Chapter 3: The Blade and the Beast
Dragonstone, 7 AC – 25 AC (fast-forward montage)
The child who should have been frail grew like wildfire on black rock.
At two he spoke full sentences in High Valyrian, eyes already too knowing.
At five he climbed the dragonmont alone, laughing as Vhagar's Shadow—still a hatchling then—nuzzled his palm with smoke curling from nostrils.
At nine he bested squires twice his age with a wooden sword, movements fluid, lethal, as though the system had rewritten his nerves overnight.
At twelve the master-at-arms knelt and declared, "This boy was born with a blade in his hand."
At fifteen Aenys claimed Vhagar's Shadow in earnest. The dragon—sleek obsidian scales slashed with crimson—bent its neck to him without hesitation, roaring so fiercely the cliffs trembled. Aegon watched from Balerion's back, pride warring with something darker. Visenya's gaze lingered longest.
The system worked in silence, feeding him stat points no one else could see.
[Strength +4]
[Agility +5]
[Charisma +3]
[Endurance +∞ (capped at mortal limit)]
By sixteen the rumors began. Prince Aenys was not like other Targaryens. Too strong. Too fast. Too… present. Servants whispered of the way his breeches strained when he walked the halls, of the impossible bulge that no tailor could hide. Maids blushed and avoided his eyes; stableboys stared openly until he caught them and smiled—slow, dangerous.
Then came the night of his eighteenth nameday.
The great hall rang with music and laughter. Aegon toasted his son; Rhaenys—still radiant, still the fire in the room—kissed his cheek and murmured how proud she was. Visenya sat at the high table, Dark Sister across her lap like a lover, violet eyes tracking every move Aenys made.
He felt the system stir as the last guest departed.
[First Rebirth Milestone Achieved.
Host Age: 18 solar years.
Reward Deployment: Immediate.]
He excused himself early, claiming the need for air. Instead he descended to the ancient Valyrian forge beneath the citadel—abandoned since the Doom, its black stone walls still warm from residual dragonfire. No one followed. The system preferred privacy for its gifts.
He stripped naked in the forge's red glow. Sweat already beaded on skin that had hardened into corded muscle over years of relentless training. His cock hung heavy between his thighs—already larger than average from childhood changes the system had nudged along. But tonight it would become something else.
[Gift 1: Weapon Master – Level 10 (MAX)
All martial proficiencies fused. Sword, spear, axe, bow, dagger, unarmed—perfected across ten thousand simulated lifetimes. Reaction time: near-instant. Precision: surgical. Aura of lethality: passive.]
Pain flared through every muscle, then pleasure—sharp, electric. His arms lengthened fractionally, shoulders widened, forearms thickened with new cords of muscle. Fingers flexed; he could feel the ghost-weight of every blade he had never truly held. The system poured knowledge directly into his brain: parries from Yi Ti, thrusts from Dothraki riders, Valyrian ripostes lost to time. He drew a rusted longsword from the wall, spun it once—and the air sang.
Perfect.
Then the second gift.
[Gift 2: Dragon's Monstrous Endowment – Tier 1 (Permanent Upgrade)
Length: 11.4 inches erect.
Girth: 7.1 inches circumference.
Rigidity: steel-hard, no refractory period under 4 hours.
Volume per ejaculation: extreme (300–500 ml baseline).
Potency multiplier: +400% fertility chance with Valyrian-compatible partners.
Secondary effects: pheromonal dominance aura (subconscious submission trigger in 70% of recipients), addictive aftertaste, permanent marking (internal sensitivity increase in partners).]
The change was brutal and immediate.
Heat surged from his groin outward. His cock swelled—thickening, lengthening, veins pulsing like rivers of fire under the skin. The head flared wide, darkening to deep plum, slit already weeping clear fluid. It rose untouched until it curved upward, slapping wetly against his navel with a meaty thud. The weight pulled downward; he had to adjust his stance to balance it. Balls swelled too—heavy, full, hanging low like ripe fruit.
He wrapped a hand around the shaft. Could barely close his fingers. A single stroke sent lightning up his spine. He growled—low, animal—and came without warning. Thick ropes of white shot across the forge floor, splattering stone three feet away. Pulse after pulse. The system had not exaggerated the volume.
When it ended he was breathing hard, cock still rock-hard, glistening.
[Upgrade Complete.
Visenya Targaryen Lust Meter (hidden tracking): 74% → 89%.
Opportunity Window: Open.]
He dressed slowly. The breeches were torture—fabric stretched obscenely, the outline of his new length unmistakable even soft. He left the top lace undone, letting the head peek just above the waistband when he moved.
He returned to the great hall.
Visenya had not left.
She sat alone now, wine cup in hand, Dark Sister propped beside her. The fire had burned low; shadows danced across her sharp features. At forty-three she remained a weapon in female form—lean, lethal, breasts still high and full beneath black leather and crimson silk.
Aenys approached without hurry.
"Uncle's son," she said, voice rough from wine and something else. "You've grown… bold."
He stopped close enough that she could smell him—smoke, steel, and the faint musky promise of the system's pheromones.
"I've grown many things, aunt."
Her eyes dropped. Lingered. The front of his breeches was a scandal—thick ridge straining the leather, the head's outline clearly visible where fabric had ridden low. She swallowed once. Thighs shifted beneath the table.
"You should not look at me like that," she murmured.
"Like what?"
"Like you intend to fuck me until I forget my own name."
The words hung between them—raw, unguarded.
Aenys leaned in. One hand braced on the arm of her chair. The other reached down, deliberately adjusting himself so the full monstrous length pressed outward against the leather.
Visenya's breath hitched.
She could see it twitch. Could imagine the stretch, the burn, the way it would fill her past capacity, press against places Aegon had never reached. Heat pooled between her legs; her smallclothes were already damp.
Bad thoughts flooded her.
She pictured dropping to her knees right here, freeing that beast, trying—and failing—to take it all in her mouth. Pictured him bending her over the high table, ripping silk aside, slamming home until she screamed. Pictured her belly rounding with his child—another dragon, stronger, darker, born of forbidden seed.
She was the Conqueror's sister-wife. Warrior. Queen.
She should draw Dark Sister and gut him for the insult.
Instead her hand moved—slow, trembling—toward the laces of his breeches.
"You are mad," she whispered.
"So are you," he answered.
Her fingers brushed the head through leather. It jumped under her touch.
The system pinged softly in his mind.
[Visenya Targaryen Lust Meter: 97%.
Consent Threshold Reached.
Proceed? Y/N]
Aenys smiled—sharp, victorious.
He chose Y.
(Word count: 1502)