Warning: This novel will be uploaded sporadically. It will not have much thinking in it. If you like it, you like it; if not, move along—there are thousands of other novels for you to read. Does it follow the plot? You're welcome to make your fanfic and imagine as you please. Don't bother leaving a review rating your dissatisfaction; save your time and mine. Will it be completed someday? Only the Almighty knows what the near or distant future holds.
This novel will follow another Rhaegon. It's a divergence that, later in the story, will be linked to my Planetos fic when I continue it. But to tell the truth, after being censored with my Viking fic, I'm a little doubtful about touching it in the near future—maybe there are snowflakes lurking around, as there probably will be here too. With that said, nobody is holding you down to read something that you don't like; for that, the tags are present in the synopsis, and this warning.
The adventure of the MC will start in Chapter 1 after the Introduction chapters. Don't ask how long; when you see it, good for you.
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The air itself seemed to tremble as the rhythmic, measured tuck-tuck of bootheels echoed through the vast, vaulted halls of a castle. Each step was a drumbeat heralding the arrival of a force that needed no announcement. The light of the sun slipped through the windows in the walls from a side, flickering in unison, bathing everyone in its warm radiance who were in the place.
Ahead, a sea of black armor parted like the tide before a storm. The guards stood at attention, their crimson cloaks billowing behind them, each bearing the sigil of House Targaryen, wrought upon their black breastplates. As one, they raised their gauntleted fists to their chests, the sound of metal clashing against metal ringing out like a hymn.
"Long live House Targaryen!"
The chant began as a growl, low and guttural, but it swelled with each step he took, rolling through the halls like thunder. It was not merely a salute—it was their life oath, a vow carved in their bodies in the form of a dragon on their wrists. The words reverberated off the arches, shaking loose dust from the rafters, as though the castle itself sought to join the chorus.
"Long live Rhaegon!"
At the forefront of this procession strode Rhaegon Targaryen, his calm violet eyes burning with a fire that seemed to want to swallow everything on his woke. His silver-gold hair, bound in a high ponytail, bathed under the sunlight, showed an otherworldly glow upon his sharp, regal features. He moved with the grace of a dragon given human form, each step a claim, each breath a command.
Behind him, a step removed but no less commanding, followed Visenya Targaryen, his mother. Her presence was a storm in its own right, her dark and gold gown embracing tightly her plump form as she moved. A coterie of noblewomen trailed in her wake, their silks and jewels glinting like stars in the light, but none dared to outshine the dragon queen.
The double doors to the throne room loomed before them, towering monoliths of black oak reinforced with iron. Two guards, their armor etched with the scars of a hundred battles, seized the massive rings and heaved. The doors groaned as they swung open, revealing the cavernous chamber beyond.
"Long live House Targaryen!"
Rhaegon did not pause. He acknowledged the salute with a single, raised hand—a gesture both dismissive and magnanimous. His gaze, however, was fixed upon the monstrosity that dominated the room: the Iron Throne.
A jagged, twisted abomination of swords and steel, it sat upon its dais like a beast crouched in wait.
Rhaegon's lip curled.
"Father made this shitty throne in the end," he remarked, his voice cutting through the place. The words carried no malicious intent.
Visenya's laughter filled the space between them. "He seemed determined to make it." Her voice was laced with amusement.
Rhaegon exhaled, a sound that might have been a sigh or a growl. "Damn shitty throne," he muttered, ascending the steps. "We could have had something more… comfy. More grandiose than this lump of iron." His fingers traced the edge of a blade as he passed, the metal cold and still sharp beneath his touch.
And then, he was seated.
The moment he settled upon the throne, the chamber erupted. The guards, the nobles, the servants—every throat in the room swelled with the same cry, a roar that shook the very foundations of the castle.
"Long live House Targaryen!"
"Long live Rhaegon!"
The words echoed through the throne room, the air thick with the heat of devotion. Rhaegon leaned back, his violet gaze sweeping over the sea of faces before him—each one bent in fealty, each one subservient to the Targaryen house after surrendering willingly or not.
As Rhaegon was about to speak, he suddenly entered into a trance as he gripped the armrests of the Iron Throne. His eyes dilated into dots as he lost sight of the throne room and his surroundings, moving his view to another faraway place.
...
- In a different Planetos -
- 116 AC -
Princess Rhaenyra returned to rest in her bedroom. As she removed her earrings, she noticed a bag resting on a chair. She left the earrings on the table and picked up the bag, eyeing it with suspicion. Doubtfully, she opened it and poured its contents onto the table—a pile of clothes. She lifted one and recoiled at the smell. "Ugh," she exclaimed in disgust. Then, buried in the pile, she found a letter. She read it with a furrowed brow.
The paper depicted a sketch of her room, with a section of the wall marked and accompanied by instructions. Hesitant, she moved to the spot and, to her surprise, discovered a hidden panel. It opened to reveal a secret passage within the keep. Smirking, she returned to the table, changed into the foul-smelling clothes, and ventured into the dark passage.
She emerged in the chamber housing the massive skull of Balerion. Beyond it, she found her uncle Daemon waiting. Breathing slightly heavier, she smiled at him in silence. Daemon returned the gesture before leading her down a stairway attached to the castle wall, descending into the city without a word. Rhaenyra followed.
"Where are we going?" she asked, uncertainty creeping into her voice.
Daemon said nothing. He guided her through the city, alive with a different energy after dark—where inhibitions dissolved and desires ruled the streets. Music and laughter carried a rawer, wilder tone than during the day. Rhaenyra marveled at the scenes unfolding in the alleys and streets of King's Landing, so different from what she knew.
A drunken man stumbled into her, slurring, "Fuck off, boy," before staggering away.
Rhaenyra smirked at Daemon. "He called me a boy."
Daemon only smiled, leading her onward.
They passed a group of performers acting out a crude parody of recent court events. A clownish narrator declared, "And now we come to the matter of the great Iron Chair... and whose arse it might bear!"
The crowd jeered as the actor playing King Viserys announced his daughter as heir. Another, dressed as Alicent, mimed giving birth with exaggerated grunts. "Oh... oh... oh!" he wailed, producing a doll from between his legs. The crowd roared.
"To which heir might the chair bear? The brother? The daughter? Or the little princeling of three?" the narrator asked.
The audience laughed without restraint.
"Rhaenyra... the Realm's Delight, a girl so young and so slight... loved by all her people. But would she make a powerful queen, or would she be feeble?"
"Feeble!" the crowd shouted.
Rhaenyra's amusement vanished. "Lies! Slander!" she hissed. "Boo!"
Daemon glanced at her. "Jest if you will, but many smallfolk believe that, as a male, Aegon should be heir."
"Their opinions are of no consequence," Rhaenyra dismissed.
Daemon chuckled. "They are of great consequence if you expect to rule them one day."
"For one night, I wish to be free of the burdens of my inheritance," she snapped.
She stopped at a food stall, eyeing the wares. Without hesitation, she snatched a piece.
"Four coppers, street rat," Daemon reminded her. "In King's Landing, we pay for our pleasures."
Rhaenyra shot him a mischievous look, tossed the food at him, and bolted.
"Hey!" Daemon called after her.
"Stop! Boy!" the vendor shouted, enraged.
"Wait, I'll find him," Daemon assured the man before chasing his niece.
Rhaenyra sprinted until exhaustion slowed her. Panting, she collided with a guard.
"And who might you be running from, now?" the guard demanded, gripping her arm.
"Ser Harwin," Rhaenyra gasped, recognizing him.
Harwin's eyes widened. "Princess." His gaze flicked to Daemon approaching. "You take care, boy. Next time, you might not be so lucky."
Daemon nodded at Harwin before catching up to Rhaenyra. "Enjoyed that, did you?"
"Who knows when I'll next taste freedom?" she grinned, taking his hand.
Both laughed as Daemon led her to a place where the city's secrets thrived—a den of trance music and carnal indulgence. Bodies entwined without regard for gender, moans and sighs filling the air. Women pleasured each other before spectators, and couples lost themselves in public displays.
Daemon guided Rhaenyra to a secluded alcove, away from the main spectacle. The sounds of passion followed them—moans from half-open doors, the scent of sweat and lust thick in the air.
"What is this place?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Where people come to take what they want."
She watched the couples, feeling the tension between them and Daemon coil tighter. The heat was palpable.
"Fucking is a pleasure, you see," Daemon murmured, his eyes on a couple mid-coitus. "For the woman as much as the man."
The air between them ignited. Their lips crashed together, hungry and desperate. "A marriage is a duty... yes," Daemon whispered between kisses. "But that doesn't stop us from doing what we want. From fucking who we want."
"Mhmm..." Rhaenyra moaned as his hands roamed her body. Daemon pressed her against the wall, stripping her with urgency. She gasped as his touch set her skin aflame.
For a moment, he hesitated—but then his resolve hardened. He took his cock and drove it deep into her virgin pussy.
"Ahh... Mhmm—!" Rhaenyra cried out, her body arching as he claimed her.
.....
Later, after doing the deed, Daemon returned Rhaenyra, exhausted, to her chambers and left.