The wind howling off the Narrow Sea tasted of salt, wet kelp, and old ash, but inside one of the tower of Dragonstone, the air was thick with the scent of melted tallow and heavy Dornish red.
Visenya Targaryen stood motionless before the arched stone casement, clad only in a shift of sheer Myrish silk, the fabric so thin and pale it was little more than cobweb against her skin.
The cold morning light caught the long, silver-gold waves of her hair where they tumbled over her bare shoulders, casting deep shadows across the dark stone floor of the solar.
She was a woman grown, yet her body remained straight and sharp as a Valyrian steel blade, her hips wide and strong, her purple eyes unyielding as they stared at the horizon.
In the days of her girlhood, Dragonstone had been a grim, brooding rock, a solitary fortress of fused black stone that sat isolated and barren against the gray, churned waves.
It had been an outpost of Old Valyria, a place of exile and escape where her ancestors had sat in cold halls, staring out across the sunset lands with hungry eyes.
For centuries, the island had remained a stark, lonely rock where the grass grew thin and yellowish upon the wind-scoured slopes, and the smallfolk lived on the measly gains of their daily catches, their hands cracked from salt water and bitter cold.
Visenya had never expected to see this sight in a hundred years from today.
To her mind, Dragonstone should have always continued to be the barren, barely inhabited island of her fathers, where the screech of sea gulls was the only song that broke the silence.
And so it would have remained, had it not been for her son.
Falling out of her dark musings, she stared down at the massive stone piers that stretched out into the deep water like the black claws of some colossal dragon.
They were crowded now, teeming with a vibrant life the island had never known in all the centuries since the Doom.
She saw purple-hulled trading galleons out of Braavos, their tall masts swaying rhythmically in the ocean swell; fat-bellied Tyroshi merchant cogs with their brightly dyed canvas sails of magenta and vermilion; and sleek Volantene carracks laden with fine silks, spiced oils, and heavy northern timber.
The sharp cries of the dockhands, the gruff bark of sea captains, and the creak of hempen rope rising from the harbor filled the salt air, even though the sun was barely a sliver of gold above the eastern horizon.
Lifting her hand, she brought the dark chalice of wine to her lips to take a slow sip, painting her lips a deep, bloody red with its color.
The cold breeze rushing through the open window bit at her skin, reminding her of her younger days, when there was not much to worry about except where she would be riding today on the back of Vhagar.
Those had been good days, filled with far fewer worries than she carried now, and she could not help but reminisce about those times when the world was young and full of fire.
If the chance to turn the wheel back was given to her, would she take it to return to the past?
There had been mistakes in her life, choices made too quickly that were now too late to fix, yet Visenya had never been a person to dwell on the shadows of yesterday.
What had always mattered to her most was the future, and what she could forge with her own two hands.
Raising the cup again to her lips as she stared below, her other hand darted out to push a lock of silver hair behind her ear.
At the end of the day, everything had worked out for the best, even the things that had seemed to be the biggest thorns in her side at the time.
Back then, she had rightfully been furious when her son was passed over in the line of succession.
Aenys was the firstborn, the rightful heir by the laws of the Andals, yes, but anyone with half a brain could see clearly that he would not succeed in leading the newly formed kingdom.
Her sister’s son had been frail and weak from the moment he was born, not fit to be the ruler of a fierce and wild people.
They needed someone strong, someone who would not hesitate to do whatever needed to be done to preserve the Realm, and Aenys was not that man.
Her brother Aegon knew it, deep in his heart, that she had been correct, but he still failed to rectify his problems.
The king had never been quite the same after the death of their sister Rhaenys, gods rest her soul.
Aegon had grown quiet and remote after Meraxes fell in the sands of Dorne, his old fire dimming into ash.
She had been angry back then, but that was a long time ago.
It almost seemed like a lifetime ago despite it not being many years past, and her anger had run its course.
Like all things in this world, it had dried out at the end, leaving only the hard stone of her will and resolve.
Visenya’s thoughts were interrupted as she felt a large, heavy hand land upon her hip.
The heat of his palm traveled instantly through her thin silk shift, a sudden warmth spreading across her skin.
It was followed by the immense body of a giant man pressing against her back, his broad, muscled chest providing a solid wall of support for her against the chill of the sea wind.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” The deep, rumbling voice of Maegor traveled throughout her body, a low growl that vibrated in her bones, he relished the feeling of her soft backside pressing against him as he rested his chin on the top of her head, his other thick arm coming around to wrap around her waist, pulling her tight against his muscle.
They both stared down at the harbor below, illuminated now by the first bright rays of the morning sun as the water turned from gray to molten gold.
“It is indeed,” Visenya replied, keeping the cup of wine on a table of dark ebony nearby.
“It is your greatest achievement, son.
No other man in the world can compare to what you have accomplished here.” Maegor chuckled, a low sound that shook his chest against her spine.
His thick fingers began to move, skimming over the surface of her tight belly, causing her to take a sharp, deep breath as the silk shifted against her skin.
“Your words have a great effect on me, mother,” he said, his breath warm against the silver strands of her hair.
“Perhaps a little bit too much.
It inflates my pride unlike anything else in the world.” “It is not mindless flattery, Maegor, and you know it yourself.
I would be the last person to disgrace myself by saying something that I go against.” Her lip curled in momentary annoyance at the thought before she turned around within his embrace.
Taking his sharp face in her palms, Visenya observed him closely.
Her son had grown into the perfect man, a maiden’s fantasy made flesh.
The light pouring in from the window highlighted the deep, striking purple of his eyes, the line of his jaw tensing lightly as he looked down at her.
A fierce twinge of possessiveness ran through her, hot as dragonfire.
He was hers, only hers.
She had raised him since he was a mere babe cuddling her breast to this perfect beast of a man.
Intelligent, sharp, charismatic, and most of all, accompanied by an iron will, she had poured her own life into making him the man that he was currently.
Visenya would sooner see the Seven Kingdoms burn to cinders than let some highborn chit or some turnip-witted girl steal his love and heart.
Before she could control the impulse, Visenya rose up to the tips of her toes, pressing her lips against his firmly.
It did not take long for Maegor to reciprocate.
With a low grunt, his hands slipped down to her backside, manhandling her body easily as he lifted her clear off the stone floor.
Visenya’s arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, her hands combing through his silver-gold hair.
He carried her away from the window, his feet thudding against the stone floor of the solar until they reached the great bed draped in black and scarlet furs.
The Myrish silk shift tore with a soft, sighing sound as his large hands ripped it down the front, baring her breasts and the pale curve of her waist to the cool air of the tower and the sudden heat of his mouth.
“Stay your hand a moment, Maegor,” Visenya whispered, though her fingers did not push him away.
Her voice was a low murmur against his ear.
“The sun is barely over the horizon, and the castle is awake.
The people are already suspicious, and it would not be good to give the servants even more suspicion.” Maegor snorted with derision.
“Let them spread all the rumors they want,” he growled, his lips tracing a line down her throat to the hollow of her collarbone.
He muttered something else under his breath, a quick chuckle escaping him as the words he said made no meaning to her, it had become normal for now, taking it as one of his many eccentricities.
Visenya let out a soft, yielding sigh, her fingers tightening in his hair as his mouth found her skin.
“You are an arrogant monster,” she murmured, but there was no anger in it.
Once he had set his mind onto something, he would not turn back; that quality had accompanied him since his childhood, a fierce single-mindedness that belonged to dragons.
She closed her eyes as his weight came down fully upon her, the stone walls of Dragonstone fading until there was nothing but the heat of his skin and the scent of salt and musk.
He took her with a brutal, single-minded intensity that would have broken a lesser woman.
Visenya welcomed it, however, her hips rising up as he shoved her down onto the bed, his hands gripping the pale curves of her hips as he pressed her down onto the silken sheets.
A grin spread across his face as he lowered himself, pressing the head of his member against the lips of her nether regions.
Without a moment’s notice, he drilled forward, causing her to let out a gasp of pleasure, her teeth sinking into her own lower lip to keep from crying out.
Closing his eyes for a moment to enjoy the sensation of her wet insides hugging him from all sides and suctioning until it became too hard to move, he growled before pulling out almost completely.
This time, he did not stop his movements, his hips pistoning rapidly as the sound of flesh slapping against flesh and wet squelches rang in the air.
His hands moved up and cupped her breasts, enjoying the feel of them.
They were the perfect fit, their soft flesh just barely slipping out from the gaps between his fingers.
Without stopping the intense pace, he mauled her breasts, feeling the pink nipples becoming akin to pebbles beneath the tough skin of his palms.
When the pleasure became too sharp, too piercing to bear, Visenya threw her arm across her face, pressing her forearm hard against her mouth to muffle the moans that rose from her throat.
The action proved to be futile as Maegor caught her wrists in an ironclad grip, causing the moan to escape her throat against her will as he held them above her head, Visenya’s chest arching in the air as he did so.
As Visenya felt the rhythm of his body against hers, she remembered the years she had spent ensuring he would be exactly this.
She had not just left his education to septons or maesters who preached of sins and gods; no, her own mind and hands had taught him the secrets of the flesh, guiding his hands when he was but a youth, showing him where a woman was soft, how to rouse the fire in the blood, and how to command a body with absolute authority.
Maegor drew his head down to press his lips against her soft ones, swallowing the moan that escaped her throat.
Visenya stared at him through smoky, half-lidded purple eyes as he flipped her onto her stomach, drawing himself out in the process.
The brief loss of contact was quickly forgotten as, before she could even raise her hips, he did so himself, until her pale buttocks were sticking out high in the air for his viewing pleasure.
A low whine escaped her as she buried her face in the pillow, feeling the sting of pain and pleasure as Maegor’s hand struck her buttock, making the soft flesh jiggle.
Her backside was perfect, the hips flaring out widely, topped with the perfect amount of soft flesh and muscle that made her even more enticing, the pale skin was begining to redden as the handprint made its mark, almost making him feel like peppering it with kisses.
Taking a breath, he paused and looked down to admire his handiwork.
The proud Visenya Targaryen whining like a bitch in heat, her ass sticking out as she tried to find the comfort of his heat.
Usually, he wouldn’t think of his mother in such a way, but only in times like these did he ever.
“You look perfect below me, mother,” he growled out into her ear, leaning down to grip her hanging breast as he teased her with the tip of his member at her entrance, but not going fully inside.
Already, he could feel the clenching of her pussy, begging him to come back in again.
“Keep your mouth shut, boy,” Visenya grunted back, her hips flashing back with sudden speed as she sealed him inside herself without a word more.
A shudder ran through her at the sensation before Maegor picked back up the pace.
Even here, beneath his heavy frame, she could not help but feel a surge of fierce pride.
No matter who he married in the Great Sept, no matter how many noble maidens or mistresses were brought to his bed, her son would always return to her.
His heart and devotion would remain with his mother, tied by blood and fire that no girl could ever sever.
Maegor’s movements grew faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps that sounded like the rushing of wind through a cavern.
His fingers dug into her long hair, pulling it back as his brutal swings bruised her pale, beautiful, untainted skin, pinning her to the furs beneath them.
Visenya arched her back, her legs spreading further to allow him deeper entrance.
The action caused a spike of pure pleasure to run through her and blind her momentarily as she felt him hit depths that had never been explored before.
Biting down on the cushion, the taste of salt and silk filled her mouth as he emptied himself into her with a final groan; simultaneously, she felt the world tear asunder, her own orgasm rolling through her from inside as she fell bonelessly onto the bed.
For a long time, neither of them moved.
Maegor lay heavy upon her, his heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped beast.
The air in the solar had grown cold again, the wind from the sea whistling through the stone casement, drying the sweat upon their skin.
Slowly, Visenya slipped out from beneath his weight.
Her body ached with a deep, satisfying soreness, and she knew it would take all her iron discipline to walk without a trace of a limp in the coming day.
Standing beside the bed, unbothered by her nakedness, she gathered the ruined remnants of her Myrish shift and tossed them into the hearth where a few embers still glowed, watching the thin silk shrivel into black ash.
From a heavy cedar chest, she drew a fresh gown of heavy black velvet, embroidered with the three-headed dragon of her house in threads of scarlet silk.
She slid it over her head, smoothing the heavy fabric down over her hips, her movements efficient and cold as steel.
Maegor remained on the bed, propped up on one massive elbow, watching her with heavy, hooded eyes.
The furs were tangled around his waist, his broad chest gleaming in the strengthening sunlight.
“The time is now, Maegor,” she said, her voice restored to its usual iron calm as she fastened a silver sash around her waist.
“Rearrange your clothes and find your boots, the ravens from King’s Landing have already taken flight, and the lords of the Realm will soon be gathering at the Great Sept.” He reached for the chalice she had left on the table, draining the last of the Dornish red in a single long swallow before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Let them gather,” he said, his voice flat as iron.
“They will bow, or they will burn.” “They will do both if you tarry here,” Visenya replied, turning to look at him.
Her purple eyes were hard as dragonglass.
“The crown is waiting for you to claim it.
Balerion is restless in the yard below; I can hear him stirring from here.
It is time for you to fly back to King’s Landing for your coronation, son.
Go and take what is yours.” Maegor rose from the bed, his massive form silhouetted against the morning light.
He did not speak immediately, an eccentric smirk touching his lips as he looked past her through the casement window, the sharp clockwork of his mind turning and spinning.
A commotion rose from the outer courtyard far below, the sharp clang of steel on steel as the knights and squires practiced below.
Visenya strode back to the casement, her eyes narrowing as she saw a black-winged raven land heavily on the stone sill, a small slip of parchment tied to its leg, bearing the seal of the Hand of the King.
…
Guys, remember, it ain’t NTR if Aegon is already dead.
Muhehehehe.