about how he broke the finger of the squire that struck mud into his doublet. You said nothing as he went on, only nodding when he looked at you expectantly, hand brushing over his cheek in gentle waves.
Then, you hit him. A loud slap right on his face. His head is forced to the side, now reddening at the attack. Then he turns back to look you in the eye. You pay no mind to the growing anger that builds into his lilac irises. Instead, you fuck him. Right there on the settee, on top and in control. Though he fights it, you can hear the soft sounds that leave his wet lips as you rock up and down. Little whines, like a dog. You hit him again, and he comes with a loud moan. He falls against you then, his face stuck in the corner of your neck. You don’t stop, not until it sinks into that pretty little head of his. It probably never will, but that doesn't reduce your want for it.
blindfolds/bondage, brynden rivers
You couldn't see. Fabric pulled tightly over your eyes, you weren't supposed to see. To rely on all other senses was a challenge, but he didn't care. It was a game you'd play together; how long would it take for you to start begging? At first it was simple. Mindless teasing in quiet corridors, maybe a finger or two under your dress during royal meals. But then, he got brave.
You're on the bed, legs spread, naked, and hands tied to the corners with leather as he stands in front of you. You couldn't see him, but you could feel him. He was quiet on purpose, with light steps and slow breaths; you gasp when his knee digs into the bed. Though it's hushed, you hear him laugh to himself. Amused at your current predicament, the same one he put you in.
Then he leans in and presses his tongue to your heat. You respond diligently, pushing your hips forward to chase his touch. His hand braces on your inner thigh, fingers pinching at the tender flesh there. “Careful, girl. Or I'll leave you here.”
You nod, moaning as he delves back in. His tongue flicks against your nub, and you keen, back arched and brows furrowed. It's a game to him; everything's a game to Bloodraven, whether you want to play or not.
threesome, rhaegar targaryen & jon connington
The tourney at Harrenhal would be remembered for years to come. It was the greatest of its time; the king had knighted the Lannister boy, and Ashara Dayne, with her long hair and dazzling eyes, danced with many men but brought the young wolf to her bed despite it. You’d remember it in far different ways.
Jon Connington was in front, red hair messy and damp. He breathed over you heavily, just to compose himself. Rhaegar’s at your side, already spent. You let him nip at your collarbone, shifting a hand through his silver hair. He was the champion of the joust; you wanted to congratulate him in your own way, but Jon followed too. So, you let him join in as well.
When he started to push his way inside, he groaned at the tight feeling of your warmth. It took him a while, but when he was fully flush against you, he shuddered. You felt Rhaegar smile at your breast before he began to make his way down the bed, leaving small kisses in his path. Time seemed to slow when the prince finally settled against your hip, his nose brushing against Jon’s navel as he placed a kiss to where you both were connected. Jon moans again, voice cracking at the touch. You laugh to yourself, mainly in amusement, but the pleasure was something that made every action involuntary. You wonder what you could convince them to do next; maybe, if you asked nicely enough, you could have them both inside at once.
Hey could I request anything of your choosing to write about romantic yandere Maegor the cruel with gender neutral reader. Please and thank you 😊
❝ 🔥 — lady l: I was a bit unsure what to do with this, but I liked the result and I hope it makes sense! Please forgive any mistakes (it's 4 AM here lol) and I hope you enjoy it. 🥺❤️
❝tw: obsessive and possessive behavior, emotional infidelity (sorry Tyanna), Maegor doesn't understand his feelings and murder.
❝🔥pairing: yandere!maegor the cruel x gender neutral!reader.
❝word count: 1,613.
Maegor never believed himself capable of falling in love. Love, for him, had always been a weakness — a poison disguised as sweetness, that made powerful men bend and lose themselves. From a young age, he had learned to control his desires and stifle any emotion that could distract him from his greater purpose: the throne. Power was the only mistress he would accept in his life, and blood, his only worthy inheritance.
All that mattered to him was consolidating his lineage and ensuring the continuity of his house. A legitimate heir — that was the goal that consumed his thoughts, making him look at his wives with the coldness of someone observing pieces on a chessboard.
But even this simple desire seemed to slip through his fingers. His most recent marriage to Tyanna of the Tower, a woman as mysterious as she was cruel, proved as barren as his previous ones. With each passing moon, Maegor grew more impatient. Tyanna's promises, her potions and spells from distant lands, all began to sound like mockery.
The king paced the halls of the Red Keep like a caged beast, the weight of the crown burning against his brow. The Iron Throne, with its twisted and sharp blades, seemed to laugh at him, as if the very symbol of his power judged him for his lack of offspring.
The septons murmured that it was the wrath of the gods. They said that no man could defile sacred vows and expect to prosper. Maegor pretended not to hear — but on the nights when the castle slept, these whispers echoed in his mind like invisible blades, tearing away what remained of his peace.
And yet, amidst the anger and loneliness, Maegor never imagined that anything — or anyone — could make his heart waver.
That night, Maegor was quieter than usual. The moon cast a pale light on the throne room, and the steel of the swords reflected its glow as if each blade held a fragment of moonlight. He stood there, motionless, observing the emptiness ahead — an imposing figure, shrouded in shadows, the weight of power and solitude on his shoulders.
Then he heard soft footsteps echoing on the marble. A discreet sound, yet bold enough to jolt him from his thoughts. Few dared enter that hall at that hour — fewer even fewer without being announced.
Maegor looked up and that's when he saw you.
He didn't know what intrigued him first; the way you walked, unhurried and fearless, or the way the light touched your face, revealing serene features and a steady gaze. There was something about you that didn't bend, even before a king.
For a moment, he simply observed. The stern expression that so frightened his advisors softened, almost imperceptibly. It was rare for someone to dare cross his path without flattery or fear. And even rarer for that someone to awaken something within him — something that wasn't anger, nor a desire for power, but a curious unease that disconcerted him.
"Do you know who stands before you?" He asked, his voice deep, grave, like contained thunder.
You held his gaze, unwavering. "I know. And yet, I am here."
The answer struck him strangely. It wasn't defiance, but neither was it submission.
And Maegor, accustomed to seeing everyone bow before his presence, felt a different kind of shiver. Not of anger — but of something he couldn't name.
That night, without realizing it, the king who believed himself above love began to crumble.
In the days that followed, Maegor tried to ignore what had happened. He convinced himself that the encounter meant nothing. A lapse. A passing whim, like so many others he had already stifled in the name of power.
But it was a lie.
His mind constantly returned to you — in the midst of councils, banquets, nights when the fortress seemed to breathe to the rhythm of his contained anger. He was irritated by his own weakness, as if the simple act of thinking of you were an insult to his authority.
"A king is not distracted by shadows," He told himself. But every time he saw your reflection in the hall windows, he swore he saw your silhouette behind the glass, watching him.
It was during a stifling afternoon that fate decided to mock him again. You were in the inner garden of the Red Keep, tending to the flowers that rarely survived the aridity of that place. His delicate hands — or strong hands, depending on one's perspective — moved with precision and calm, as if nothing around could corrupt that small piece of beauty.
He hadn't planned to approach, but he did anyway. His heavy footsteps announced his arrival, and you looked up, with the same serene expression as the first night. No fear. No gesture of reverence. Just the tranquility of someone who didn't see a monster before them.
"Flowers don't survive long here." Maegor said, his voice hoarse, laden with something he couldn't quite define.
"Then perhaps the problem isn't the flowers." You replied, without boldness but with sincerity.
He frowned, surprised. No one spoke to him like that. And yet, instead of getting irritated, he felt something strange; a desire to hear more.
You returned to your work, as if the king weren't there, and Maegor remained silent for a long time, observing. The wind carried the light scent of flowers, and for a moment, the brutality of the world seemed distant.
When he finally withdrew, he couldn't help but take one last look. And something inside him — something he had always believed dead — began to awaken.
It wasn't desire.
Not yet.
It was the dangerous premonition that you could be his ruin... Or his salvation.
The following days were torture disguised as routine.
Maegor, the ruthless king, the conqueror of enemies and destroyer of lineages, found himself restless because of something he couldn't control.
Power, he had always controlled. Fear, he had always imposed. But what now consumed him, neither swords, nor laws, nor dragons could tame.
Your presence became inevitable. A single look, a gesture, a word from you was enough to make the world suddenly seem less cold.
He began to notice the little things — the sound of your voice echoing through the corridors, the way the light fell on your shoulders. And with each detail, the ice inside him began to turn to fire.
It was on a stormy night that he finally yielded. He summoned you to the private hall — the one he rarely allowed anyone to enter. The wind howled outside, the thunder echoed like a warning from the gods, but Maegor cared not.
When you entered, he was already there, standing before the Iron Throne, his gaze fixed on you as if searching for something he himself did not understand.
"I have spent my life believing that love was weakness." He said, his voice low but laden with an almost palpable intensity. "That it destroyed kings, corrupted reason, and tarnished the name of the powerful."
He took a step forward.
"And yet... here I am. A king kneeling before that which he cannot have."
There was silence. The kind of silence that cuts through the air and makes the heart ache.
You took a deep breath, and even without words, Maegor understood the answer.
There was no contempt in his gaze — only compassion. The bitter truth of something impossible.
"You already have a wife, my king," You said finally, your voice soft but firm. "And I will no longer be just another name on your list of power."
For a moment, the world seemed to crumble within him. His wounded pride. His denied love. The echo of thunder mingling with the pain he would never admit aloud.
You left without looking back, and the hall was plunged into a suffocating silence.
That night, Maegor didn't sleep.
He didn't eat.
He didn't speak to anyone.
They say the dragon's wrath is silent before it burns the world — and, that dawn, something inside Maegor broke for good.
The king, driven by a cold and sickly fury, descended into the dungeons where Tyanna of the Tower was held, now accused of treason and sorcery.
Without guards, without witnesses, only he and the Valyrian steel blade he carried.
Tyanna looked up, her eyes still sharp but her body already broken by days of interrogation.
"Maegor..." She began, her voice hoarse.
He didn't answer with words. He lunged forward, grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to her knees. The dagger came down swiftly, cutting through her chest with surgical precision. Her scream was muffled by the thunder outside.
With his bare hands, he opened the flesh, broke ribs like dry twigs, and ripped out her still-beating heart—hot, slippery, throbbing in his palm like a living accusation.
Blood trickled down his forearms, dripping onto the stone floor, as Tyanna's body collapsed, lifeless.
Maegor washed his hands in a basin of cold water, but didn't wash away the smell of iron that permeated his skin.
He ordered the organ to be placed in a fine silver box, lined with black velvet, sealed with the royal seal.
Inside, a handwritten note, in firm letters:
"The obstacle has been removed. The throne is yours, if you wish. No god, no law, no wife separates me from you. We are free."
When dawn tinged the skies red, the entire castle already knew of the execution — but only you received the gift.
The box was delivered to your chambers by a trembling servant, who dared not raise his eyes.
Upon opening it, Tyanna's heart was still warm, as if carrying the last echo of a life Maegor had extinguished for you.
A proof of love as brutal as it was unquestionable; he had killed the Queen so that you could be the only one.
-reader is described as young and naive but no age is mentioned. Maegor is mean for no reason and visenya is the ultimate boy mom lol //kind of just me practice writing smut
-slight Aenys x reader
(she only craves his softness because she sees him as kind)
Tw: smut 18+ targcest, maegor is a tw himself, mentions of bleeding/blood, brothers/sister relationship
reader believes she’s doing her duty + “loves” him believing he loves her as well. Maegor basically kills her innocence </3, reader clings to the small affections he offers.
You had been playing with a butterfly.. barefoot on the grass, clad in only a nightgown with fingers reaching towards the insect as it danced just out of reach.
Maegor stood beside his mother, arms crossed, Blackfyre sheathed at his hip. His silver hair caught the sun, a cruel halo.
“She’s simple,” he said flatly, watching his sister twirl in her own quiet world.
“She’s pure,” Visenya corrected. Her voice was calm, but resolute. “And that is what you need. It helps that your father favors her.”
The butterfly landed on your sleeve, and you froze. Eyes wide, lips parted in awe. You looked like you might cry from joy.
Maegor sneered.
You had looked up to the pair, face lit up in a smile the kind only children and fools give without cost and ran to them careful not to let the creature fly off.
“I caught one!” You had cheered holding up the sleeve that the creature clung to. Maegor looked down at it and his face seemed to scrunch at the sight.
He didn’t speak.
He only reached out, slowly, and crushed the butterfly between his fingers.
A gasp left your lips, eyes wide, lips trembling before looking up to your mother as tears began to build in your eyes.
The queen had only placed a hand to your shoulder before wiping away a stray tear. “You can always catch another sweet girl.”
Maegor only scoffed and wiped his hand on his cloak letting the remains of the beautiful butterfly slide off.
“Butterflies are helpless creatures. Weak.” His words were mumbled as he took the same hand he had crushed the insect with to tug on your own. He had wrapped his own hand in yours and you seemed to forget all about the beautiful creature in favor of having even the slightest attention from him.
Maegor’s grip was warm but unyielding, his long fingers engulfing your own as if to remind you that you were his to direct, not to cherish. He didn’t look at you.. he never really did but he did not let go either, pulling you along the path toward the shade of the courtyard’s stone wall.
Visenya followed at a measured pace, her eyes sharp despite her serene expression. She knew her son’s ways. She knew his cruelty, but she also knew his possessiveness. It was a dangerous mix.
“You cling to trifles,” Maegor muttered without slowing his stride. “Butterflies, flowers… you’d be crushed yourself if you were not under our roof.”
You stumbled slightly as he pulled you faster, the nightgown brushing your ankles, grass still clinging to your bare feet. “But… it was beautiful,” you whispered, as if the words themselves were fragile.
“It was weak,” he repeated, as if the two were mutually exclusive.
Behind you, Visenya’s voice was low, almost thoughtful. “She sees beauty where you see weakness, Maegor. That is why she will soften you, if you allow it.”
He glanced over his shoulder at his mother but said nothing. His grip on your hand tightened, not painfully, but with a sort of finality as if the conversation, in his mind, was already decided.
When you reached the stone wall, he stopped abruptly and turned you to face him. His pale eyes searched yours, unreadable, before he spoke again.
“Do not cry for such things,” he said at last. “If you wish to keep something, you must protect it. Or it will be taken from you.”
You nodded quickly, swallowing back the rest of your tears. Maegor seemed satisfied, though his mouth curved in neither smile nor frown.
Visenya finally caught up to you both, resting her hand lightly on your other shoulder. “Come inside, sweet one. Your father will wish to see you soon.”
You followed her lead, but not before Maegor’s hand brushed against yours again deliberately, almost hesitantly. It was the smallest of gestures, but for you, it was enough to make the memory of the butterfly fade into something distant, almost unimportant.
Though Visenya, watching the exchange, knew better. She knew you would remember. And she knew Maegor’s lesson was only just beginning.
Visenya nodded in approval, a small smile playing on her lips. She knew that Maegor’s actions were deliberate. He was preparing you for the world of power and manipulation that you would soon be thrown into.
A stinging pain. Eyes squeezed shut as he relentlessly pounded into you. Tears ended up staining your face and he only scoffed at the sight settling to just turn you over. “Must you.. always cry” his voice was gruff as he mumbled and spread your legs apart once more pushing at your head so it muffled the pain filled cries.
You remembered being so excited when Visenya announced you would wed your brother only to have everything stripped the night Maegor came to consummate.
His fingers left bruises and when you started crying into the pillow mumbling about it hurting he only continued on with another scoff. “You can take it.. like a good little wife.. don’t you want to please me? Have my sons?” Your fingers gripped the sheets tightly as more cries fell into the pillow your head was buried in. “M-mae please!” You cried once more with a muffled voice hearing a laugh from behind you. He took what he had wanted with rough means leaving you in a pool of your own blood that stained the sheets.
Trembling and sore. Each movement made you wince as sobs continued to escape, but maegor only shushed you and pulled you over despite the cry that left your lips at being moved.
“That wasn’t so bad was it?” He had placed a kiss to your ear mumbling his words as his hands wrapped around you. “Stop crying already.”
But you hadn’t. Only trying to hold it in as his fingers tugged at some of your hair a deep sigh leaving his lips when you mumbled. “I-it hurt Mae..”
“It’s supposed to hurt the first time sweet sister” Maegor shifted slightly an annoyed huff leaving his lips but you only glanced up through teary eyes shuffling closer to him.
“Mother said it-“
“Mother doesn’t know everything. If I say it’s supposed to hurt then that is what you believe.”
The next day your mother Visenya had sat with you. Brushing your hair after a bath and watching the maids change the sheets. Your eyes were dull as you stared at the reflections in the mirror. “You bled quite a lot.” She had commented and you only gently picked at the fabric of the dress covering your body when she tapped the visible mark at your neck watching as you tilted your head to get her hand off.
“I don’t think mae loves me.” The same childhood nickname stuck as the words flew out before you could think and Visenya only smiled.
“You are his family. Of course he loves you sweetling.” But her words fell on empty ears, the reflection staring back at you suddenly so interesting. Your mother’s sigh pulled you back when she set down the brush and turned you around.
Her eyes piercing into your own when she let a hand come up to stroke at your cheek that was already stained with tears.
You were barely more than a girl when she had arranged for you to be wed with Maegor not yet old enough to understand the shape of the game you were being carved for. But Visenya did. And she told you something you clung to like prayer.
“He needs someone who does not fear him. That is why it must be you.” Her words and soft touch made you nod slowly and attempt to stop the tears you didn’t notice started falling. And now she had repeated those same words leaving you to nod once more and accept them. “I know..”
And so you learned how to not fear.
You learned to stand still when Maegor's temper flared .. when he broke cups against stone and split skulls with a glance. You learned to remain serene when his voice turned to thunder, or when his silence lasted for days.
You told yourself that patience was love. That obedience was loyalty. That surviving him night after night was proof of something sacred between you.
When he touched you, he did not speak sweetly. He never whispered. His love was not gentle; it was teeth and fire, a hand on your throat and silence in your mouth. You told yourself it was passion. That if it hurt, it only meant it mattered.
Visenya never let you forget that.
“Pain is the cost of greatness,” she mumbled, watching you through half-lidded eyes as a healer dabbed at the bruise blooming across your collarbone. “And Maegor is destined for things far greater than any of us. If he brings you into that greatness, even for a moment, you should count yourself blessed sweet girl. You are strong enough to take it.”
You nodded, eyes on the floor, the weight of her words heavy. It became a mantra you repeated to yourself in the quiet hours of the night when his hands were not upon you. When you were left to lay in the sticky mess of your own blood and tears, whispering it like a prayer to a god that had never answered.
Days turned into weeks, and your innocence continued to wilt under the harsh sun of Maegor's "love." The castle was a labyrinth of whispers that grew louder with each passing moon. You remained the silent lamb in the center of it all, a beacon of purity that was slowly being stained.
One afternoon, you found refuge in the castle's garden. It was a place where the outside world's chaos didn't quite reach, a sanctuary of green and bloom where you could almost forget the heaviness of your new role. Your oldest brother, Aenys, found you there, sitting on a stone bench, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Unlike the one that met its tragic end in Maegor's grip, these fluttered freely, seemingly unaware of the storm brewing in the hearts of those who watched over them.
Aenys, with his gentle eyes and kind smile, was a stark contrast to Maegor. He knelt beside you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "You're not chasing them today?" he asked softly, noticing how you merely watched the delicate creatures.
You looked up at him, your eyes red-rimmed and filled with unshed tears. "They're so pretty," you murmured. "I don't want to scare them." The innocence in your voice was heartbreaking, a stark reminder of what you had lost in such a short time.
Aenys nodded, his gaze lingering on the butterflies. "Maegor does not understand all things." His words were a gentle reminder of the different worlds you two inhabited. He knew the horrors of Maegor's nighttime visits, the subtle limp or new marks adorning your skin. You had only kicked your feet out and gave a small smile. "He loves me.."
"Does he?" Aenys questioned, his tone filled with doubt. He knew the reality behind the facade Maegor put on for the world. But he also knew the power of hope and belief. He didn't want to shatter your illusions, not yet.
You nodded firmly, clutching the fabric of your nightgown in your small fists. "Yes," you said, a hint of conviction in your voice. "He does. And I love him too."
The earlier words echoed hollowly in your ears as you laid beneath Maegor later that night. His hand held your cheek, his thumb tracing the path of a tear that slipped down your face unnoticed by the cruel moonlight. His hips thrust into you, a rhythm that had become all too familiar, a dance of pain and submission. Yet, you mumbled your words of hope and longing into the darkness, "Maegor.. you love me right?"
His eyes met yours, a cold spark of something akin to amusement in them. "Why do you ask?" he murmured, his voice thick with the lust that seemed to consume him every time he took you.
You felt the heat of his breath on your skin, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, and the ache deep inside that seemed to never fade. "Because," you whispered, trying to keep your voice from breaking, "I love you, Mae. And I.. was just thinking…"
he paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. The hand that held your cheek tightened, his thumb brushing over your skin as if he was considering your words. His hips resumed their rhythm, his movements punctuating each syllable. "You love me?" he echoed, the question a taunt.
"Y-yes," you whimpered, the word a sob that caught in your throat as he pushed deeper. You had hoped for a different reaction, a spark of tenderness to pierce the veil of his brutality. But the coldness in his eyes only grew, and his grip on your face became almost painful.
Maegor chuckled darkly. "How utterly predictable," he murmured. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, his nails digging in just enough to remind you of his power. "You're so naive, so simple, so… insignificant."
The words stung, but you clung to your love for him, telling yourself that he didn't mean it. That he was just playing his part in the grand dance of power and politics. You bit your lip and nodded, silently begging for a glimpse of the brother you had once known. But his expression remained unchanged, his eyes like chips of ice.
After he was done, he rolled off of you and stood, not bothering to help you up or offer a gentle word. You lay there, the coldness of his departure seeping into the marrow of your bones. As the door clicked shut, you curled into a ball, the pain of his rejection mixing with the ache between your legs.
The next day, as you sat in your chamber, you found yourself unable to face the mirror. Instead, you let your mother brush your hair, hoping the rhythmic strokes would ease the turmoil in your heart. "Mother," you began tentatively, your voice a soft whisper, "why isn't Maegor more affectionate? Why does he only come to me at night to… to do those things?"
Visenya's eyes met yours in the reflection, her expression unreadable. She paused before speaking, her voice measured and controlled. "Maegor is a man of the world, sweet girl. He has responsibilities and burdens that we cannot understand. He shows his love in his own way."
You nodded, trying to believe her words, even as your heart felt as though it were being crushed beneath a heavy stone. "But why does it have to hurt?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly. "Why can't he be gentle, like Aenys?"
Visenya's eyes darkened at the mention of your other brother. "Aenys is weak," she said firmly.
"But he's kind," you protested, a small spark of defiance flickering in your teary gaze.
"And that is precisely why he is unfit to rule," Visenya replied, her voice sharp. "Maegor is strong, and he will need a strong wife. You must endure, for the sake of the realm."
You knew your mother was one to talk down on Aenys and his frail state but your father never once changed the state of him being his heir and you knew she had hated that.
"Now go to the seamstress.. She is to make you a new nightgown." Her words lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of your fate. But you obeyed, rising from the chair with a nod. As you left the room in a skip a small smile came to your face at the thought of Maegor taking notice to something made you feel even the smallest bit happier.
The seamstress was a kind woman, with wrinkled hands that had seen more battles than most soldiers. She had seen the change in you, from a bright girl with laughter in your eyes to a silent shadow that walked the halls. Her eyes filled with pity, but she never spoke a word of it, instead focusing on the task at hand. You picked out a fabric of pale blue, a color that reminded you of the skies before the butterflies had been crushed from your life.
"I'm sure he will love it," she said with forced cheer, as she measured your frame. You nodded, hope fluttering in your chest like the ghosts of the butterflies you had once chased.
Days later, you stood before the mirror, the new nightgown a whisper of blue silk against your skin. The seamstress had worked her magic, creating a garment that clung to your curves in a way that made you feel both beautiful and vulnerable. Visenya had approved, her cold eyes gleaming as she assessed the transformation.
As night fell, you waited in your chamber, the anticipation a coil in your stomach. When Maegor arrived, his eyes swept over you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He said nothing, only gesturing for you to come closer. You stepped forward eagerly, the soft fabric brushing against your legs with every step.
Maegor's gaze lingered on the neckline of the gown, his eyes darkening. He reached out and touched the silk, his fingers tracing a line down to the small of your back before pulling you closer. For a moment, you dared to hope that he might kiss you gently, that he might whisper sweet nothings in your ear. But his lips remained a thin line as he pushed you onto the bed.
You lay there, the softness of the silk a stark contrast to the harshness of his touch. His hands were rough on your skin, pulling at the fabric as he claimed you once again. You bit back the pain, telling yourself that this was what love looked like in the eyes of a king. You closed your eyes and thought of Aenys, of his gentle touch, and the way he made you feel seen.
But Aenys wasn't here. It was Maegor who was your husband, the one you were supposed to love. So you forced yourself to look into his eyes, to find some semblance of warmth, of affection. Yet, all you saw was hunger, a hunger that consumed everything in its path, leaving only ash and ruin.
Maegor noticed your gaze and paused, a smirk playing on his lips. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice gruff.
You swallowed hard, trying to push down the lump in your throat. "I-I just want you to hold me," you whispered, your voice trembling. "To tell me you love me."
Maegor's smirk grew, his eyes cold and unyielding. "You want that?" He leaned in, his breath hot against your skin. "Fine."
He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer, and whispered, "I love you, my sweet sister." You knew they were a lie, a tool used to manipulate and control. Yet, you clung to them, desperate for any scrap of affection in the sea of pain he drowned you in.
Maegor's movements grew more frantic, his grip on you tightening as he claimed your body again. Each thrust was a silent declaration of his dominance, a stark reminder of your new role in his life. But you held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, one of these nights he would hold you without the intent to break you.
Tears trickled down your cheeks, mixing with the sweat that glistened in the candlelight. His breath was harsh in your ear, a steady beat that matched the rhythm of his hips. You focused on the sound, trying to find some semblance of comfort in the chaos, your voice lost to the cacophony of his grunts and the rustle of silk.
You found solace in the moments with Aenys, in the quiet whispers of the garden, and the gentle brush of his hand against yours. He never spoke of your bruises, never asked about the tears you shed in the dark, but his silent understanding was a balm to your soul.
One sunlit afternoon, you ventured back to the garden with him, your feet moving with less enthusiasm than before. The butterflies still danced, but they seemed to have lost some of their magic. You sat in the soft grass, watching the world go by without you, your heart feeling heavier than the crown that lay in wait for your brother. Aenys noticed the change in you, the way you didn't chase the butterflies with the same glee.
He sat beside you, a concerned look on his kind face. He didn't say much, just offered his hand for you to hold. It was a silent comfort, a gentle reminder that you weren't entirely alone in the labyrinth of your new life. A butterfly, a lonely splash of color, landed in his hair, fluttering its wings as if trying to communicate a secret. You couldn't help but give a small smile at the sight, a genuine expression that hadn't graced your lips in what felt like an eternity.
Aenys glanced at you, his eyes searching yours. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice softer than the whispers of the wind that danced through the leaves above you.
You nodded, not trusting your voice. The weight of his hand in yours felt like a lifeline in the stormy sea that was your life. You brought your knees to your chest, hugging yourself tightly, and stared at him. Aenys, so kind, so gentle, the complete opposite of the monster that shared your bed.
You couldn't help but imagine what it would be like if Maegor had a heart like Aenys'. If he treated you with the care and tenderness that Aenys did. If his touch was soft, his voice whispered sweet nothings into your ear, and his eyes held warmth instead of the coldness that haunted your dreams. The thought brought a pang of longing so intense it was almost physical, making your chest ache.
As Aenys left the garden, his gentle touch lingering on your skin like the softest of kisses, you felt the weight of your own reality come crashing down upon you. The butterflies fluttered away. You watched them go, a sad smile on your lips, before rising to your feet and heading back to your chamber.
The corridors of the castle felt like a prison, each step a silent echo of the future that awaited you. When you reached the door to your room, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the nightly ordeal that was your "duty."
Maegor was already there, his silhouette cast against the flickering candlelight, a looming figure of shadow and fire. You shyly sat on the edge of the bed, hoping for a gentle touch, a kind word, anything that would make you feel less like a sacrifice to his twisted idea of love.
But he had other plans. He grabbed your ankle with the same force that had crushed the butterfly, yanking you towards him. You couldn't help but flinch, your body tensing as his grip tightened. "You always just climb on me," you whispered, a hint of desperation in your voice. "Is there no other ways?…"
Maegor's expression remained unchanged, a mask of cold indifference. He pulled you closer, until you were straddling him, his eyes never leaving yours. His hands moved to your hips, his fingers digging in, guiding you to move in the way he liked. "This is how it's done," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "This is what pleases me."
You sat there, trembling, as he began to kiss you roughly, his hands roaming over your body without care. You felt like a ragdoll in his embrace, manipulated and discarded as he saw fit. But you clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, you could find a way to make him love you. "Maegor," you murmured, trying to keep the tremble from your voice. "Can't we try something different?"
Maegor paused, his eyes narrowed as he studied you. He released your ankle and sat up, his expression contemplative. "What do you suggest?" he asked, his tone a mix of amusement and irritation.
You took a deep breath, your heart racing with hope. "Could… could we not be so… rough?" You didn't know how to put into words the tenderness you craved, the gentle touch that Aenys had never given but you knew existed in the whispers of love stories. "Could we… could we try to be more like Aenys and his wife?"
Maegor's amusement vanished, replaced by a flicker of anger. "Aenys is a fool," he spat, pushing you away. "His weakness will be his downfall. And I will not be swayed by such follies."
You landed back onto the bed when he pushed you off a frown tugging at your lips as the sheets rustled under you. You had hoped that by mentioning Aenys, you could somehow find a way to bridge the gap between the gentle love you dreamed of and the harsh reality of Maegor's love. But it seemed that even the mention of your other brother was enough to make Maegor's anger flare.
With trembling hands, you quickly apologized, climbing back onto him, straddling him as he had shown you before. You tried to ignore the way his eyes darkened, the way his jaw clenched at the mention of Aenys. You focused instead on his words, on the promise of making him happy. If that meant enduring his roughness, then so be it.
Maegor's grip on you was firm, his hands moving over your body with a possession that sent shivers down your spine. You wrapped your arms around his neck, trying to find some semblance of comfort in his embrace. His kisses were harsh and demanding, his teeth occasionally nipping at your bottom lip.
You closed your eyes, trying to focus on the task at hand. To please him, to make him love you. You moved your hips in a rhythm that you thought he might like, hoping to elicit some warmth from him, some sign that he felt something more than just lust. But his touch remained cold, his kisses a mere claim of ownership.
Maegor reached down, pushing your dress up to your waist, not bothering with the delicate ties that held it in place. The fabric whispered against your skin as he freed himself, his eyes never leaving yours. You felt a flash of fear at the sudden exposure, your body reacting instinctively as he guided himself into you.
"Lift yourself," he commanded, his voice gruff with desire. You did as you were told, raising your hips slightly, feeling his manhood press against your sensitive flesh. "Good girl," he murmured, his grip tightening as he positioned himself. You held your breath, waiting for the pain that had become so familiar, a twisted reminder of your place beside him.
Maegor didn't bother with finesse, pushing into you without hesitation. You bit your lip to keep from crying out, your eyes squeezed shut as your body adjusted to his intrusion. When he was fully seated, he grabbed your hips and began to move you up and down, his movements quick and rough. You tried to focus on the rhythm, the way he watched you, his eyes glinting in the candlelight.
"Like this?" you whispered, unsure of what he wanted from you. The question hung in the air like a prayer, a desperate plea for some semblance of approval.
Maegor's eyes narrowed, his movements faltering for a brief moment. "You're doing fine," he grunted, his voice strained. But his grip on your hips tightened, his thrusts growing more forceful.
You nodded, trying to find a way to make this feel less like a battle and more like the love you longed for. You leaned in, kissing his neck, his jaw, anywhere you could reach without disturbing his rhythm. You whispered sweet nothings into his ear, hoping the words of love would melt the ice around his heart.
Maegor's grunts grew louder, his pace increasing. You held on tighter, willing yourself to feel something, anything other than the pain and fear that had become your constant companions. But the only emotion you could muster was a sad determination, a stubborn hope that one day, he would love you the way you dreamed.
As he reached his climax, you felt his grip loosen, his body going slack beneath you. You collapsed against him, your forehead pressing into the crook of his neck, trying to find some solace in the warmth of his skin. For a moment, you thought you felt his arms wrap around you, but it was only the aftershocks of his release, his body reacting without thought.
Maegor pulled away pushing you aside to sit back on the bed rather than his lap, leaving you trembling, the coldness of his absence stark against the warmth of his recent embrace. He stood, adjusting his clothing with the ease of one who had done this countless times before. You watched him, feeling used and discarded, your body aching from his rough touch.
When you next found yourself wandering the gardens your belly was swollen with Maegors seed though still small. You hadn't chased the butterflies but had only sighed at the discomfort that came with growing a child.
Maegor noticed the change in you, a subtle blankness around your eyes, a gentle frown to your lips that wasn't just pained submission anymore. He studied you from afar, his thoughts a tumultuous storm of confusion and possessiveness. You had become more than a mere pawn in his game of thrones; you were now the vessel for his legacy.
When he finally approached you, his heavy steps crunching against the gravel path, you did not look up immediately. The warm sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappled patterns shifting across your gown and the gentle swell of your belly.
“You tire easily now,” Maegor observed, his voice carrying neither concern nor judgment only a strange curiosity, as though cataloguing a change in the weather.
“Do I?” you replied softly, your gaze fixed on the small pond where lilies floated untouched by the breeze.
For a long moment, he stood in silence beside you, his shadow falling across the water. His eyes trailed from your face to your hands, resting protectively over the curve of your stomach. It was a sight that both unsettled and anchored him. The blood of the dragon was growing there .. his blood he had worked tirelessly to pump inside of you.
When his fingers brushed yours, it was not the harsh grip you had come to expect. It was tentative, almost searching. “You will give me a strong heir,” he said at last, but there was a note beneath the words, something unspoken an unacknowledged fear that the child might come out to be like the girl you were, but when a butterfly landed in his hair, he was about to swat it only stopping when your hand reached out.
He was about to scoff and scold you for trying to capture the creature but when you crushed in into your palm, he couldn't help but close his mouth and raise a brow confusion written on his face until a smirk came at your words.
“Butterflies are helpless creatures. Weak.”
and with that you took his hand wanting to go back inside and hide in your chambers as you've been doing often. Aenys forgotten like the joy you felt once at being in this very garden.
Battle Of Desire - Maegor Targaryen x Sister!Reader
Summary : Maegor the Cruel. King of the Seven Kingdoms. Your brother. Your obsession. For years, you had watched him from the shadows. Admired him. Desired him. Even when others whispered of his brutality, his ruthlessness, you had seen him for what he truly was—a king who would not bend, would not yield. And more importantly, a king who deserved a queen unlike any other. And who better than you?
Word Count : 11.9k
Warning : Targcest (brother-sister), Sex before marriage, Rough Sex (more like animalistic to me), P in V, Dom!Reader, Dom!Maegor, Chocking.
Maegor Targaryen Masterlist.
House Of The Dragon Masterlist.
and also big thanks to @zaldritzosrose for let me using yours beautiful dividers 🫶🏻.
The Red Keep stood tall, its freshly renovated walls gleaming under the sun, a fortress of power and dominance—just like its ruler. You walked through its halls, the sound of your footsteps barely audible against the distant clang of swords. The scent of newly polished stone and burning torches lingered in the air, a reminder of the blood and sweat that had gone into rebuilding this stronghold. His stronghold.
As you stepped onto the training grounds, your gaze was immediately drawn to him. Maegor.
He stood in the center, his massive frame towering over the three guards he was sparring against. Sweat glistened on his bare chest, his muscles flexing with each powerful movement. His Valyrian steel sword moved like an extension of himself—swift, deadly, and precise. One guard lunged; Maegor sidestepped effortlessly, bringing his sword down in a brutal arc that sent the man sprawling onto the ground. The second barely had time to react before Maegor twisted, kicking him hard in the stomach, sending him crashing into the dirt. The third hesitated for a brief moment—that was his mistake. With a single strike, Maegor disarmed him, his sword clattering to the ground.
You tilted your head, watching him with quiet intensity. He is magnificent.
He was your brother, but the way your heart pounded at the sight of him was anything but familial. You had known for a long time now that your feelings for Maegor went beyond what they should. He was brutal, terrifying, and ruthless—but to you, he had always been something more.
The last guard scrambled to his feet and, despite knowing he had already lost, attempted one final attack. Maegor barely even looked as he caught the man’s wrist and twisted, forcing him to his knees with a pained grunt. With a smirk, Maegor finally released him, turning his gaze toward you.
His sharp, violet eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world around you faded.
"You've been standing there for some time," he remarked, his voice deep and rough from exertion. He took a step toward you, sword still in hand. "Enjoying the sight?"
You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, but you held his gaze, refusing to look away. "Should I not admire the strength of the King?"
A slow smirk curved his lips, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes. "Admiration is one thing," he murmured, closing the distance between you. "But you—" He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of silver hair from your face. "You look at me differently."
Your breath caught. Does he know?
"And how do I look at you, Maegor?" you challenged, your voice barely above a whisper.
His smirk widened as he leaned in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of steel and sweat. "Like you want me."
Your pulse quickened, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a flustered reaction. Instead, you tilted your chin up, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. "And if I do?"
For a brief moment, something flickered in his expression—something dark, something hungry. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
Maegor chuckled, stepping back slightly, though his eyes never left yours. "Careful, little sister. If you tempt a dragon, don’t be surprised when you get burned."
You inhaled sharply, watching as he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there with your heart hammering in your chest.
You had always known that Maegor was dangerous. But now, you knew something else.
He had noticed.
The corridors of the Red Keep were eerily quiet as you made your way to your mother’s chambers. The torches lining the stone walls flickered, casting long shadows as you walked. You knew she would be there—she rarely left her rooms these days, preferring the solitude of her own space over the constant tension of the royal court. Where once she had sat beside Maegor in the council chambers, her presence a silent yet commanding force, now she withdrew, as though the weight of everything had finally caught up to her.
As you stepped inside, the warmth of the fireplace greeted you. The scent of burning wood mixed with the faint aroma of herbal tea. Your mother, Visenya, sat in her high-backed chair, her posture as regal as ever despite the softness that age had begun to bring. She cradled a cup of tea in her hands, the steam rising gently, her sharp violet eyes flicking up to meet yours the moment you entered.
“You have been spending much time in the training yards,” she remarked, not as a question, but as a statement.
You exhaled softly, closing the door behind you before crossing the room to sit beside her. “I like watching him.”
Visenya’s expression did not change, but something in her eyes darkened. “I know.”
A silence settled between you, broken only by the distant crackling of the fire. She took another sip of her tea, then set the cup down on the small table beside her. When she finally turned to you fully, her gaze was unreadable, but her voice was firm.
“This obsession of yours with Maegor,” she said, “it must end.”
Your breath hitched slightly, but you masked your reaction well. Still, she knew. Of course, she did. Nothing ever escaped your mother’s notice.
“Why?” you asked, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Because it is dangerous.”
You scoffed. “Maegor is dangerous to everyone.”
She shook her head. “That is not what I mean.”
Her gaze was piercing now, cutting through the silence like a blade. “You think I have not seen the way you look at him? The way you watch him as if he is the only thing that exists in this world? You are my daughter, and I know what is in your heart, even if you do not wish to admit it.”
You clenched your jaw, your hands tightening into fists in your lap. “And if I do admit it?”
Visenya’s expression did not waver. “Then you must let it go.”
Anger flared in your chest, but it was not just anger—it was frustration, desperation. “You want me to deny what I feel?”
“I want you to understand the reality of what you feel,” she corrected. “Maegor is a man who takes what he wants. If he has not yet taken you, it is because he chooses not to. You may think yourself different from his other wives, but you are not.”
Your nails dug into your palms. “I do not care about his other wives.”
“And yet they exist,” Visenya said sharply. “They are proof that Maegor’s heart is not yours alone to claim.”
You stood abruptly, your pulse pounding. “He is my brother.”
“He is your brother,” she echoed, rising to her feet with the same quiet grace she had always possessed. “And he is my son. Do you think I do not love him? Do you think I do not see what he is becoming?”
You swallowed hard, but she did not stop. “I forged him into what he is. I guided his hand toward power because that is what was necessary. But you—” she took a step closer, her gaze softening for the first time—“you do not need to be caught in the fire of his making.”
You felt your breath tremble as you exhaled, your resolve wavering under the weight of her words. “You do not understand.”
“I understand more than you think.” She reached out, cupping your face gently in her hands, her thumbs brushing against your cheeks as she studied you. “You are not the first Targaryen to burn for another. But love alone will not tame Maegor. He does not rule with love—he rules with fear. And fear is no foundation for what you seek.”
You closed your eyes, swallowing the ache that had lodged itself in your throat. “I do not seek to tame him.”
“Then what do you seek?”
You opened your eyes and met hers, the truth slipping from your lips before you could stop it.
Him.
Visenya sighed, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before pulling away. “You will only hurt yourself,” she murmured.
But as she turned back to her chair, you knew that the words, though meant to dissuade you, would do no such thing.
Because no matter the warnings, no matter the risks—you had already made your choice.
The thought lingered in your mind long after you left your mother’s chambers.
She did not understand.
She thought she could dissuade you, that her warnings could cool the fire burning within you. But she had forgotten something—you are her daughter. You share the same blood, the same ruthlessness, the same hunger for power. And Maegor? He is the only one who has ever matched you in that.
You moved through the halls of the Red Keep, your steps slow but certain. The Keep had been reforged under Maegor’s rule—stronger, darker, impenetrable. Just like him. It stood as a testament to his will, towering over King’s Landing like a beast ready to devour all who opposed it.
It was fitting.
Because the man who ruled within it was no different.
As you entered the training yard once more, you saw him, just as you had earlier. Maegor stood in the center, surrounded by the fallen bodies of his sparring partners. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath the blackened steel of his armor, his greatsword still dripping with sweat and dirt. He looked like a war god, a dragon in the shape of a man.
He turned at your approach, his violet eyes locking onto yours.
“You return,” he noted.
You tilted your head, amusement flickering in your gaze. “Should I not?”
Maegor scoffed, tossing his sword aside. “You should not be here at all.”
“And yet, here I am.”
A smirk tugged at his lips. He took a step closer, and so did you.
The others in the yard knew better than to remain. Guards, knights, even the few spectators quickly dispersed, leaving only the two of you beneath the setting sun.
Maegor studied you for a moment before speaking. “Our mother has words for you, I assume.”
You let out a soft laugh. “She does.”
“And?”
You shrugged. “She thinks I should forget you.”
His eyes darkened, something dangerous flashing across his face. “And will you?”
You smiled, slow and knowing, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. “Do you think I will?”
He did not answer immediately. Instead, his gaze roamed over you—your face, your lips, the bare skin exposed at the collar of your gown. His fingers twitched at his sides, as though resisting the urge to reach for you.
He had always resisted.
But you could feel it—he was tired of resisting.
“You already have many wives,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “And none of them bear the blood of the dragon.”
He inhaled sharply.
You leaned closer, your lips just barely brushing against his ear. “You are the King, Maegor. You take what you want.”
His jaw clenched. “And what if I want you?”
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, a victorious smirk curling at the edges of your lips.
“Then take me.”
The words hung between you like an unspoken challenge.
For the first time, Maegor did not fight it. He did not hold back.
His hand shot out, grasping the back of your neck as he pulled you against him. His lips crashed onto yours, hard and claiming, as if he were sealing his decision in that very moment.
It was not soft. It was not gentle. It was possession. And you welcomed it.
You didn't care about the gazes of the servants and guards when Maegor carried you to his room, you didn't even care about the whispers that would stick to you the next day. he closed his bedroom door with his foot and threw you on the bed.
The heavy clang of Maegor’s armor hitting the stone floor echoed through the chamber. One by one, the blackened steel plates fell away, exposing the powerful, battle-hardened body beneath. His every movement was deliberate, his sharp violet eyes never leaving yours as he rid himself of the barriers between you.
Your breath was uneven, your pulse quickened. Not from fear—never fear—but from anticipation. From the raw energy crackling between you, something that had always been there, simmering beneath the surface.
And now, finally, there were no more obstacles.
You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him as he removed the last piece of his armor. His chest rose and fell with deep, measured breaths. The torchlight cast flickering shadows over the harsh lines of his face, highlighting the controlled restraint in his expression.
“You knew this would happen,” he said, voice dark and thick with something unspoken.
You tilted your head, a slow, knowing smile curving your lips. “Of course.”
His jaw clenched, his eyes burning with something primal. “I should not want you.”
You arched a brow. “And yet, you do.”
A low growl rumbled in his chest. In two strides, he was upon you, his hands bracing on either side of you as he loomed over you on the bed. “You test me.”
You looked up at him, unafraid, reveling in the tension that coiled between you like a dragon ready to strike. “I know.”
His eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes. “This will change everything.”
You reached up, your fingers tracing the sharp edge of his jaw, feeling the tension beneath his skin. “Good.”
That was all it took.
With a sound between a snarl and a groan, his mouth crashed onto yours, swallowing the triumphant laugh that bubbled in your throat. His kiss was nothing short of a conquest, demanding, claiming. But you met him with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his hair, nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him down against you.
The weight of him was intoxicating. The heat of him burned through the layers of your gown, through your very skin.
His hands roamed your body, mapping every curve, every dip and rise as if he were learning you by touch alone. And then, with one sharp tug, he ripped the fabric apart, exposing you to the cool air of the chamber.
A gasp escaped you, but he did not give you time to recover. His lips moved from your mouth to your throat, teeth grazing your skin, marking you as his.
“You knew,” he murmured against your pulse, his breath hot and uneven.
You shivered beneath him. “Yes.”
His hand slid down your waist, gripping your hip, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. “And you wanted this.”
You arched beneath him, pressing your body against his, daring him to do more. “Yes.”
His fingers tightened around your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of the power he held—the power you had willingly walked into. Yet, you only smiled, tilting your head slightly, challenging him.
“You think you know me so well,” Maegor murmured, his voice rough, dangerous.
“I do.” Your voice was steady, unwavering.
His thumb traced the delicate line of your jaw, his grip firm, possessive. “Then you should know I do not take well to being manipulated.”
You laughed, soft and knowing. “Is that what you think this is? Manipulation?”
His eyes darkened, flickering with something unreadable. “You ask me to make you my queen.”
“I ask you to make me your equal.” You leaned closer, your breath warm against his lips. “You and I—we are the same, Maegor. We take what we want, regardless of who stands in our way. You rule through fear, through fire and blood. And I…” Your fingers ghosted over his bare chest, tracing the scars earned through years of battle. “I understand you in ways they never will.”
His grip on your throat flexed, his gaze searching yours. “They will never accept it.”
“They do not need to.” Your voice dropped to a whisper, intimate, coaxing. “We are dragons, Maegor. Let them burn.”
A slow smirk curved his lips, but it did not reach his eyes. “You seek power.”
“I seek you,” you corrected. “And I do not share what is mine.”
He studied you for a long moment, weighing your words, the certainty in your voice. Then, his grip loosened, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. He pulled you forward, forcing you to look up at him, forcing you to see the storm raging behind his violet eyes.
“You will regret this,” he said lowly.
You smiled, unshaken. “No, I won’t.”
His lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding, as if he could make you take back your words, as if he could make you yield. But you kissed him back just as hard, your nails digging into his shoulders, drawing him closer.
The battle for dominance raged between you, but you both knew the truth—this was no conquest. This was fate.
When he finally pulled away, his breath was ragged, his pupils blown wide. He looked at you as if he had finally, truly seen you. And for once, Maegor the Cruel was at a loss for words.
Then, a slow, dangerous smile curved your lips. “Marry me, Maegor. Crown me, and let us rule together.”
His chest rose and fell with deep, measured breaths. Then, finally, he murmured, “If I take you, there is no turning back.”
You held his gaze, unwavering. “Then don’t hold back.”
And just like that, the last of his restraint shattered.
Maegor was not a man who lost control easily. He was a conqueror, a warrior, a king forged in fire and blood. But with you, it was different. You saw it in his eyes—the way they darkened, the way his breath hitched as your fingers tangled in his hair, the way his body tensed as if fighting a losing battle.
"You hold yourself back," you whispered, pulling his hair back just enough to expose the sharp lines of his jaw, his throat. "Why?"
His teeth clenched, his grip on your hips tightening as if to steady himself. "Because if I don't—"
"You will," you interrupted, your lips brushing against his ear, your voice nothing but a sultry murmur. "You will lose control, and you will give in to me."
Maegor growled, a deep, guttural sound that sent shivers down your spine. "You do not command me."
You smirked, leaning in closer, pressing your body against his. "Don’t I?"
And that was it—the final push, the last thread of restraint snapping. With a snarl, Maegor's hands gripped your thighs, and in one swift motion, he had you beneath him, his body pressing into yours with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. His lips crashed against yours, all heat and hunger, all dominance and possession.
"You play with fire," he rasped against your lips, his voice thick with barely restrained desire.
"I am fire," you countered, your fingers digging into his scalp, pulling his hair once more.
The growl that escaped him was primal, his muscles flexing as he slammed into you with a force that had you crying out in both pleasure and triumph. You had pushed him to the edge, and now he was falling—dragging you down with him.
His pace was punishing, his grip unrelenting, his mouth everywhere—your neck, your collarbone, your lips. He was branding you, marking you as his just as much as you had claimed him for yourself.
"You wanted me like this?" he growled, his voice hoarse as he thrust deeper, making your back arch off the bed. "You wanted to break me?"
You gasped, your nails raking down his back, feeling the ripple of his muscles beneath your touch. "No," you whispered breathlessly, your lips curling into a wicked smile. "I wanted to free you."
Maegor let out a sharp breath, his forehead pressing against yours as his movements grew rougher, more desperate. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice breaking into a groan as he buried himself deeper, forcing another cry from your lips.
You laughed between your moans, delighted by the fact that you had unraveled him so completely. "That’s the man I wanted," you murmured against his lips.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes burning with something wild, something dangerous. "And you are mine," he declared, his voice a raw promise, a vow sealed in sweat and fire.
You pulled him down into another bruising kiss, your legs tightening around his waist, dragging him deeper, demanding more. "Then prove it," you challenged.
And gods, did he.
Maegor pinned your wrists above your head, his grip unrelenting, his body a force you could no longer control. The smirk on his lips was triumphant, cruel, his amusement unmistakable as he watched you tremble beneath him.
"Where is she now?" he taunted, his voice deep and laced with satisfaction. "The little viper who dared to play with dragons?"
You gasped, your back arching as he found that spot again, the one that made your body betray you completely. A whimper escaped your lips, and Maegor chuckled darkly, his gaze burning into yours.
"You were so bold before," he mused, leaning down, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Teasing me, taunting me. But now?" He pressed a slow, deliberate thrust that had you biting back a cry. "Now you have nothing to say?"
Your hands strained against his grip, but it was useless—he was too strong, too unyielding. You wanted to fight back, to retake control, but he wasn't letting you. And that only made your desire burn hotter.
"Admit it," he murmured, his free hand trailing down your body, his touch deliberate, tormenting. "You wanted this. You wanted me to break you."
Your breath hitched, your body reacting before you could form a proper response. The way he moved, the way he owned you in this moment, left no room for anything but raw, helpless pleasure.
"You can't even deny it," he chuckled, his tongue flicking over the shell of your ear. "You're shaking for me, falling apart under my hands. Tell me, little dragon—" his teeth scraped against your throat, his next thrust making stars explode behind your eyes. "Do you still think you can control me?"
Your pride warred with the overwhelming sensations flooding your body. You wanted to deny him, to tell him you still held the upper hand—but the way he had you now, completely at his mercy, made it impossible.
Still, you forced yourself to smirk, even as your voice trembled. "Perhaps I let you win this time."
Maegor stilled, his grip tightening around your wrists, his eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint. "Let me?"
A flash of something dark and thrilling passed between you. His expression twisted into something feral, something ruthless.
"Then let's see," he growled, lowering his body over yours completely, pressing you into the mattress, "how much more you are willing to give me."
And then, with one punishing snap of his hips, he shattered you completely.
Maegor let out a deep, guttural growl when he felt your teeth sink into his flesh, his body tensing above you. His grip on your wrists tightened, but you didn’t care—you had marked him. You had left something on him, a reminder that you were not merely his to conquer, but that he belonged to you just as much.
A slow, satisfied smirk spread across your lips as you pulled back, admiring the red mark blooming on his neck. "There," you murmured, your voice thick with pleasure and triumph. "Now everyone will see that even the mighty Maegor the Cruel is claimed."
His breath was ragged, his silver hair damp with sweat as he loomed over you, his body still moving, still demanding. His free hand came up to grasp your chin, forcing you to look into his darkened eyes. There was something dangerous in them, something feral—but also something deeply satisfied.
"You think that makes me yours?" he rumbled, voice low and threatening, but you could hear the amusement laced within it.
You tilted your head despite his grip, your smirk widening. "Are you saying it doesn’t?"
Maegor bared his teeth in something between a grin and a snarl. "Foolish girl," he muttered before capturing your lips in a searing kiss, all teeth and dominance, as if trying to consume you. His thrust became rougher, more determined, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress, ensuring you had no escape.
Yet still, your gaze burned into his, your challenge unwavering. You knew him—you knew how to play this game, how to make him feel in ways he never had before.
"You are mine," you whispered when he pulled back for air, your breath mingling with his. "Whether you admit it or not, Maegor."
His eyes darkened further, something unreadable flickering in them. Then, suddenly, he released your wrists, his large hands gripping your waist instead.
"Then prove it," he growled.
Before you could even process his words, he had flipped your positions, your body now straddling his. The sudden shift made you gasp, your hands instinctively planting themselves on his chest for balance. His smirk returned as he watched you, his grip firm on your hips.
"Show me," he demanded. "Take what you claim as yours."
Your heart pounded, your breath unsteady—but you refused to hesitate. If he wanted proof, you would give it to him.
With a slow, deliberate roll of your hips, you set the pace, your movements confident, knowing exactly how to drive him mad. His hands trembled against your skin, his jaw clenched as he let you lead, his self-control hanging by a thread.
"You are mine," you echoed, watching as his breath hitched, his grip tightening. "And I will never share you."
Maegor’s growl vibrated through his chest, his restraint slipping. His hands guided your movements now, meeting your rhythm with his own. "Then you had best make sure no one can ever take me away from you."
And with that, the battle between you continued—one of fire and desire, of dominance and submission, of two dragons unwilling to be tamed by anything but each other.
You sat atop him, your silver hair cascading over your shoulders, your body moving with deliberate confidence. Maegor, beneath you, was a vision of restraint and frustration. His head was thrown back against the pillows, his jaw clenched, his hands fisting the sheets beneath him as he fought the primal urge to take what he wanted. What you had denied him.
His breathing was ragged, his powerful chest rising and falling as he struggled against the command you had given him. Do not touch me unless I allow it.
And Maegor had obeyed. But his patience was wearing thin.
Your fingers trailed up his arms, over the scars that marked his battles, before settling around his throat. Not tight enough to hurt—just enough to claim.
His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours. The violet depths burned with something dark, something dangerous, something hungry. His lips curled into a smirk, though his voice was rough when he spoke.
"Do you think you rule me, little dragon?" His words were mocking, but there was an edge of something deeper—curiosity, even admiration.
Your grip on his throat tightened slightly, your nails digging into his skin just enough to make him swallow hard. "I know I do," you whispered, leaning closer, your breath ghosting over his lips. "You are mine, Maegor. No one else."
A deep, guttural growl rumbled in his chest, his muscles tensing beneath you as if ready to throw you down and reclaim control. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. You had stripped him of that power tonight, and you both knew it.
"Arrogant," he murmured, though there was something like admiration in his voice. "Just like me."
You smiled, tilting your head slightly as you pressed a slow, taunting kiss to his jawline. "That is why we belong together."
His hands twitched, his restraint fraying at the edges. You could feel the battle raging within him—the war between his desire to dominate and the intoxicating thrill of surrendering to you, just this once.
"You tempt fate, sister," Maegor warned, his voice hoarse. "You do not know what I will do once I break free of your chains."
You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze with unwavering certainty. "Then break free, Maegor."
His breath hitched. His body coiled beneath you like a dragon ready to strike. But still, he did not move.
"You see?" you whispered, pressing your lips just above his pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch. "Even you cannot deny me."
His head fell back against the pillows with a low, frustrated groan, his fingers digging into the sheets as he surrendered—completely.
And you smiled. Because tonight, Maegor the Cruel belonged to you.
Maegor’s grip on the sheet tightened for a brief moment before he let out a sharp exhale, his head falling back against the pillows. His jaw clenched, muscles tensing beneath your fingers as you moved with deliberate, confident grace, your hands now firmly planted on his broad shoulders.
"You’re playing a dangerous game," he growled, his voice hoarse, strained. His hands flexed at his sides as if resisting the urge to seize control.
You smirked, leaning down so that your lips brushed against the shell of his ear. "Am I?" you whispered, tilting your head slightly to press an open-mouthed kiss against his jawline, feeling the way his body trembled in response. "I think you’re just not used to someone telling you no."
His growl deepened, but still, he did not move to stop you. You could see it in his face—the battle between his need for control and his hunger for you. He was Maegor the Cruel, a man who took whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. And yet, here he was, allowing you to dictate the pace, letting you be the one in control.
You rolled your hips once more, slow and unrelenting, watching as his fingers dug into the sheets. His nostrils flared, his darkened violet eyes locked onto yours with a mixture of frustration and unbearable desire.
"Do you hate this?" you teased, dragging your nails down his chest, watching the way his muscles rippled beneath your touch. "Being beneath me?"
His eyes flashed, his lips parting as if to snarl some sharp retort—but then you moved again, and whatever words had been forming in his throat died on his tongue.
A deep, shuddering breath escaped him, and for a moment, his grip on control faltered. His hands twitched toward your hips before he caught himself, fists clenching instead. You laughed—low and victorious.
"Poor, poor Maegor," you crooned mockingly, running your fingers through his damp silver hair. "Always so strong, so unyielding… And yet here you are, trembling beneath me."
His patience snapped.
In the blink of an eye, his hands shot up, seizing your wrists and flipping your positions before you could even gasp. Your back hit the bed, your head spinning. His body caged yours beneath him, his fingers wrapping around your throat as he loomed over you, his expression a mixture of fury and unrelenting hunger.
"You truly think you can tame me?" he rasped, his voice thick with something between fury and raw, unfiltered desire. "That you can toy with me without consequence?"
You smirked up at him, your breath uneven, but your confidence unshaken. "I know I can."
His expression was unreadable for a moment, his lips slightly parted, his breath heavy. Then—slowly—his mouth curved into something dangerous, something almost proud.
"You will regret this," he warned.
But even as he said it, his lips descended upon yours once more, and you knew—there was no regret to be had.
Maegor did not hold back. His grip on your hips was ironclad, his movements relentless, driving you further and further into a state of pure, uncontrollable sensation. Your nails clawed at his shoulders, your voice breaking into incoherent pleas as he continued to push you beyond your limits.
His dark violet eyes glowed with something triumphant, something wicked. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. "What happened to all that confidence, little one?" he taunted, his voice dripping with amusement. "Where is the fearless woman who thought she could tame me?"
You could barely breathe, let alone form a response. The intensity, the overwhelming sensation, it was too much. Your body betrayed you, trembling violently beneath him, your fingers clutching at him as if he was the only thing keeping you grounded.
Maegor chuckled darkly, his hand sliding up to cup your throat, his thumb brushing lazily over your racing pulse. "So fragile," he murmured mockingly, tilting his head as he observed you. "And yet, you truly believed you could best me?"
You whimpered, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment, only to snap open when he suddenly stilled.
A sharp gasp left your lips as you found yourself teetering on the very edge of oblivion, your entire body burning with frustration. Your hands fisted against his chest, your breath ragged. "Maegor—"
His smirk widened. "Ah, so you do know how to beg," he mused, his grip on your throat tightening ever so slightly, just enough to make your breath hitch. "Say it again."
Your pride warred with your desperation. You wanted to defy him, to prove that you were still in control, but gods, the way he held you, the way he owned you in this moment—it shattered any semblance of resistance you had left.
"Please," you whispered, your voice barely audible.
His eyes darkened, his smirk fading as something more primal took over. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, his voice a low, possessive growl. "Good girl."
And then, without warning, he moved.
A scream tore from your throat as he pulled you under, into a world where nothing existed but him—the weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the sheer power he wielded over you so effortlessly. Your vision blurred, your mind spinning as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, leaving you utterly undone beneath him.
Maegor watched you with satisfaction, his expression one of absolute victory. He slowed, his hands running possessively down your trembling form, as if to savor the sight of you like this—wrecked, breathless, completely his.
"You will never win against me," he murmured, pressing a searing kiss to your parted lips. "No matter how much you fight it, no matter how much you pretend to have control."
He pulled back just enough to meet your dazed, unfocused gaze. His fingers brushed against your cheek, almost tenderly. "You belong to me," he whispered. "And I will make sure you never forget it."
Your body trembled violently, your senses consumed entirely by him. Maegor had torn away every last fragment of control you thought you had, leaving you at his mercy—breathless, shaking, and utterly undone beneath him.
Yet, despite the exhaustion, despite the way your limbs felt like they no longer belonged to you, something deep inside you refused to surrender. You were a dragon, just as much as he was. And dragons did not bow so easily.
As the final waves of pleasure coursed through you, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, marking him just as he had marked you. "Maegor—" His name escaped your lips in a desperate cry, raw and unrestrained, and the sound of it seemed to push him over the edge.
A guttural growl tore from his throat as he gave in to his release, his entire body tensing above you. His grip on your hips tightened, his fingers pressing bruises into your soft flesh as he buried himself deep, claiming you in the most absolute way. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged and uneven, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something—but words failed him in that moment.
For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sound in the dimly lit chamber was the heavy rise and fall of your breathing, the lingering echoes of your shared pleasure still hanging in the air. His weight pinned you to the bed, warm and solid, as if he had no intention of letting you go.
You felt his lips brush against your temple, an almost tender gesture, so different from the ruthless dominance he had just shown. His hand slid up your body, fingers tracing along your collarbone before cupping your face. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His violet eyes were dark, still clouded with the remnants of desire—but beneath that, there was something else. Something deeper.
"You are mine," he murmured, his voice rough but certain. "And I will never let you go."
Your lips parted, but before you could respond, his mouth was on yours again, claiming, demanding. There was no space for hesitation, no room for doubt. He wanted you to understand that this—you and him—was not something temporary.
When he finally pulled away, his gaze swept over your face, as if committing every detail to memory. "Say it," he commanded, his voice softer now but no less insistent. "Say that you belong to me."
A part of you wanted to resist, to challenge him as you always had—but you knew the truth. You had belonged to him long before this night, long before either of you had dared to act on what had always simmered between you.
Your fingers traced over his jaw, your touch gentle, almost reverent. "I am yours, Maegor."
A slow, satisfied smirk curled his lips. "Good," he murmured, pressing another kiss to your lips, this one lingering, possessive. "Because I would burn the world to keep you."
The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of fire and sweat, of desire finally unleashed after years of restraint. You lay beneath Maegor, your body still tingling from the aftermath of what had just transpired between you. Your breaths mingled, your limbs tangled together, but what consumed you now was not just the physical pleasure—it was the undeniable truth that, after tonight, everything had changed.
Maegor had always been an enigma, a man of steel and fury, forged in the crucible of war and ambition. He had many wives, many women who vied for his attention, but none of them were you. None of them had shared his blood, his fire. None of them had challenged him the way you did.
And tonight, for the first time, you saw the shift in his gaze. He no longer looked at you as just his sister. He no longer saw the child who had once trailed after him in the halls of the Red Keep. No—now, he saw you, the woman, the dragon who had dared to claim him as her own.
Maegor ran a hand through his hair, his chest still rising and falling heavily as he leaned on his forearm above you. His violet eyes bore into yours, searching, filled with something unreadable. His fingers ghosted along your jaw, his thumb brushing against your lower lip. "You planned this, didn't you?" His voice was low, rough, but there was amusement beneath the accusation.
A slow, knowing smile curled at your lips. "I have always known what I wanted, Maegor," you whispered, tilting your head slightly. "And I do not lose."
His smirk widened, but there was something dangerous in the way he looked at you now. "Neither do I," he countered, gripping your chin and forcing you to hold his gaze. "Do you know what you have done?"
You reached up, trailing your fingers over the scars on his chest, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your touch. "I have taken what is mine."
A sharp breath left his lips, his grip tightening for just a moment before he let out a low chuckle. "So bold," he murmured, shaking his head. "So foolish."
"Foolish?" you echoed, arching a brow. "Or brave?"
His eyes darkened at that, and in one swift motion, he rolled you onto your back again, his weight pressing you into the furs beneath you. "Reckless," he corrected, his lips ghosting over yours. "You think you can have me all to yourself?"
Your nails dug into his back, a smirk playing on your lips. "I do not think, Maegor. I know."
He inhaled sharply, his fingers tangling into your hair as he pulled your head back, exposing your throat to his burning gaze. "You do not command me."
You let out a soft, breathless laugh. "And yet, here you are…"
A growl rumbled in his chest before his lips crashed against yours again, fierce and demanding. It was a battle neither of you would ever surrender.
As the night stretched on, as your bodies and wills clashed again and again, you knew one thing for certain—Maegor the Cruel had finally met his match.
You barely had time to register what was happening before you were yanked harshly from Maegor’s warmth. The lingering haze of exhaustion and pleasure still clung to your body, but the sudden forceful pull on your wrist had you snapping awake instantly.
A sharp gasp left your lips as you stumbled, barely catching yourself before falling completely. Your eyes darted to the woman standing before you, her grip on your arm firm, her expression twisted in anger.
It was Tyanna.
Her dark eyes burned with fury as she glared at you, her jaw clenched so tightly you could see the tension in her face. Behind her, you noticed the door to Maegor’s chamber was wide open, the hallway beyond it filled with the hushed murmurs of curious onlookers. Servants, guards, and even some of the other wives peered in, their faces a mix of shock, curiosity, and amusement.
You pulled your arm back forcefully, shaking off her grip as you straightened your posture. The silk sheets pooled around your waist, leaving your bare skin exposed to the cool morning air, but you refused to show any sign of weakness. You lifted your chin, meeting Tyanna’s glare with a calm, almost lazy defiance.
"You dare touch me?" you asked, your voice smooth and even, though there was an undeniable edge to it.
Tyanna scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest as she sneered down at you. "I should be the one asking you that," she spat, her eyes flicking toward Maegor’s still-sleeping form. "You think you can just crawl into his bed like some common whore and take what belongs to us?"
A slow smirk tugged at your lips. "I did not crawl, Tyanna," you corrected her coolly, brushing a strand of silver hair behind your ear. "I was carried."
Her face darkened in an instant.
"You think this is a game?" she hissed, stepping closer, her voice low and venomous. "You are nothing more than his latest amusement, a passing distraction."
You hummed, tilting your head. "A distraction that kept him entertained all night, it seems," you mused, glancing at the marks Maegor had left all over your body. "How unfortunate for you."
Tyanna’s hand shot out as if to slap you, but before she could strike, another hand caught her wrist mid-air.
A deep, warning growl filled the room.
Both of you froze.
Maegor.
His grip on Tyanna’s wrist was bruising, his expression a storm of barely contained rage as he loomed over the both of you. The golden morning light streamed in from the window, illuminating the sharp lines of his face, the unmistakable power in his form. His dark violet eyes flickered with fury as he turned his gaze to Tyanna.
"Touch her," he said, his voice a dangerous whisper, "and I will rip the flesh from your bones."
Tyanna stiffened, her eyes wide with shock. "Maegor—"
"Silence."
His command was absolute.
You could see her struggling to maintain her composure, but the raw authority in Maegor’s voice left no room for argument. He did not release her wrist immediately; instead, he tightened his grip just enough to make her wince before shoving her away.
She stumbled slightly, but recovered quickly, glaring at you one last time before turning on her heel and storming out of the room, her skirts billowing behind her.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Maegor exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as if the mere presence of his wives exhausted him. He turned back to you, his gaze raking over your exposed form before settling on your face. His expression softened—only slightly, but you noticed it nonetheless.
"You have a habit of causing trouble," he muttered, reaching out to brush his fingers against your jaw.
You smirked, leaning into his touch. "And yet, you never seem to mind."
His lips quirked upward in amusement before he suddenly grabbed your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze fully.
"Let them be jealous," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Let them burn with it."
Then, with a satisfied hum, he pulled you back into the bed, wrapping an arm around your waist possessively.
"You are mine now," he whispered against your skin. "And I do not share."
The laughter that filled the chamber died instantly as the heavy doors swung open.
You barely had time to react before the towering figure of Visenya Targaryen stood framed in the doorway, her presence alone enough to suck the warmth from the room.
She did not need to shout.
She did not need to brandish Dark Sister.
She did not need to utter a single word.
Her silence alone was a blade at your throat.
Maegor’s lips stilled against your skin, his body still covering yours protectively, but he did not move away. Instead, his grip on you tightened, his muscles tensing as he turned his head toward your mother. His violet eyes met hers, unreadable yet unwavering.
Visenya’s gaze was cold, calculating, as sharp as the sword she wielded. Her face betrayed no emotion, save for the slight furrow of her brow—the only indication of the storm that brewed within her.
A long silence stretched between the three of you.
Then, finally, she spoke.
“Get up.”
Her voice was not loud, but the weight of command in it was absolute.
You did not move.
Neither did Maegor.
His grip on you only tightened.
Visenya’s eyes darkened as they flicked between the two of you, her lips pressing into a thin line. She stepped forward, each movement precise, measured. When she spoke again, her tone was clipped, biting.
"Are you truly this foolish?" she asked, her gaze burning into you. "Or have you simply gone mad?"
Your fingers dug into Maegor’s arm as you sat up, but you did not look away. "Neither," you answered calmly. "I know exactly what I am doing."
Visenya’s expression remained unreadable, but you saw it—the flicker of something dangerous in her eyes.
"Do you?" she murmured.
You held her gaze.
"Yes."
Her lips curled, not quite into a smile—more like the ghost of something cruel.
"You believe you are above consequence," she mused, stepping closer. "You believe your blood, your name, will protect you from the fury of those who will see this as an affront."
You tilted your chin, refusing to cower before her.
"I believe," you said slowly, "that I am the only one worthy of him."
That made her pause.
Maegor let out a low chuckle, his grip on you loosening slightly as he leaned back against the headboard, watching the exchange with amusement. His mother’s gaze flickered to him, as if to gauge his reaction, before she exhaled sharply through her nose.
"Is that what you think?" Visenya asked, arching a brow.
"It is what I know," you corrected.
For the first time, her expression shifted. Not anger. Not disappointment.
Something closer to intrigue.
She studied you for a long moment, the firelight casting shadows across her sharp features. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quiet, but the edge remained.
"Rise," she ordered.
You hesitated only for a moment before Maegor moved first, pulling you up alongside him. The silk sheets pooled around your waist as you sat up fully, facing your mother without shame, without hesitation.
Visenya’s gaze flickered briefly to the marks along your skin—the proof of what had transpired between you and Maegor the night before.
She did not look surprised.
She did not look pleased, either.
Instead, she simply clasped her hands behind her back and said, "Dress yourself. We will speak in the Tower of the Hand."
Then, without another word, she turned and strode from the room, leaving the heavy doors open in her wake.
The moment she was gone, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Maegor was still beside you, his hand tracing absent patterns along your thigh. You turned to him, finding his lips curved into something between amusement and satisfaction.
"She did not say no," he mused.
You smirked. "Not yet."
He chuckled, his hand tightening around your waist as he pulled you closer. "Then let us ensure she never gets the chance to."
You walked beside Maegor, your pace measured, your head held high, as if the weight of every whispered word around you did not exist.
The halls of the Red Keep were alive with murmurs—maids clutching their cleaning rags, their eyes wide with scandalous delight; courtiers pausing mid-step, turning to murmur behind their hands as their gazes flickered between you and Maegor.
They were not subtle.
Some did not even bother to whisper.
Yet you paid them no mind.
You had chosen your gown deliberately. The dark velvet fabric clung to your form, the heavy embroidery glinting under the torchlight. The neckline—low enough to reveal the bruises Maegor had left upon you—was not an accident, nor was the way you allowed your hair to tumble freely over your shoulders, rather than pinned in the modest fashion expected of noblewomen.
You wanted them to see.
You wanted them to talk.
And they would.
Maegor, at your side, was silent but imposing. His presence alone sent a chill through the air, making those in your path step aside without hesitation. His dark armor gleamed, his black cloak billowing behind him as he walked, his hand resting idly upon the pommel of his sword.
He did not look at you, nor did he acknowledge the stares—but you knew he was aware of them.
Just as you were.
And when you finally reached the doors to the chamber where Visenya awaited, he turned his head ever so slightly, his lips curving in the faintest of smirks.
He was enjoying this.
The tension.
The spectacle.
The knowledge that every person in this castle now knew that you belonged to him.
He reached for the doors and shoved them open without hesitation.
Inside, Visenya stood near the hearth, her hands clasped behind her back, her silver hair catching the firelight. She did not turn as you entered, but you could feel the weight of her presence, the sharpness of her mind already dissecting your every move before you even made them.
"You are bold," she said at last, her voice measured, calm. "Perhaps too bold."
You stepped forward, your chin lifted. "You did not summon us here to discuss my wardrobe."
That made her turn.
Her eyes—those same sharp, calculating violet eyes that you and Maegor shared—landed upon you first. They lingered on the marks upon your skin, the way your gown so purposefully displayed them.
Then, slowly, she shifted her gaze to Maegor.
"You should have more sense than this," she told him. "But perhaps I overestimated you."
Maegor did not flinch. He did not look away. "You overestimate your own authority, Mother, if you think to dictate whom I take to my bed."
Visenya exhaled sharply through her nose, her lips pressing into a thin line.
"This is not merely about a bed, and you know it." She turned back to you. "What is your endgame, child? What exactly do you hope to gain from this?"
You held her gaze.
"I do not hope for anything," you said simply. "I will have what is mine."
Her brows lifted ever so slightly. "And what, pray tell, do you believe is yours?"
You glanced at Maegor then, at the way he stood beside you, solid and unmoving, his hand still resting upon his sword as if daring anyone to challenge his right to be at your side.
Then, with the confidence that had been carved into your very bones, you turned back to Visenya and answered:
"The throne."
Silence.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the crackling of the fire.
Then—slowly, very slowly—Visenya smiled.
It was not a warm smile.
It was not a pleased smile.
It was sharp. Calculating.
Like the first flicker of a flame before it consumes everything in its path.
She exhaled softly and stepped closer, so close you could see the faint lines around her mouth, the weight of years spent shaping the destiny of House Targaryen.
"If you wish to wear a crown," she murmured, her voice almost gentle, "then you must be willing to bleed for it."
You did not blink.
You did not waver.
You smiled.
"Then let the bleeding begin."
Visenya's words hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread.
"I should have agreed when your father wanted you to marry Aenys."
The room fell into a heavy silence.
Maegor’s jaw clenched so tightly you could hear the grind of his teeth. His hand, still resting upon the pommel of his sword, curled into a fist. The flickering firelight cast deep shadows upon his face, making him look even more menacing than usual.
You, however, could only stare at your mother, shock momentarily robbing you of speech.
"Aenys?" you echoed, as if you had misheard her.
Visenya did not waver. "Yes. He was our brother’s son, of pure Valyrian blood. A match that would have been appropriate—unlike this… madness."
Madness.
She was calling this madness.
She, of all people.
You almost laughed at the irony.
"You—" Maegor’s voice was a low, warning growl. "You would have given her to him?"
Visenya’s expression remained unreadable. "It would have been better than what she has chosen for herself."
A muscle twitched in Maegor’s jaw. His grip tightened upon his sword.
You saw the way his shoulders tensed, the way his nostrils flared—the barely restrained rage simmering beneath his skin.
And yet, beneath that rage…
There was something else.
Something dark and possessive and utterly furious.
You swallowed, regaining your voice. "You would have had me wed a man who would sooner hide behind his councilors than make a decision for himself?"
Visenya’s gaze flickered back to you. "Aenys was weak," she admitted. "But he was still our blood. And a union between you and him would have ensured—"
"Would have ensured that I spent my life shackled to a man unworthy of me." You lifted your chin, voice sharp. "Would have ensured that I wasted away in the shadows while he simpered before the lords of Westeros."
Visenya exhaled sharply. "And now you would shackle yourself to Maegor instead?"
At that, Maegor let out a low, mirthless chuckle. "No," he murmured darkly, stepping closer. "She does not shackle herself to me." His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist in an iron grip. "She belongs to me."
A possessive declaration. A claim.
One that left no room for argument.
Your heartbeat quickened.
Visenya’s eyes darkened. "Belongs to you?" she repeated, her tone edged with something unreadable. "Is that what you believe?"
Maegor smirked, tilting his head. "I know it."
Visenya inhaled slowly, measuring his words—measuring you.
"And you?" she finally asked, her gaze settling upon you.
You met her stare without flinching.
"Yes."
A single word. Steady. Unshaken.
Visenya studied you for a long moment, and for the first time, something flickered in her gaze.
Not anger.
Not disappointment.
But recognition.
"You are a fool," she murmured. "Both of you."
You said nothing.
She sighed, running a hand over her temple as if you had given her a headache. "Do you even understand what you invite upon yourself?"
You held her gaze. "I understand more than you think."
Visenya shook her head. "You think you understand. But power is not given—it is taken. And once you take it, there is no going back."
You did not hesitate. "I do not intend to go back."
A beat of silence.
Then Visenya exhaled softly, something almost like resignation flickering across her face.
"You will regret this," she murmured. "Both of you will."
Maegor smirked. "Doubtful."
Visenya stared at him for a long moment, then at you. Then, without another word, she turned and strode toward the doors.
But just before she exited, she paused.
"You should pray," she said over her shoulder, "that you never find out why I wanted you to wed Aenys instead."
And then she was gone.
The room remained heavy with her words.
You turned to Maegor. "Why would she say that?"
He was still staring at the door, his jaw set.
Finally, he exhaled and looked at you.
"Because she knows," he murmured, stepping closer, his hands settling upon your waist. "That I do not intend to share what is mine."
His grip tightened.
His gaze burned.
And despite the warning still lingering in the air—
You smiled.
The doors to the council chamber swung open with a resounding thud, and the air inside shifted, thick with tension as you and Maegor stepped inside.
Every eye in the room turned to you.
The lords of the realm—the men who had served under your father, Aegon the Conqueror, and now bowed before his son—stared at you in stunned silence.
Their gazes flickered between you and Maegor, their shock evident, though none dared to speak first.
For they knew who you were.
You were not just Maegor’s sister.
You were the daughter of Aegon the Conqueror and Visenya Targaryen. A dragon born of dragons.
And now—now—you were something more.
Maegor strode to the head of the table, his presence commanding as he turned to face them all. His hand, large and possessive, rested upon your lower back, the warmth of his touch burning through the fabric of your gown.
He did not wait for anyone to find their voices.
"I have summoned you all here to inform you of a decision," he declared, his voice a low rumble of finality.
Your lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile as you watched them shift uncomfortably in their seats.
"The women who call themselves my wives," Maegor continued, his tone edged with disdain, "are no longer so. As of this moment, I renounce them. I annul every marriage."
A ripple of shock swept through the chamber. The lords exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared to interrupt.
You could hear the sharp inhale of Lord Rogar Baratheon, see the way Lord Tully's hands twitched upon the table. Even Lord Celtigar, one of the most loyal supporters of House Targaryen, looked taken aback.
But Maegor was not finished.
"In their place, I will take one wife."
He turned his head slightly, his gaze locking onto yours.
Your breath hitched.
Not because you were surprised—no, this was what you had wanted.
This was what you had orchestrated.
But because, in this moment, standing beside him as he declared to the realm that you were his—
You felt it.
You felt the power shift.
The inevitability of it.
"The woman I will wed," Maegor continued, his voice dark and possessive, "is my sister."
The chamber erupted.
"My king —!" Lord Baratheon shot to his feet, but he was silenced by the sound of Maegor unsheathing Blackfyre and slamming it against the table.
The great Valyrian steel blade sent goblets spilling over, the clang of metal against wood ringing through the air like a war drum.
The lords flinched.
You did not.
Maegor’s eyes burned as he surveyed them, daring them to challenge him.
"I am your king," he reminded them coldly. "You will not interrupt me again."
A thick silence fell over the room.
Even Lord Baratheon, still standing, hesitated before slowly lowering himself back into his seat.
Satisfied, Maegor continued.
"There is no woman in the realm more worthy of my throne than my own blood," he declared. "No one more fit to rule at my side than my own sister. A dragon belongs with a dragon."
Your heart pounded as his words wrapped around you, solidifying the reality of what you had fought for.
The lords were stunned into silence, their minds scrambling to grasp what this meant—what you meant.
And then, finally, someone found their voice.
"Your Grace," Lord Tully said hesitantly, his face pale. "The Faith—"
Maegor turned his burning gaze onto him. "The Faith will bend. Or I will break them."
A chill swept through the room.
Everyone knew what that meant.
The memories of the last Faith uprising were still fresh—bodies impaled upon spikes, the Great Sept desecrated, the streets of King's Landing running red with blood.
No one wanted to challenge Maegor on this.
No one could.
And so, they remained silent.
You smiled.
Because in this moment—
You had won.
Maegor turned to you, his dark gaze locking onto yours, his lips curling into a smirk.
"You will be my wife," he said, his voice lower now, meant only for you. "And you will rule at my side."
Your hand reached up, fingers brushing his jawline, tilting his face toward yours.
"And I will never share you," you whispered back, your eyes alight with triumph.
Maegor exhaled a slow, deep chuckle, his grip tightening upon you.
"Then it seems," he murmured, "we understand each other perfectly."
As the heavy doors of the council chamber slammed shut, the lingering echoes of Maegor’s decree still clung to the air like a storm waiting to break. The lords had left in silence, their faces pale, their minds racing with the weight of what had just transpired.
But you—
You remained.
Alone with him.
Maegor leaned back in his chair, the great seat carved for kings, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those dark, molten pools—were fixed upon you, watching, waiting.
A slow smile curled upon your lips.
With deliberate steps, you approached the long table that had been the site of so many political discussions, so many power struggles—where the realm had just learned that you had triumphed over them all.
You placed one hand on the polished wood and then, with a graceful ease, lifted yourself onto the table, sitting directly in front of him, your legs on either side of his.
His gaze darkened.
Maegor’s hands found your waist instantly, his grip firm, possessive, pulling you closer until there was nothing but breath and heat between you.
Your arms slid around his neck, fingers threading into the thick silver strands of his hair.
"That went well," you mused, tilting your head, your voice laced with amusement. "They did not dare to argue for long."
Maegor let out a low chuckle, one of satisfaction. "Because they fear me," he murmured against your skin, his lips grazing the sensitive point of your jaw. "As they should."
You hummed in agreement, your nails lightly scraping against the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine.
"And now," you whispered, leaning in until your lips nearly brushed his, "they will fear me as well."
Maegor’s grip tightened.
"Good," he rumbled. "Let them."
His hands slid down, rough palms pressing against your thighs before gripping your hips, pulling you forward until you were flush against him.
"You did not even hesitate," he said, his breath warm against your lips. "Did you ever?"
You laughed softly, brushing your nose against his.
"Never," you admitted. "You are mine, Maegor. And I do not share."
His pupils dilated at your words, a growl of approval escaping him.
"Neither do I."
Then his lips crashed against yours, and you let yourself be claimed—just as you had claimed him.
The fire between you and Maegor was not one that could be tamed. It was raw, untamed, a hunger that no one else could ever understand.
His lips crashed against yours once more, neither of you willing to yield, both fighting for dominance in a battle that neither truly wanted to win. His hand slid up your back, fingers pressing into your spine as he pulled you impossibly closer. The warmth of his body, the sheer power of him, sent a shiver down your spine.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard, making him groan against your mouth. It was a sound of frustration and pleasure all at once. His hands tightened on your waist, his grip possessive, almost punishing.
"Still trying to control me, little dragon?" he murmured against your lips, his breath hot, teasing.
You smirked, your nails scraping against the back of his neck. "You belong to me, Maegor. Do you doubt it?"
He let out a low chuckle, one filled with dark amusement. "I do not doubt it," he admitted, his lips trailing along your jawline, down to the curve of your neck. He bit down—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp. "But you belong to me just the same."
Your head tilted back as his mouth worked its way lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your throat. Your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, a rhythm that matched the fire burning in your veins.
Your legs tightened around his waist, your body molding against his as his hands roamed, his touch leaving trails of heat wherever it landed. You could feel his breath against your collarbone, feel the way he fought to keep his control intact.
"You are holding back," you whispered, your fingers threading through his silver hair, tugging once more. "Why?"
Maegor growled, his hands gripping your waist harder. "You test me," he murmured, his lips pressing against your skin, his breath warm, teasing. "You have always tested me."
"And you have always loved it."
His eyes met yours then, dark and filled with something deeper than mere desire.
"Yes," he admitted, his voice low, dangerous. "I have."
Then, with a sudden movement, he lifted you off the table with ease, carrying you as if you weighed nothing. You gasped, your arms tightening around his neck as he turned, stalking toward his chambers with a determination that sent a thrill down your spine.
"Where are we going?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.
He smirked, his grip tightening on you. "To make sure the entire Red Keep knows exactly who you belong to."
Maegor was never a patient man. You knew that better than anyone. And yet, as you lay beneath him, watching his fingers fumble in his urgency to rid himself of his armor, you couldn’t help but laugh.
His head snapped up at the sound, eyes narrowing. “You find something amusing?” His voice was a growl, low and dangerous, but there was a glint in his eye—a flicker of something that was reserved only for you.
You reached up, brushing a strand of damp silver hair away from his forehead. “Only that the mighty Maegor the Cruel is in such a hurry,” you teased, your fingers grazing along his jawline. “Where is your control, brother?”
His hands found your wrists before you could move away, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head. The sudden force made you gasp, your amusement flickering into something else—something deeper, darker.
“My control?” He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. “It is you who shatters it every time.”
You shivered as his lips brushed against your jaw, trailing down to your throat. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin, his grip on your wrists tightening as your body arched beneath him. He was fire—burning, all-consuming—and you had always been drawn to the flames.
“I should make you beg,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with restraint.
You tilted your head, a smirk curving your lips even as your pulse raced. “And yet, here you are, trembling with need.”
Maegor let out a low growl, his fingers curling around the fabric of your dress. With one sharp tug, the fine material tore, slipping from your shoulders like silk.
“Careful, brother,” you purred, your breath hitching as his lips found the curve of your collarbone. “You might just lose yourself.”
His golden eyes met yours, dark and smoldering. “I already have.”
And then, with a force that stole the breath from your lungs, he claimed you—wholly, utterly, as if he had been waiting for this moment his entire life.
Maegor moved with a brutal, unrelenting pace, forcing a sharp gasp from your lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, holding on as he claimed you with the same ruthless determination he wielded in battle.
His grip on your hips tightened, ensuring you had nowhere to go—not that you wanted to escape. Your legs wrapped securely around his waist, locking him in place. The motion made him groan, his head falling to the crook of your neck.
“Fucking,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough, strained.
You couldn’t help but laugh, though it was breathless, tinged with the heat coursing through your veins. “Losing control already, brother?”
His teeth found your throat in response, biting just hard enough to leave a mark before soothing the sting with his tongue. You shivered at the sensation, fingers tangling in his hair as he moved.
“You provoke me,” he growled, his breath hot against your skin. “Every damn time.”
You tilted your head, giving him better access, enjoying the way he took exactly what he wanted. “And yet, you always give in.”
Maegor pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes were dark, filled with something that sent a shiver down your spine. “You will be mine.”
You smirked, running your nails down his back, delighting in the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. “I already am.”
The words sent him into a frenzy, his movements growing more intense, more desperate. His control—so carefully maintained in every other aspect of his life—was shattered here, with you.
And gods, you loved knowing that no one else could ever break him the way you did.
Maegor straightened, pulling your hips flush against him with a sudden, forceful grip that tore a sharp cry from your lips. He laughed—low, dark, victorious—as he held you there, refusing to let you pull away even an inch.
"Look at me," he commanded, fingers grasping your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his.
Your breath hitched, body trembling, but you refused to surrender so easily. Even as he held you, as he dominated you, you still wanted to push him, still wanted to fight.
"You think you’ve won?" you taunted, voice uneven but defiant.
His grip on your chin tightened ever so slightly, his smirk widening. "I know I have."
You clenched your jaw, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of your submission. But Maegor knew you too well—he could see the struggle, the way your body reacted despite your mind’s resistance.
"You fight me," he murmured, eyes gleaming with something dangerous, something hungry. "But you want this. You always do."
Your nails dug into his arms, your chest rising and falling with every rapid breath. "And you need me to want it," you shot back, voice shaking. "Because without me, you're nothing."
His expression darkened, but instead of anger, it was something far more dangerous—something primal. His hold on you became firmer, possessive.
"You think you control me?" he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. "You think you own me?"
You smirked, despite the way your body quivered in his grasp. "I know I do."
That was his breaking point. With a low growl, he moved—fast, overpowering—his mouth crashing against yours as he silenced your defiance the only way he knew how. You gasped, but he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, pouring every ounce of his dominance into it.
Maegor would never yield. He would never bow. But neither would you.
And that was why he would always come back to you.
Maegor’s roar of anger echoed through the chamber as the heavy wooden doors burst open, slamming against the stone walls with a force that sent a gust of cold air rushing into the room.
You barely had the presence of mind to register what had happened before laughter bubbled up from your lips. It was sharp, mocking, delighted, because standing in the doorway, frozen in shock and horror, were the women who had once called themselves his wives.
Or rather, his former wives.
Tyanna’s dark eyes were wide, disbelief flashing across her sharp features as she clutched the doorframe. Jeyne’s hand covered her mouth, her soft, delicate face drained of all color. And poor Ceryse— hands curled into fists, trembling as she stared at you, at him, at what the two of you had become.
"What," Maegor snarled, his voice like rolling thunder, "do you think you’re doing?"
The weight of his fury struck them hard. Even Tyanna, who had always been the boldest, flinched under the intensity of his glare.
"We—" Jeyne tried to speak, but her voice cracked. She swallowed thickly and straightened, eyes flickering between you and the man who now held you so possessively. "We heard rumors, Maegor. That you—that she—"
Her words failed her, but the meaning was clear enough. They had hoped, perhaps, that the whispers had been false. That the court had exaggerated. That there was no way their husband—their king—could be found in such a compromising position with his own sister.
But the truth was laid bare before them.
You, tangled in Maegor’s embrace, your skin still flushed, your body still trembling from the intensity of your shared pleasure. Him, his arm wrapped around you, holding you to him like a claim that no one could challenge. The scent of sweat and passion still lingered in the air, thick and undeniable.
You tilted your head back against Maegor’s shoulder, looking at them through half-lidded eyes, utterly unbothered. "Now you come running?" you mused, amusement dripping from every word. "How pathetic."
Ceryse took a step forward, her body tense with rage. "You’re his sister!" she spat, voice shaking. "This is—this is madness!"
You sighed, rolling your eyes. "Is it? Because to me, it looks a lot like destiny."
"You’ve bewitched him," Jeyne whispered, staring at you with something close to fear.
At that, Maegor laughed. It was a low, cruel sound, reverberating through his chest as he held you tighter. "Do you take me for a fool, Jeyne? You think I do not choose this?" His voice dropped into something even darker. "You think I would let anyone—even her—command me?"
Tyanna’s lips parted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across her face. But Ceryse wasn’t so easily silenced.
"You promised me," she hissed, stepping forward again. "You promised me you would honor our vows."
Maegor’s expression was unreadable, but you felt the tension in his body shift—something hard, something dangerous. "And now," he said coldly, "I break them."
Ceryse let out a sharp, wounded breath.
Jeyne was the first to recover, her gaze dropping to the floor as she took an unsteady step back. "So it’s true," she murmured. "You mean to cast us aside."
"I already have," Maegor corrected, his voice void of any remorse.
Tyanna was silent. But the way her hands curled into her skirts, the way her gaze darted to yours, full of dark calculation, told you that she was already plotting her next move.
You, however, had no such worries.
Instead, you merely smirked, turning your face up to look at Maegor, your fingers tracing absent patterns over his bare chest. "Tell me, my love," you purred, voice dripping with mockery, "shall I have them thrown out? Or shall we let them stay and watch?"
Ceryse recoiled as if struck, and Jeyne let out a horrified gasp.
Maegor exhaled sharply through his nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He liked your cruelty. He liked that you enjoyed this as much as he did.
But he was not a man of patience.
"Get out," he growled, his tone brooking no argument.
Jeyne was the first to obey, turning on her heel and all but fleeing from the room. Ceryse lingered for just a moment longer, her hands trembling, her blue eyes filled with unshed tears—then she turned sharply and stormed after her.
Tyanna, however, was different. She lingered, her dark gaze locking with yours, a knowing smirk playing at her lips.
"You may have him now," she murmured, voice slow, measured. "But we shall see how long you can keep him."
And then, without another word, she slipped away into the shadows, disappearing into the halls beyond.
Silence fell over the room.
Then Maegor sighed, pulling you against him once more, burying his face in your hair. "Fools," he muttered darkly. "All of them."
You laughed softly, nuzzling into his warmth. "Let them talk," you whispered. "Let them watch."
Maegor’s grip on you tightened, his lips brushing against your ear. "Let them fear."
And they would.
Because after tonight, the world would know—Maegor the Cruel did not love, did not belong to anyone.
But you… you were the exception.
Tag List : @danytar @hangmanscoming @julessworldd @yazzzmints @callsignwidow @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry
divider by: @cafekitsune
word count: 1.9k
synopsis: She was bought, chained, and bloodied—but not broken. When a slave master falls by her hand, Maegor Targaryen sees more than defiance. He sees fire worth claiming.
The air reeked of salt, sweat, and rot. Fish guts, dried blood, and desperation clung to the stones beneath booted feet, ground deep into the muck of the port’s narrow alleys. Ships choked the docks in rigid rows, their heavy canvas sails groaning against teh breeze. And at the edge of the marketplace, where gold changed hands and iron chains clinked like chimes in the wind, human flesh was traded like cattle.
Maegor Targaryen loathed such places.
It was not because he found the trade dishonourable—the world bent only to those strong enough to hold the leash—but because the men who trafficked in it were pathetic. They were fat, loud, and soft-fingered. Parasites abusing power they had never truly earned.
Beneath him, his warhorse stamped impatiently, unsettled by the press of the crowd. Maegor ignored the beast. His eyes were locked onto a sudden surge of jeers and yelling.
A commotion near the holding pens.
A girl had just been sold—fresh stock, recently captured if the tattered foreign silks clinging to her were any indication. She couldn’t have been older than her late teens, but already her buyer had seized her by the chin, his fat fingers bruising her pale skin as he inspected her like livestock.
Then his hand slid down her body and the girl stilled as he leaned in and whispered something in her ear.
Whatever he said, had her gaze narrowing before she lunged.
Her knee drove into the man’s gut with such force that he stumbled back with a wheeze. He wasn’t prepared for the elbow that cracked into his temple a breath later. The crowd barely had time to register what was happening before she was on him—tangled hair flying, shackled hands striking.
The slaver hit the ground hard, and she went with him, a snarl tearing from her throat as she sank her teeth into his shoulder. He howled. Blood stained the pale fabric of her dress, and still, she didn’t stop.
Two guards lunged to drag her off. She pivots without hesitation—moving faster than the heavy men expected—and dropped the first with a sickening crack to the jaw. When the second tried to pin her arms, she broke his nose with her forehead and clawed wildly at his eyes, fighting like a cornered dragon.
Her gasping buyer scrambled back up, making the fatal mistake of trying to reclaim his prize. He lunged to grab her—and she drove a jagged shard of rusted iron straight into the side of his throat.
The market went dead silent.
The buyer collapsed, gurgling violently as he twitched in the mud. The girl stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from her knuckles. Her gaze didn't linger on the dying man; instead, her eyes snapped to the surrounding crowd.
Daring them to make the same mistake as he had.
Maegor didn’t speak. He simply dismounted, his heavy boots thudding hard against the stained timber of the dock.
He didn’t need to shout. The muttering crowd silenced instantly at the mere sight of his silhouette moving through the throngs. Targaryen.
He knew his kin when he saw them. Even if she were a bastard born of some dishonoured union, even if the records would never bear her name—she bore the blood. And right now, it was burning.
“Stop.”
A single word, but it carried the weight of an executioner's axe.
Every movement in the square ceased.
The girl was panting, blood smeared across her lip, her hands trembling with spent fury. She snapped her head toward the voice that had cut through the chaos, her defensive posture locked. A single strand of silver-gold hair fell across her striking, lilac eyes.
“Who is she?” Maegor asked, his voice deceptively low.
The slave master—pale, limping, and thoroughly humiliated—managed to wheeze, “A bastard, we were told, Your Grace. From Lys. A wild bitch… you wouldn’t want her. She barely speaks—”
“She speaks well enough with her hands,” Maegor cut in, his tone ice-cold.
“She killed a buyer!” the man gasped, gesturing frantically at the twitching corpse.
“Then the buyer was weak,” Maegor said flatly, his eyes never leaving the girl.
She stood a few paces away, flanked by two guards whose knuckles were white against the hafts of their spears. The collar bolted around her throat was crude, heavy iron, its jagged inner edge chafing her skin into a weeping, crimson ring. Her wrists were bound in rusted shackles that clinked with every shallow breath she took. Fresh blood coated her knuckles and a violent spatter of it mapped the curve of her jaw.
Yet her spine did not bow. Her chin did not lower. Her silver-gold hair was a tangled mane damp with sweat and sea spray, her foreign silk tunic torn open to the collarbone, but her violet eyes burned through the filth with a familiar sort of Valyrian pride. They locked onto his, matching the tyrannical weight of his gaze without flinching.
Maegor stepped forward. The heavy thud of his riding boots against the salt-encrusted stones was the only sound left in the market square. The guards shifted nervously, their leather armor creaking, while the slave master stayed wisely silent, pressing a hand over his ruined, bleeding face.
“Do you not fear punishment?” Maegor asked, his voice a low purr of steel sheathed in silk.
The girl stared back, her voice cutting through the humid air, cold and terrifyingly clear. “I have been punished every day of my miserable life. You cannot threaten me with what I already know.”
Something flickered deep within Maegor’s dark eyes—not pity, for he possessed none, but a grim, predatory interest. A cruel, faint smile tugged at the corner of his scarred mouth.
“I saw what you did,” he said, gesturing faintly to the groaning guards and the corpse. “You fight like a beast cornered.”
Her lip curled in a sharp, patrician sneer. “He touched what didn’t belong to him.”
“And so you killed him?”
“He was warned,” she said, her voice entirely devoid of a tremor. “The disgusting pig chose not to listen.”
“He paid thirty silver pieces for your contract!” the slave master croaked, desperation breaking through his fear.
“Then it seems he paid too little,” she spat, never once breaking eye contact with the Targaryen prince to look at the slaver. “He bought my body, but he expected my submission. Since he could not afford both, I took the remainder of what he owed—in blood.”
Maegor chuckled. It was a low, dry sound, rumbling deep in his massive chest, completely devoid of warmth but heavy with genuine amusement. “And what is your price, then, girl? If thirty silver pieces cannot buy a bastard of Lys?”
The girl tilted her chin higher, exposing the raw, bleeding line of her throat to his gaze, entirely unafraid of the monster standing before her. “There isn’t one.”
That brought him closer, stepping into her space until the heavy hem of his black cloak nearly brushed her bare, dirt-caked feet. The sheer mass of him cast her completely in shadow, the suffocating weight of his presence enough to make lesser men gasp for air. Yet, when he spoke, his tone was almost conversational.
“You truly believe you are above being owned?”
“I think I’m above men like him,” she said, her voice ringing out for the crowd to hear. “I would rather die than wear a master's ring.”
A suffocating silence followed. One of the guards exhaled sharply, horrified by her audacity. Another muttered under his breath, “The bitch is mad. She should be whipped until her back matches her insides.”
Maegor turned slowly toward the man who spoke. His gaze alone was enough to make the guard flinch.
His gaze alone was enough to make the guard flinch. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. The silence thickened, clotting with a dark, suffocating dread. When Maegor fixed his stare like that, it meant judgment was near—and judgment from the prince was always written in blood.
The guard faltered, the color draining from his face. He stepped back into the shadows without another word, his leather armor clinking faintly with his retreat.
Maegor turned his attention back to the girl. He circled her once, a slow, appraising predator. She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She stood like a soldier awaiting the axe, a cornered dragon daring him to try the leash.
He stopped directly behind her. Slowly, his rough, calloused fingers brushed against the nape of her neck, moving the tangled silver hair off her shoulder. He felt her entire body tense, vibrating like a plucked bowstring, but she made no move to strike. His smile grew by a fraction. She was a little thing compared to his massive, armored frame, yet he could feel the lethal current thrumming through her. She was a coiled viper; she would throw her life away trying to kill him if he made a single wrong move.
He stepped back, his hand dropping to his side. “Take the collar off.”
A stunned silence followed. The guards hesitated. The slave master sputtered, his face twisting in a panic that overcame his pain. “My prince—she’s—she’s a murderer! A wild—”
“I said,” Maegor growled, “take it off.”
This time, no one questioned him. One of the guards stepped forward with trembling hands, fumbling blindly with the heavy iron bolt at her neck. It gave way with a sharp, heavy clink, and the collar dropped into the muck with a dull metallic thud.
The girl didn't rub her neck. She didn't touch the raw, bleeding ring where the iron had chewed into her flesh. She simply raised her chin higher, staring down the remaining guards as if daring them to try and put it back.
Maegor studied her for a long moment. He took in the crimson blooming across her dress, the jagged iron shard still gripped tightly in her white-knuckled fist, and the deep gash across her cheekbone that she hadn't even seemed to notice.
“You will come with me,” he said flatly, already turning his back on her and walking toward his destrier.
He didn’t bother looking back to see if she would follow. The girl’s eyes darted frantically around the square, weighing her chances of escape. But the crowd was a solid wall of hostile, staring faces. If she stayed, the slavers would tear her apart the moment the prince rode out of sight. Maegor was her only salvation, and they both knew it.
Reluctantly, she moved, her bare feet padding against the stones as she fell into step beside him. She barely reached his chest, swallowed entirely by his shadow.
As they neared the massive black warhorse, she murmured, her voice a low, dangerous purr, “You’re not worried I might run?”
“You won’t make it far,” he said, without granting her a glance.
She looked around and then back at him, she believed him.
Maegor mounted the beast in one fluid, heavy motion, then extended a leather-gloved hand down to her. She hesitated—only for a heartbeat. Then, her bloody fingers closed around his. With one effortless, powerful tug, he hoisted her up into the saddle, settling her firmly in front of him.
His massive arm circled her waist to hold her steady against the pommel. She was light, sharp-boned, and caked in filth, but against his chest, her spine remained as straight and unyielding as a Valyrian steel blade.
She tilted her head back just enough to meet his dark eyes. “I could still fight you.”
Maegor looked down at her. She was bloodied, breathless, and utterly radiant in her defiance.
The slow, cruel curl of his lips made the blood in her veins run cold.
Tales of childhood with impending marriage, teenage hormones and Maegors raging crush on the one to be his wife, which he is hellbent on denying.
Chap. II
Warnings: Targcest
In the halls of the Red Keep, Maegor was never truly at ease. His mother was his shadow, a constant, a hand on his shoulder to guide him. There was Aenys, feeble since birth, his elder half-brother, and there was you, his sister.
Visenya and Maegor rarely visited Kings Landing, Visenya didn’t bother herself with it after his birth, and Maegor himself never had any care for the stone halls, etched in symbols of his fathers legacy, of his conquest. You never had any qualms with visiting, you were warm and gentle in a way he and your mother were not. You’d smile at Aenys and take his gentle hand, and you’d greet the court in smiles and silk and the bards would surely write songs of you.
Maegor had found you simple. A simple girl in simple gowns with simple motivations. Just like his brother. Since you were but a small child he had found you insufferable. You’d chase him around, tug at his coattails and plead with him to tell you stories. He wasn’t much older than you, but carrying himself like a conqueror seemed easier than simply indulging you. He’d push you away, rigid, unfeeling, watch your smaller face twist in complaint as you ran off.
“Be kind to her,” His mother had said, on his thirteenth name day. He’d been too enthralled by the blade grasped in his hands, dark sister, to truly listen to her, and he’d seemed almost flippant in his reply.
“Why?”
“She is your sister.”
“Shes a fool.”
“A child.” Visenyas voice was harsh, commanding enough to send even Maegor in all his defiance to soften his tone.
Maegor hadn’t replied, he understood it was tradition, it was his duty as a Targaryen prince. He made no complaint, he’d nodded his head solemnly as if it was all set in stone. Visenya had suggested you marry Aenys a few years ago, but he was a fair bit older than you, and had gotten married to the Velaryon girl three years prior. Maegor knew the moment the betrothal wasn’t struck that the duty had fallen to him. You had fallen into his grasp and he almost couldn’t wait to toss you aside.
“Brother,” You’d call out, violet eyes peering over the desk. You and your ridiculous mousey face, Maegor would never understand why the servants fussed over you. All girls looked the same to him. He could almost shout at you to leave, that he was busy, strike you perhaps if he was feeling bold that day. He’d respected mother too much to raise a hand to the child she struggled to labour. “What are you doing?” You’d reach out a hand to flip the pages of his book, and for a moment it felt like you were jostling his thoughts and not the pages.
“Im busy, don’t meddle—“ He’d turn to push you aside, and then suddenly you slid him something, placed it atop the pages detailing Valyrias doom and smiled. “Happy name day.” His thoughts stilled for a moment, and of all the scathing words that came to mind, he didn’t say anything. Mother had given him dark sister, what could you possibly give to measure up to that?
“I have no need for your silly sentiments, it is just a day, same as all the rest.” His hand reached out, prying what now seems to be a silk handkerchief off the pages. A ridiculous gift, something silly, useless. He could buy a dozen handkerchiefs better than this if he’d wished.
Shes to be your wife, one day.
“It’s ridiculous.” He’d contemplated tossing it, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He’d carefully flipped it right side up, to examine what seemed to be a messily embroidered dragon on the corner, a valyrian steel sword on the adjacent corner. He couldn’t unravel his feelings. Apprehension? An appreciation of you sweetness? Of course not. And then he decided to give you a shove. The best way to be rid of you. Or at-least not acknowledge the effort you put into the ugly thing. “Go away.” He’d commanded, pointing to the door of the study as if he is the high lord of dragon-stone and you a maid servant giving him supper.
You’d gone off crying to Visenya. He hadn’t realized he’d truly been truly mean till mother struck him for it. You’d hidden behind her skirts like a child, then you’d cried again when his head was jostled to the side.
“Im sorry, Maegor!” You’d sobbed, taking his hand and then you sobbed some more. He’d stiffened, and for a moment you hadn’t seemed insufferable at all, just a young girl, upset he got hit. Mother never hit him hard, he understood why she did it. He just wished you hadn’t seen it.
He was going to be your husband, how could you see him get tossed around by his own mother?
“Mother has a light hand—“ He’d tried to pull away in a frenzy, and he’d flushed, warm in the cheeks as you clung to him like a whore to gold. He should have been more careful, he’s your betrothed now, a prince. He should have acted accordingly, accepted your gift without complaint.
He hadn’t tossed it away, not really. Perhaps he was angry, angry he was to wed you, angry that you couldn’t stay away. You were just like Aenys, a baby. A simpleton. He’d shoved the handkerchief between his mattress and the bed, and he’d tossed and turned that night as if he felt the thing poking at him from underneath. You’d cried for him, once again you could bear the thought of letting go.
Then you grew older, and the nagging for stories and the invasion of his lessons ceased. Mother took to turning you into a lady, as she was meant to. Maegor was sixteen when he was knighted by his father, you’d seen him win a tourney for the first time. Three Kingsguards felled, helmets warped, a breastplate caved in, a shield perfectly smashed to splinters by the calculated strike of a lance.
You’d smiled the entire time, for him or for the other pompous lords making you giggle he did not know, laughing sweet enough for lords to turn their heads towards the sound. He’d been thrown off kilter, he’d almost fallen off his saddle at the noise. A screech, like dragging a blade against stone, horrid. Yes, horrid. Like everything else you did.
You were to be married soon, you shouldn’t laugh so easy, it makes you look foolish. You’ll remain a maiden till you’re fifty. He thought. You were always so bright, so alive, as if the world drew its breath from you. How could you smile so lightly? How did your eyes shine like that?
The years apart had dulled his senses, you’d grown prettier. Less insufferable, older, wise in a way he only saw ladies grow. Why did even the youngest of maidens seem to have a grasp of the world all or a sudden? He didn’t understand it.
He used to make jokes with the young lordlings, say that you had ‘no sense, no teats, and no wit.” but he wasn’t sure if that was correct, now. You certainly seemed smarter, you carried yourself in a way that told him you knew what you were doing, but that never drifted from your true nature.
But as he saw you across the table at a feast that same night, he had an epiphany. You were striking, striking in a way that made his heart race painfully. He’d enjoyed thrills, battle, anything that got his heart beating. But this was unpleasant, his palms grew clammy, his head a mess of some adolescent feelings as if he were a boy still. You certainly had teats now, enough to fill the gown you wore. He had to clear his throat, to focus on the ham and sausage on his plate and simply eat his fill.
You’d stopped him at his chamber door, to congratulate him. “Ser Maegor Targaryen,” you’d said, smiling like a fool once again. Always smiling, always infectious in your fondness. “They say you took down men twenty years your seniors.”
“It was simply a tourney,” He’d paused, and for a moment, he felt the urge to see you laugh like at the tourney. He wished to be sure it was him you were smiling at. “They say I’m the youngest knight in the realm.”
“You truly are an impressive warrior, brother! I almost couldn’t look, you seemed so focused.”
“I was.”
“Im very happy for you,” You’d taken his hands in yours, gently clasped your fingers over his rough skin, and you hadn’t said a word. Maegor stiffened imperceptibly. Of course you were happy, who wouldn’t be knowing their betrothed is extraordinary? When you were young it was different, the years apart have changed his perception, all of a sudden made him see you as the young woman you are and not the little sister he once ignored.
“I know. You made a horrible fuss about it to the other ladies. I heard your distasteful squealing halfway across the hall—like a piglet.”
“I do not squeal, i was simply proud. Isn’t it rude to consider me in the same sentence as a piglet?”
“It isn’t quite proper for a lady to be so vain.”
“You’d rather i said nothing at all to you? I at-least said kind words.” Youd raised your chin, almost defiantly, and for a moment, he wished to hold your hand a bit tighter. You were far more aware of your behavior than he thought. “Do you wish for kind words from me, sister?” Maegor had asked, quieter, as if he too truly wished to know. Had you flattered him in hopes he’d flatter you as-well? He’d had compliments flooding through his brain all night, anchor-less, drifting in the sea of his conscious.
“I said no such thing. I did not demand insincerity, either.”
“What did the other ladies speak to you of?” He questions suddenly, and he stands a bit straighter. “You were giggling like it was something you weren’t meant to hear.” He says, voice falling lower, almost invasive. “It’s my duty to keep you from unruly influences.”
You paused, and a flush bloomed on your cheeks. Ladies shared simple stories, of kisses with a foreign bard or a handkerchief exchanged to a household knight. “They were maidens stories, brother. Simple stories, you’d find them silly.”
“You certainly found them invigorating.” He adds, and his head cocks to the side in question. He sighs. “You maidens and your foolish tales, have you nothing better to do?” He scolds, and for a moment your expression falls as he pulls his hands from yours. “You aren’t my father;“ you speak, a quiet complaint. He isn’t your father, to chide you in the hall in quiet whispers. “Brother—“
He’d kissed you, quick and simple, silenced any more of your inherent ramblings. Perhaps thats why he didn’t ignore you. He didn’t look back, just opened the door to his chambers and shut the creaking hinges with a loud thud. His back had pressed against the door as if you’d have some sort of strength to open it if he weren’t standing there, waiting till your steps faded away. You’d tasted like lemon cakes, and you’d fallen quiet fairly quickly. He just doesn’t understand why he did it, why his heart races so loud beneath his ribs.
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Next chapter ->
Pardon any grammar mistakes, english isn’t my first language! This is my first time writing about asoiaf, is it too obvious i’ve never read the books? Any constructive criticism is welcome, likes and comments too!
