Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Aemon Targaryen
The private bathing chamber in the Red Keep was thick with steam and the heady scent of crushed lavender and sweet dragon’s blood resin. Flickering torchlight danced across the polished marble, casting a warm golden glow over the wide, sunken pool.
Aemon Targaryen, only seventeen, lounged in the hot water, silver-gold hair plastered wet against his shoulders. His stormy grey eyes, inherited from his mother Lyanna Stark, were half-closed in rare relaxation when the heavy oak door creaked open.
Rhaella Targaryen stepped inside, and time seemed to slow.
She wore only a thin silk robe the color of old blood. Without a word, she let it slip from her shoulders. The robe pooled silently at her feet, revealing her fully naked body to her grandson’s stunned gaze. Aemon’s breath caught sharply in his throat. Despite being decades older than her daughters, Rhaella’s mature form was nothing short of magnificent. Her heavy, full breasts sat high and proud, crowned with dark rose nipples that had hardened in the warm air. Her waist curved softly into wide, womanly hips and strong, shapely thighs. Her skin had a rich, healthy glow, luminous and rejuvenated after the years she had spent away in the Free Cities. She looked every bit as desirable as his aunt Shaena and younger aunt Daenerys.
Some in the Red Keep whispered that the Queen Mother had taken up the faith of R’hllor during her time across the Narrow Sea, though none were courageous enough to ask the Queen Mother herself. Looking at her now, radiant, confident, and completely unashamed, Aemon could almost believe those whispers.
“Grandmother,” Aemon sat up sharply, water sloshing, eyes wide with alarm as he instinctively covered himself with his hands. “What are you doing? This isn’t proper. I’m naked, you’re… you’re my grandmother. We cannot be seen like this.”
Rhaella smiled gently, stepping into the pool without hesitation, the hot water kissing her full, heavy breasts and the soft curve of her belly as she waded toward him. “Shh, my sweet boy. No one will disturb us. I gave the servants strict orders. And even if they did, this was routine in Old Valyria. Matriarchs prepared their heirs for greatness. They bathed them. They blessed them. They took them into their bodies so the blood would stay pure and strong. We are returning to our roots, Aemon. The true roots. No more Andal shame. No more fractured bloodlines.”
Aemon’s grey eyes flicked anxiously toward the locked door, cheeks burning. “Still… it isn’t proper. Not here. Not like this.”
Rhaella reached him and sank to her knees in the water between his spread thighs, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs stroking his flushed cheeks with maternal warmth. “It is proper, my precious heir. I should have done this with your father when he came of age. I hesitated then, out of foolish Andal shame, and look what became of us. The dragons are gone. The house fractures. I will not make the same mistake with you.” Her voice grew firmer, more forceful, even as she kissed his forehead tenderly. “The spirit of Old Valyria will reward us for this. It will strengthen our blood. It will bring the dragons back. Even your mother’s side of the family understood the power of tradition, that is why the Starks have remained blessed by the old gods for thousands of years. They kept their roots pure. We will do the same. Now stop worrying about prying eyes, sweet boy. Let Grandmother take care of everything.”
She took the soft cloth and scented oil, lathering it slowly in her hands. “First, we wash you properly,” she murmured, maternal and guiding. Her soapy hands glided over his shoulders, down his chest, tracing every lean muscle with deliberate care. When she reached his cock, already half-hard and twitching with virgin nerves, she wrapped both hands around the thick length and stroked him slowly, reverently, thumbs circling the flushed head beneath the water.
Aemon whimpered, hips jerking despite himself. “Grandmother… that feels… I can’t, ”
“You can,” she soothed, kissing his jaw, then his neck, guiding his trembling hands to her heavy breasts. “Touch me, Aemon. Feel how soft I am for you. Squeeze them. That’s it, my dragon… good boy.” She moaned softly as his inexperienced fingers kneaded her flesh, pinching her stiff nipples the way she showed him.
Rhaella leaned in and kissed him, slow at first, then deeper, her tongue gently coaxing his open until he was kissing her back with clumsy hunger. All the while her hand never stopped stroking his cock, slick and steady, edging him closer without letting him spill.
“Such a good boy,” she praised against his lips, maternal pride thick in her voice. “So big and hard for your grandmother already. The old blood runs true in you.” She guided one of his hands down between her thighs, pressing his fingers against her slick, heated cunt. “Feel how wet I am for you? This is what the matriarch does for her heir. Now stroke me here… gently… yes, just like that. Circles on my pearl, sweet boy. Good. You’re learning so quickly.”
Aemon’s grey eyes were wide and dazed, breath ragged as he obeyed, fingers exploring her folds under her patient guidance. Rhaella rocked against his hand, moaning softly into his mouth, praising him with every twitch and whimper.
“Even your mother’s blood understands this,” she whispered hotly between kisses, her hand tightening around his throbbing cock. “The Starks kept the old gods alive. We will keep Valyria alive. And soon, once my future king is comfortable and understanding, I will speak with your mother. I will bring her to us. She will join her son and her good-mother beneath the old ways. But first I need you, Aemon. I need you to trust me completely.”
Only when he was trembling and leaking steadily did she rise up, straddling his lap in the steaming water. She lined the fat, virgin head of his cock against her entrance and looked straight into those stormy grey eyes.
“Look at me, Aemon,” she commanded gently but firmly. “The spirit of Old Valyria is watching. It will reward us. Breathe, my sweet boy… and let Grandmother take you inside.”
She sank down in one smooth, greedy motion, taking every thick inch into her tight, velvet heat until her ass rested against his thighs. Aemon cried out, head falling back, hands flying to her hips as overwhelming pleasure crashed through his untouched body.
“Fuuuuck, Grandmother, it’s… it’s too much, I’ve never-”
“Shhh, breathe,” Rhaella soothed, holding him close, rocking her hips in slow, deliberate circles to ease him inside her. Her heavy breasts pressed against his chest as she kissed his temple, his cheeks, his lips. “You feel so perfect. So big for your grandmother. That’s it… let me ride you. Let me show you how a Targaryen queen claims her heir.”
She began to move harder, water splashing with every downward slam, guiding his hands back to her breasts while she rode him with maternal authority and filthy grace. Her cunt clenched greedily around his virgin cock, milking him with wet, obscene sounds.
“Tell me you feel it,” she panted, nails digging into his shoulders. “Tell me you understand why the matriarch must claim her heir. The old gods of Valyria are rewarding us right now.”
“I, I feel it,” Aemon gasped, voice cracking with inexperience and raw pleasure. “Gods, Grandmother… you’re so wet… so tight… I’m going to,”
“Not yet, sweet boy,” she commanded gently, slowing to torturous grinds. She kissed him hard, tongue claiming his mouth. “You will spill inside me when I say.”
Only when she felt him trembling on the edge did she allow it. Rhaella threw her head back and cried out in High Valyrian, her cunt spasming wildly around him. “Now, Aemon. Fill me. Give Grandmother everything.”
Aemon shattered with a broken, virgin cry, hips bucking up as he flooded her womb with thick, hot ropes of cum, pumping her full until it leaked out around his shaft and clouded the bathwater white.
Rhaella stayed seated on his still-twitching cock, holding him close, stroking his silver-gold hair as he trembled against her breasts. “Good boy,” she murmured lovingly, kissing his temple. “The old ways have begun. Every night from now on, until the dragons wake again. You are mine now, my sweet heir… and Valyria will reward us both.”
Aemon, flushed, overwhelmed, and utterly claimed, could only nod, grey eyes glassy as his arms wrapped tight around his grandmother’s waist. The steam rose around them like dragon smoke.
-
The private solar was quiet except for the soft crackle of the hearth and the occasional rustle of ancient parchment. Aemon Targaryen sat at the heavy oak desk, silver-gold hair falling into his stormy grey eyes as he leaned over a fragile scroll. Beside him, pressed so close that he could feel the warmth of her body and the heavy, soft weight of her breasts against his left side sat his grandmother, Rhaella Targaryen.
She wore a simple but regal gown of deep crimson silk that clung to every curve, the neckline low enough to reveal the upper swells of her full breasts. Strands of rubies and silver adorned her: a heavy ruby choker at her throat, matching teardrop earrings that swayed when she moved, and several silver rings set with blood-red stones on her elegant fingers. A thin silver circlet rested on her silver hair, and the faint, intoxicating scent of her, jasmine, myrrh, and something darker, like smoldering dragonfire, filled Aemon’s lungs with every breath.
Rhaella adjusted the delicate Myrish lenses perched on her nose, leaning in until her warm breath ghosted across the sensitive skin of his neck. “Here, my sweet boy,” she murmured, voice low and playful as she traced the flowing Valyrian script with one jeweled finger. “Read this passage aloud. It concerns Myraxes, the dragon goddess of love and fertility. The old dragonlords paid her homage in ways that kept their blood pure and their houses strong for five thousand years.”
Aemon swallowed hard, trying to focus on the ornate handwriting. Rhaella’s breasts pressed more firmly against his arm as she leaned closer, her ruby necklace cool against his skin while the heat of her body radiated through the thin silk.
“In the days of the Freehold,” he read, voice slightly hoarse, “the great dragonlord families would gather in the temples of Myraxes on the nights of the full moon. The matriarch of the house would lead the rite, disrobing before the altar of black marble carved with coiling dragons. She would offer her body first, lying upon the sacred stone while her eldest son or chosen heir mounted her, spilling his seed deep within her womb as an offering to the goddess.”
Rhaella’s breath quickened against his neck, and a mischievous little smile curved her lips. Her hand rested lightly on his thigh beneath the table, fingers tracing slow circles.
“Continue,” she whispered, lips brushing his ear with teasing warmth.
Aemon’s voice grew rougher. “The rest of the bloodline would then join in sacred union. Brothers with sisters, fathers with daughters, all under the matriarch’s guidance. They would couple openly upon the temple floor, anointing the stone with their mingled seed and the matriarch’s sacred oils. Some matriarchs would take multiple lovers in succession, ensuring every drop of dragon blood was offered to Myraxes. The goddess was said to reward such devotion by blessing the women with strong, fertile wombs and the men with virility that would never fail. The air would grow thick with the sounds of pleasure and the scent of dragonfire incense, until the entire family had paid homage and the matriarch herself was left overflowing with the seed of her heirs.”
Aemon’s voice faltered. Beneath the desk, his cock had grown painfully hard, straining against his breeches. The vivid images made heat pool low in his belly. He shifted uncomfortably, but Rhaella noticed immediately.
Her hand slid higher up his thigh, then gave his thick, throbbing bulge a playful, firm squeeze through the fabric. “Mmm, look at you,” she teased, voice light and affectionate, eyes sparkling with wicked delight. “Already so hard just from reading about our ancestors. The old ways stir something deep in you, don’t they, my sweet boy?”
Aemon’s cheeks burned, but he couldn’t deny the way his cock twitched eagerly under her squeezing fingers. Rhaella gave him another gentle, teasing squeeze, stroking him lightly through his breeches as she leaned even closer, her heavy breasts pressing fully against his side.
“Close your eyes for a moment, Aemon,” she purred playfully, her breath warm on his neck. “Vividly imagine how those rituals to Myraxes were honored for five thousand years. Picture the great temples filled with dragonlord families, naked, shameless, moaning under the eyes of the goddess. Matriarchs riding their sons, daughters taking their fathers, everyone coupling in a sacred, writhing mass until the marble floors ran slick with seed and pleasure.”
She squeezed his cock again, slower this time, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “Now imagine our own family doing exactly that. You are the only surviving male Targaryen, my precious heir. The last dragon. You will need to spill your seed inside your half-sister Rhaenys… inside your aunt Shaena, inside your aunt Daenerys… inside your mother Lyanna… and inside me most of all. Again and again, until every womb in our bloodline is full and blessed by Myraxes. Can you see it? Can you feel how right it would be?”
Aemon’s breath hitched sharply, his cock jumping hard in her grip as the forbidden images flooded his mind. Rhaella chuckled softly, giving him one last affectionate squeeze before she kissed the side of his neck.
“That’s my good boy,” she whispered, voice warm with playful promise. “The spirit of Old Valyria is already rewarding you for even imagining it. Now… shall we continue your lessons?”
She reached across the desk and unrolled a newer, slightly less fragile scroll, its edges still crisp. “This one is special,” she said, eyes bright with mischief as she handed it to him. “A personal account written by Jaenyra Belaerys herself, the last High Matriarch of her line before the Doom. Read it aloud for me, my dragon. Slowly. I want to hear every word while you feel what the old ways do to you.”
Aemon’s hands trembled slightly as he took the scroll. Rhaella’s hand never left his lap. She stroked him openly now through his trousers, slow, firm, teasing strokes from root to tip, while her full breasts remained pressed warmly against his side and her breath tickled the shell of his ear.
He began to read, voice growing thicker with every line:
“‘On the night of the third full moon after my son, Baelor’s, sixteenth nameday, I, Jaenyra Belaerys, High Matriarch of House Belaerys, led the Rite of Myraxes in the Temple of the Coiling Flame. I disrobed before the black altar and lay upon the warm stone, legs spread wide beneath the carved eyes of the goddess. My eldest son, Vaegon, mounted me first, his young cock so thick and eager, trembling with virgin nerves as he thrust deep into my already slick cunt. I guided his hips, whispering Valyrian blessings until he drove into me with desperate, powerful strokes, filling me completely. When he spilled his hot virgin seed inside me I cried out in joy, my womb drinking every drop while the temple echoed with our shared pleasure.
My second son, Maegor, took me next while I was still leaking his brother’s cum. He bent me over the altar and fucked me from behind like a stallion, his thicker cock stretching me open even wider, slapping against my ass with every brutal thrust until I screamed for more. He lasted longer, pounding me until my legs shook and I came around him, milking his cock until he flooded my already-full cunt with a second load that overflowed and ran down my thighs in thick white rivers.
My youngest son, Baelor, was last. I rode him while he lay upon the sacred stone, sinking down onto his hard cock and grinding my clit against him until he begged for release. I rode him hard and fast, my heavy breasts bouncing as I took every inch, feeling him throb and pulse inside me until he erupted with a broken cry, adding his own fertile seed to the sacred offering already dripping from my womb.
All the while I watched my beloved husband lying with our daughters upon the temple floor. The joy on his face when he took our eldest daughter was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, his eyes shining with pure dragonfire as he thrust into her tight, pretty cunt and filled her with his seed, both of them moaning in perfect harmony. He took each of our daughters in turn, spilling himself inside them with such love and pride that tears of happiness filled my eyes. By dawn the temple floor was slick, the air heavy with moans and the scent of spent seed, and Myraxes had blessed us all. Nine moons later, three new dragon-blooded children were born to our house.’”
Aemon’s voice cracked on the final sentence. His cock was now rock-hard and leaking beneath Rhaella’s relentless, playful stroking. She squeezed him firmly again, thumb circling the wet spot forming on the fabric.
“Easy, my sweet boy,” Rhaella purred against his ear, her voice low and teasing as her fingers kept working him with slow, deliberate pressure. “You’re right on the edge already, aren’t you? I can feel you throbbing and leaking for your grandmother. Hold it for me just a little longer.”
She gave his cock another firm squeeze, stroking him through the damp fabric until Aemon’s hips twitched helplessly and a broken whimper escaped his throat. Her heavy breasts pressed tighter against his side, rubies cool against his heated skin, while her breath stayed warm on his neck.
“Jaenyra Belaerys was something of an oddity by the last days of the Freehold,” Rhaella continued softly, never stopping her teasing strokes. “Most of the great dragonlord families had already begun to stray. The ruling elite no longer truly worshipped the gods. They considered themselves equal to the Pantheon itself, gods in mortal flesh, too proud to kneel, too arrogant to offer their bodies in humble ritual. They thought their dragons and their sorcery made them invincible.” Her hand tightened around his pulsing cock, thumb pressing right against the sensitive head. “That is why Old Valyria was destroyed in the Doom. The gods withdrew their favor. Fire and blood rained down because the blood of the dragon had grown cold and proud.”
Rhaella leaned in and nipped his earlobe, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Do you understand what must be done now, my precious heir?”
Aemon’s breath came in short, ragged gasps, his grey eyes glassy with overwhelming pleasure and the weight of her words. “I… I think so, Grandmother.”
“Good boy.” She rewarded him with another slow, firm stroke, squeezing the leaking head until he whimpered. “We must remake Old Valyria, starting with our own family’s customs. No more hiding. No more southern shame. We will return to the true rites, pure blood offered freely to the gods, beginning right here with you and me… and soon with the rest of our bloodline. Every night, every ritual, we will honor Myraxes properly. Starting tonight.”
Her hand kept stroking him steadily, keeping him right on that trembling edge as she kissed the corner of his mouth.
“Now tell me again, my future king,” she murmured, playful and commanding all at once. “Do you want to help me restore our house the way it was always meant to be?”
Aemon’s breath hitched sharply, his cock jumping hard in her grip as the forbidden images flooded his mind. Rhaella chuckled softly, giving him one last affectionate squeeze before she kissed the side of his neck.
“That’s my good boy,” she whispered, voice warm with playful promise. “The spirit of Old Valyria is already rewarding you for even imagining it. Now… shall we continue your lessons?”
Her hand kept stroking him steadily through his trousers, slow and teasing, while she waited, violet eyes sparkling with playful hunger.
Aemon swallowed hard, his grey eyes dark with lust and determination. His voice came out hoarse but sincere.
“Yes, Grandmother,” he breathed. “I will help you. I want to restore our house. I want to follow the old ways… with you.”
Rhaella’s face lit up with a radiant, proud smile. “My perfect boy,” she whispered. “That is exactly what I wanted to hear.”
Without another word, she gracefully slid off her chair and sank to her knees between his spread thighs. Her ruby-adorned hands made quick work of his laces, tugging his trousers and smallclothes down in one smooth motion until his hard, leaking cock sprang free, throbbing heavily in the warm air of the solar.
Aemon’s breath caught sharply. This was the first time anyone had ever seen him like this , let alone touched him so intimately.
Rhaella looked up at him with violet eyes full of maternal affection and dark hunger. “Watch me, Aemon,” she commanded softly. “Watch your grandmother worship you the way Myraxes deserves.”
She leaned forward, her warm breath ghosting over his aching cock. Starting gently, she pressed a loving kiss to the swollen head, then parted her lips and took just the tip into her hot, wet mouth. She suckled softly, slurping gently around the sensitive head while her jeweled hand wrapped around the thick shaft and stroked him with slow, reverent motions.
Aemon let out a broken moan, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. His cock grew even harder, stiff as steel, under her loving attention.
“That’s it, my sweet boy,” Rhaella murmured around his cockhead, pulling off just enough to speak, her voice warm and encouraging. “Thank Myraxes. Praise her for this gift. Tell her how grateful you are while Grandmother sucks you.”
Aemon’s voice trembled with overwhelming pleasure as he obeyed. “Thank you… Myraxes,” he gasped, eyes fixed obediently on his grandmother’s lips stretched around his cock. “Thank you for… for this blessing… for letting me feel this… for the old ways… for my grandmother’s mouth…”
Rhaella hummed in approval, the vibration shooting straight through his shaft as she took him a little deeper, still sucking lovingly and gently while her hand continued its steady, slick stroking. Her tongue swirled tenderly around the head with each slow slurp, coaxing more beads of precum from him as she worshipped him with patient, maternal care.
“Good boy,” she praised softly between wet, affectionate sucks. “Keep praising her. The goddess is listening… and so am I.”
Aemon’s hips twitched helplessly, his grey eyes glassy. “Myraxes… thank you for… for Grandmother’s tongue… for her warm mouth… for teaching me the true ways…”
Rhaella’s violet eyes flashed with satisfaction. Without warning, she relaxed her throat and sank down in one smooth, practiced motion, taking every thick inch of his long cock until her nose pressed against his stomach and her lips kissed the base. She held him there, throat fluttering and massaging around his length, eyes never leaving his face.
“Fuuuuck, Grandmother!” Aemon cursed loudly, his whole body jerking as the sudden, overwhelming heat and tightness engulfed him. “Oh gods, your throat, fuck!”
Rhaella moaned around him, the sound vibrating deliciously down his shaft. She began to move, slow, deep, loving drags of her throat along his entire length, pulling back until only the head remained in her mouth before swallowing him down to the root again. Wet, filthy slurping sounds filled the solar as she deepthroated him with practiced ease, her ruby earrings swaying with every bob of her head.
Aemon’s hands flew to her silver hair, not pulling, just holding on as pleasure unlike anything he had ever known crashed through him. “Grandmother, fuck, I can’t, your throat is squeezing me so tight, I’m going to,”
Rhaella pulled off just long enough to gasp, “Cum for me, my dragon. Fill Grandmother’s mouth. Offer it to Myraxes through me.”
She plunged back down, taking him to the hilt once more, throat working greedily around him. Aemon’s hips stuttered, a raw, broken curse tearing from his throat as he came hard, thick, heavy ropes of virgin seed pulsing straight down her throat. Rhaella moaned in delight, swallowing every spurt eagerly, her throat rippling around his cock until she had milked him dry.
Only when he was spent and twitching did she slowly pull off, licking her swollen lips clean with a satisfied hum. A thin string of spit and cum connected her mouth to his softening cock for a moment before she wiped it away with her thumb and sucked it clean.
She looked up at him, eyes shining with pride and love, and cupped his flushed cheek.
“You are a true dragon, Aemon,” she whispered, voice husky and full of maternal warmth. “The first of many offerings to Myraxes. And this is only the beginning of what we will restore.”
Aemon sat there panting, grey eyes wide and dazed, completely undone by his grandmother’s mouth and the weight of her words. The old ways had claimed their first true victory in the quiet solar, and Rhaella’s smile promised there would be many more to come.
The Queen Mother
Queen Mother Rhaella Targaryen stood on the raised dais of the Iron Throne, the weight of rubies and silver heavy at her throat and wrists and let her violet gaze sweep across the packed throne room of the Red Keep. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, catching on armor and silk and the nervous sweat of half the lords of Westeros. Today her grandson would be crowned King of Westeros, and the air tasted of destiny.
Seventeen years old, she thought with a quiet, possessive thrill, young enough to mold, old enough to command the respect he deserves.
Aemon stood before the throne in black-and-crimson velvet, silver-gold hair gleaming, his stormy grey eyes, Lyanna’s eyes, fixed straight ahead with the calm dignity she had taught him in their private lessons. He looked every inch a king, yet only she knew how that same boy had trembled and spilled down her throat only nights ago while she whispered of Myraxes and the old rites. The memory sent a slow, secret heat curling low in her belly. Tonight, she promised herself, I will slip into his chambers after the feast and fuck my new king to exhaustion. A proper reward for beginning such a prosperous reign.
To her left stood her daughters. Shaena, tall and silver-haired like her mother, wore the same cool mask she always did when Lyanna was near. At thirty-three she was the same age as Aemon’s mother, and the old rivalry still simmered between them like dragonfire beneath ash. Both women had once shared Rhaegar’s bed and his crown; both had borne him children. Even now, years after his death, Shaena barely tolerated Lyanna’s presence, exchanging only the frostiest nods for the sake of the children they had given him. Rhaenys, Shaena’s only child with Rhaegar, two years older than Aemon, stood between them like a living bridge, beautiful and composed in deep green silk. She caught Rhaella’s eye and offered a small, knowing smile.
On Rhaella’s right, her youngest, Daenerys shifted from foot to foot, six months younger than Aemon and still carrying the last softness of girlhood in her cheeks. She kept stealing glances at her nephew, her brother in all but name, with wide violet eyes full of innocent awe and something sharper that made Rhaella’s lips curve.
Further down the line stood Lyanna Stark, regal in northern grey and white, her dark hair braided with silver. Rhaella regarded her with genuine fondness. She had always admired the woman, her courage, her fire, the way she had stood beside Rhaegar when the realm fractured. It was only Shaena who still nursed that bitter rivalry. Rhaella herself felt nothing but respect for the woman who had helped secure their family’s future.
At the front of the gathered lords, Brandon Stark stood tallest, broad-shouldered and fierce-eyed, pride blazing across his face as he watched his nephew prepare to take the crown. Rhaella’s admiration for the Starks ran deep. It had been Brandon’s bold alliance with her son Rhaegar that had allowed them to overthrow her late husband, the Mad King Aerys, and utterly ruin the plans of that would-be usurper Robert Baratheon. The bloodline of the Kings of Winter would now be infused into the Targaryen line through Aemon, and the thought filled her with quiet, fierce pleasure.
Beside Brandon, Ned Stark watched with quiet solemnity, while Benjen Stark, the youngest of the brothers but a full-grown man of quiet strength, stood steady and observant. The rest of the high lords, Lannister gold, Tyrell roses, Baratheon stags, Martell sun and spear, filled the hall in a glittering sea of color and ambition. They have no idea they are witnessing the birth of a new dynasty.
Rhaella’s hand brushed the heavy ruby at her throat, feeling the heat of it against her skin. The coronation was only the public mask. Tonight, behind closed doors, the true work would begin. She would soon gather them all, Aemon, Rhaenys, Shaena, Daenerys, Lyanna, and remind them what the dragonlords of old had known: that power was carried in the blood, sealed in the flesh, offered to the gods in the most sacred way.
The High Septon stepped forward, the ancient crown of Aegon the Conqueror held high between his trembling hands. Rhaella’s heart swelled with fierce, maternal admiration as the old man lowered the circlet of Valyrian steel and rubies onto Aemon’s head. Her grandson did not flinch. He then stood, tall and unyielding, the crown settling perfectly as though it had been forged for him alone. Look at him, she thought, pride blooming hot in her chest. My blood. My dragon.
Only after the crown rested securely did Aemon ascend the seven steep steps of the Iron Throne with measured grace, the melted swords of a thousand conquered enemies twisting beneath his boots. When he reached the top, he turned and lowered himself onto the jagged seat, gripping the armrests with steady hands.
Every lord in the room, high and low, proud and scheming, dropped to their knees as one. The rustle of silk and clink of armor filled the hall like a single, obedient sigh. Brandon Stark knelt first and deepest, head bowed in fierce loyalty. Ned and Benjen followed without hesitation. Even Tywin Lannister lowered himself with rigid precision. No one rose. They waited, foreheads nearly touching the stone floor, for their new king to speak.
Aemon let the silence stretch for three long heartbeats, his grey eyes sweeping over the bowed heads. Then his voice rang out, clear and steady, carrying the quiet authority she had spent months teaching him in the dark.
“Rise,” he commanded.
The lords stood as one, and the throne room erupted in cheers that shook the rafters. Rhaella allowed herself a slow, secret smile. They cheer for a boy on a sword-throne, she thought, eyes fixed on Aemon’s strong young shoulders with open admiration and have no idea they are witnessing the birth of the New Valyrian Empire.
Hours later the Great Hall of the Red Keep blazed with light and noise, the long tables groaning beneath platters of roasted boar, spiced lamprey pies, honeyed dormice, and mountains of summer fruits shipped north at ruinous cost. Musicians played a lively reel while servants poured rivers of Arbor gold and Dornish red. Every high lord and lady of Westeros had been seated according to careful precedence, but at the high table only three chairs mattered.
King Aemon Targaryen sat at the center in black velvet edged with crimson, the Conqueror’s crown still gleaming on his silver-gold head. To his right, Queen Mother Rhaella reclined with regal ease, one hand resting lightly on the arm of his chair. To his left sat Lyanna Stark, beautiful and composed in northern grey silk trimmed with white wolf fur, her dark hair woven with threads of silver. Rhaella felt a quiet warmth every time her gaze drifted across the younger woman. She had always admired Lyanna’s fire and courage; the wolf-blood had helped save them all once, and now it would strengthen the dragon line forever.
Rhaella leaned slightly toward her grandson, letting her knee brush his beneath the table. “You wear the crown well, my king,” she murmured, voice pitched for his ears alone. “Every lord here believes he has seen the end of war tonight. Only we know it is only the beginning.”
Aemon turned his head just enough to meet her eyes. A faint, private smile touched his lips, the same smile she had coaxed from him in the bathing chamber and the solar. “I will not forget what you taught me, Grandmother.”
Across the table, Shaena watched them with narrowed eyes, but Rhaella paid her no mind. Her eldest daughter’s jealousy was an old wound; it would heal or it would not. What mattered tonight was the future. Rhaella’s fingers traced the stem of her wine cup as she imagined slipping into Aemon’s royal chambers once the last toast had been drunk and the torches burned low. She would ride her new king until he was hoarse and spent, rewarding him for the prosperous reign he had only just begun. The thought sent a slow pulse of heat through her body.
Brandon Stark raised his cup from the lower tables, his voice booming over the music. “To King Aemon Targaryen, First of His Name! Long may he reign!”
The hall roared in answer. Rhaella lifted her own cup, meeting Lyanna’s gaze for a brief, knowing moment across Aemon’s chest. Her good-daughter inclined her head in return, respectful, steady. Soon, Rhaella thought, you will understand what true strength looks like. The blood of Winter and the blood of the dragon will become one.
As the feast reached its height, the gift-giving began. Servants and heralds carried forward chests and trays one house at a time, each lord rising to present his offering with flowery words.
The Starks came first. Brandon Stark strode forward, his broad shoulders cutting through the torchlight, and placed a small, intricately carved weirwood box before Aemon. He opened it himself.
“From the godswood of Winterfell, Your Grace,” Brandon said, voice booming with northern pride. “Seeds taken from the largest heart tree in the North. The old gods have watched over our line for ten thousand years. May they watch over yours as well.”
Rhaella’s heart gave a quiet, fierce leap. Six fat, blood-red seeds lay nestled in black velvet, each the size of a child’s thumb. She could almost feel the ancient power humming from them. The blood of Winter, given freely to the last dragon, she thought. Perfect.
Aemon’s grey eyes softened with genuine pleasure. “I will plant them myself,” he said, voice carrying across the hall. “In the Godswood and the Kingswood, so the old gods may stand beside the new.”
Lyanna’s hand brushed her son’s wrist with silent approval.
The Tyrells followed with an elaborate flute carved from weirwood and inlaid with gold and emeralds, crafted by the finest Myrish glassblowers and flute-makers. Margaery Tyrell herself presented it, looking utterly lovely in a gown of soft green silk that clung to her curves like summer leaves, her chestnut curls cascading over one bare shoulder, a single golden rose tucked behind her ear. She curtsied low, holding Aemon’s gaze for a long, lingering moment, warm, knowing, and just a fraction too intimate, before offering the flute with a smile that promised more than music. “For the music of a new reign, Your Grace.”
The Tullys offered a magnificent cloak of river-blue silk lined with black pearls and embroidered with leaping trout in silver thread, along with a set of ancient river charts bound in fish-scale leather.
The Arryns presented a magnificent falcon hood embroidered with moonstones and silver thread, paired with a live, pure-white gyrfalcon hooded and perched on the wrist of young Robin Arryn.
The Martells came next among the great houses, bringing a curved Dornish blade of fine castle-forged steel with a ruby pommel shaped like a sun, along with a cask of their rarest, strongest wine said to be aged with desert roses.
Only when the last of the other houses had spoken did Tywin Lannister rise. He approached the high table with measured steps and placed before Aemon a golden dragon the size of a house cat, cast in solid gold with rubies for eyes and tiny sapphire flames licking from its open mouth.
“A reminder of the enduring alliance between House Lannister and House Targaryen, Your Grace,” he said, voice cool and precise.
Rhaella’s smile remained warm and gracious as she inclined her head to Tywin. A fine gift, she thought, and cleverly worded. Yet inwardly she wondered exactly how much his mood would sour when Aemon dismissed him as Hand of the King within the week. She almost looked forward to watching that particular lion lose his claws.
Aemon thanked each house graciously, his voice steady and kingly, though Rhaella could feel the faint tension in his arm beneath her fingertips. She squeezed once, silently reminding him of the night still to come.
When the last gift had been presented and the hall rang again with toasts, Rhaella rose smoothly from her seat. The hall quieted at once, every eye turning toward her. She lifted a hand, rings flashing in the torchlight, and spoke with the calm authority of a woman who had survived fire and madness.
“My lords and ladies,” she said, voice carrying effortlessly, “the Queen Mother would also offer gifts to her king on this most auspicious day.”
At her signal, two robed figures of the Pyromancers’ Guild glided forward from the side entrance, their crimson-and-black robes whispering across the stone floor. Between them they carried a heavy iron-bound chest. They set it reverently at the foot of the high table and knelt, throwing back the lid in unison.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay four dragon eggs.
The hall drew a collective breath. Rhaella stepped down from the dais, her crimson gown trailing like blood, and lifted the largest egg with both hands. It was magnificent, red as flame with veins of bright gold threading across its shell, warm to the touch, the famous Butterwell egg last seen more than a hundred years ago.
She carried it to Aemon and placed it gently into his lap, her fingers brushing his thigh as she did so. “The Butterwell egg,” she announced softly, for his ears alone, before turning to the hall. “Returned to its rightful bloodline.”
Aemon’s grey eyes widened in awe as he cradled the warm, heavy egg. His hands trembled slightly against the shell.
Rhaella’s voice rose again, clear and proud. “The other three are Dreamfyre’s eggs, stolen and sold on the black market during the reign of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator. They have been recovered and returned to House Targaryen at last.”
She let the stunned silence linger for a heartbeat, then smiled at her grandson. “There is more, my king. A king must have a weapon befitting his station.”
Two women entered the hall through the great doors, and every voice in the room faltered. The Red Priestesses were breathtaking, tall, flame-haired, with skin like polished copper and figures that could make a septon forget his vows. Their sheer red robes clung to their full, heavy breasts and the curves of their hips, the fabric so translucent that the torchlight revealed every sway and shadow of their bodies as they walked. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the lords.
The priestesses knelt gracefully before the high table and lifted between them a long, sheathed sword. Rhaella descended the steps once more, took the blade from their hands, and drew it in one smooth motion.
Valyrian steel flashed in the firelight, rippling like dark water, impossibly sharp.
“Blackfyre,” Rhaella proclaimed, her voice ringing through the hall like a warhorn.
A stunned silence fell, followed by a wave of astonished whispers that grew into open amazement. Even Tywin Lannister’s mask cracked for a fraction of a second.
Rhaella turned and laid the legendary sword across Aemon’s knees, beside the red-and-gold egg.
“Rise, my king,” she said softly, for him alone, her violet eyes shining with pride and dark promise.
Aemon’s fingers closed around the hilt of Blackfyre, his grey eyes meeting hers with a heat that made her pulse quicken.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep still echoed with laughter and music long after the last toast had been drunk, but King Aemon Targaryen had already slipped away through a side passage reserved for the royal family. Rhaella walked half a step behind him, her crimson gown whispering against the stone, one hand resting lightly on the small of his back beneath the heavy black cloak he now wore over his coronation finery. The weight of Blackfyre at his hip and the warm Butterwell egg cradled in his other arm made him look every inch the conqueror. Yet only Rhaella knew how his pulse raced beneath the velvet.
They said nothing until the heavy doors of the King’s private solar, once his grandfather’s, now his , closed behind them with a final, resounding thud. Torches had already been lit. A single brazier burned low with sweet dragon’s-blood incense. Four dragon eggs rested on black velvet cushions near the enormous, canopied bed, their shells gleaming like living jewels in the firelight.
Rhaella turned the key, then let her cloak fall. The crimson gown followed in one smooth motion, pooling at her feet like spilled blood. She stood before him naked save for her rubies and silver, heavy breasts rising and falling, dark nipples tight, the soft curve of her belly and the glistening slit of her cunt already wet with anticipation.
Aemon’s grey eyes devoured her. The boy who had once covered himself in shame now stared with open, hungry reverence.
Rhaella stepped close, pressing her naked body against his still-clothed one. She cupped his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “Tonight there is no court,” she whispered, voice husky. “No lords. No septons. Only a king and his matriarch. Tonight we offer ourselves properly to Myraxes.”
She guided him backward until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the massive bed. With reverent hands she undressed him, unbuckling Blackfyre, peeling away velvet and silk until he stood naked, cock already rock-hard and leaking, flushed dark at the tip. Rhaella sank to her knees, pressing a slow, worshipful kiss to the head before taking him deep into her throat in one smooth glide. She hummed around him, throat fluttering, eyes locked on his as she sucked him with slow, loving pulls.
When he was trembling on the edge, she pulled off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting her lips to his cock. “On the bed, my king,” she commanded softly, rising. “On your back. I want to look into those beautiful grey eyes while I ride you.”
Aemon obeyed. Rhaella climbed over him, straddling his hips, and took his thick cock in her hand. She rubbed the swollen head up and down her soaked slit, coating him in her slick, then sank down in one long, greedy motion until every inch was buried inside her tight, velvet cunt.
Both of them moaned.
“Fuuuuck, Grandmother,” Aemon groaned, hands flying to her wide hips.
Rhaella rolled her hips in a slow, filthy circle, grinding her clit against his base. “That’s it, my dragon. Feel how perfectly your grandmother’s cunt takes you. This womb carried your father… and now it is going to carry your children.” She leaned forward, heavy breasts swaying above his face, and began to ride him with deep, powerful strokes. The wet slap of her ass against his thighs filled the chamber.
“Tell me,” she panted, voice thick with lust. “Tell Grandmother what you’re going to do to me tonight. Tell me how you’re going to breed your matriarch.”
Aemon’s fingers dug into her hips, thrusting up to meet her. “I’m going to fill you,” he gasped, voice cracking with raw need. “I’m going to pump every drop of my seed into your womb until it overflows. I’m going to breed you like a proper Valyrian queen.”
Rhaella moaned loudly, riding him harder. “Yes, yes, my king. Fill me. Give me a son with your grey eyes and my silver hair. Make me swell with the next dragon.” She sat up straighter, bouncing on his cock, tits jiggling heavily with every downward slam. “Harder, Aemon. Fuck your grandmother like you own this cunt.”
He flipped them suddenly, pinning her beneath him. Rhaella laughed breathlessly as he drove into her with deep, punishing strokes, the bed creaking violently. She wrapped her legs high around his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper.
“Like that, gods, yes, breed me, my sweet boy. Fill Grandmother’s womb. I want to feel you leaking out of me for days.”
Aemon fucked her mercilessly, sweat-slicked and desperate, until she shattered around him with a cry in High Valyrian, cunt spasming wildly, milking his cock. He followed with a guttural roar, burying himself to the hilt and pumping thick, heavy ropes of cum straight into her womb.
But he didn’t stop.
He pulled out, flipped her onto her hands and knees, and slammed back in from behind, fucking his own seed deeper with every brutal thrust. Rhaella pushed back to meet him, moaning shamelessly, ruby earrings swinging.
“Again,” she demanded. “Don’t you dare pull out. Fill me until it’s dripping down my thighs and onto the sheets. I want to sleep in your cum tonight.”
He took her like that for long minutes, hard, possessive strokes that made her heavy breasts sway and her voice break into desperate, filthy pleas. When he came the second time he stayed buried deep, grinding against her cervix as he flooded her again.
Rhaella collapsed forward onto her stomach, ass still raised, cum already leaking from her well-fucked cunt. Aemon climbed over her, covering her body with his, and slid back inside her from behind in a slow, lazy grind.
She turned her head, kissing him over her shoulder, tongue sliding against his.
“You’re going to put a child in me tonight,” she whispered against his lips, voice wrecked and loving. “I can feel it. My womb is drinking you down like it was made for your seed.”
They stayed locked together like that for a long while, slow and deep, until Aemon hardened again inside her. Rhaella guided him onto his back once more and mounted him reverse, giving him a perfect view of her ass as she rode him with long, rolling strokes. She reached back, spreading her cheeks so he could watch his thick cock disappear into her cum-slick hole again and again.
When he came the third time, she stayed seated, grinding slowly, keeping every drop inside her.
Only then did she lean back against his chest, still impaled on his softening cock, and kiss the side of his throat.
Rhaella’s voice was a soft, wicked whisper against his ear.
“Tomorrow night, my king… I will begin preparing Daenerys. Your sweet little aunt is going to learn what it means to serve the last dragon. And when she is ready, you will take her the same way you just took me , until her womb is overflowing and she understands exactly who she belongs to.”
Aemon’s spent cock twitched hard inside her at the words.
Rhaella smiled against his skin, satisfied and hungry all at once.
“The old ways have only just begun.”