Chapter 4: Fire and Seed – The Conquest's Dark Turn
The great hall of Dragonstone was empty save for the dying embers in the hearth and the two Targaryens locked in a gaze that could melt Valyrian steel. Visenya's fingers trembled on the laces of Aenys's breeches, her violet eyes dark with forbidden hunger. The system's pheromones hung thick in the air, a silent command that bent even the warrior queen's iron will.
Aenys didn't wait for more words. He seized her braid, yanking her head back just enough to expose the pale column of her throat. She gasped—a sound half fury, half need—and he crushed his mouth to hers. The kiss was war: teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. Visenya bit his lip hard enough to draw blood; he growled and shoved her back against the high table, scattering goblets and parchments.
"You dare," she hissed, even as her hands tore at his tunic, nails raking furrows down his chest.
"I conquer," he replied, voice rough with the system's enhancements surging through him.
He spun her around, bending her over the table like a common wench. Dark Sister clattered to the floor unheeded. Visenya braced her palms on the wood, arching her back in silent invitation. Aenys hiked her gown up over her hips—black silk parting to reveal toned thighs and the damp heat between them. No smallclothes; she had come prepared for battle or bed.
His monstrous cock sprang free when he unlaced himself—eleven inches of veined steel, throbbing with unnatural vigor. The head nudged her entrance, slick with her arousal. Visenya pushed back impatiently, but he held her hips still, teasing with shallow thrusts.
"Beg," he commanded, the system's dominance aura pulsing like dragonfire.
"Never," she snarled—but her body betrayed her, clenching around the tip.
He slammed home in one brutal stroke.
Visenya cried out, the sound echoing off stone walls. The stretch was obscene, her walls gripping him like a vice forged in the Doom. He filled her completely, bottoming out against her cervix with room to spare. Pain twisted into pleasure as he began to move—slow at first, then relentless, each thrust pounding deeper, girth splitting her wide.
"Fuck," she gasped, knuckles white on the table edge. "You're… monstrous."
Aenys gripped her braid like reins, pulling her head back to arch her further. His free hand slid around to her clit, fingers circling with weapon-master precision—fast, unerring, driving her toward the edge. Visenya bucked against him, meeting every thrust with warrior ferocity. Sweat slicked their skin; the air filled with wet slaps and her broken moans.
The system pinged in his mind: [Fertility Boost: Active. Conception Probability: 99%.]
He felt his balls tighten, the monstrous load building. Visenya came first—shuddering, walls fluttering around him in rhythmic pulses that nearly undid him. She bit her lip to stifle a scream, but it escaped anyway: raw, primal.
Aenys followed, burying himself to the hilt and unleashing. Rope after thick rope flooded her—hot, copious, the system's enhancement turning his release into a torrent. It overflowed, dripping down her thighs in white rivulets. Visenya slumped forward, panting, feeling the warmth settle deep in her womb.
He pulled out slowly, cock still half-hard, glistening. Visenya turned, violet eyes glazed with aftershocks. Without a word, she dropped to her knees and took him in her mouth—cleaning him with deliberate sucks, tongue tracing every vein. When he hardened again, she deep-throated him as far as she could, gagging but unyielding.
They fucked twice more that night—on the throne, against the wall—until she lay spent in his arms, marked inside and out.
Nine moons later, Dragonstone echoed with screams again.
Visenya labored in the royal birthing chamber, Aegon pacing outside, Rhaenys holding her sister's hand. The maester emerged sweat-soaked: "Twin girls, my king. Healthy. Silver-haired, violet-eyed."
Aenys stood in the shadows, watching as the babes were presented. Olena and Vaella, they named them—fierce from the start, one clutching a fistful of Visenya's hair, the other wailing like a dragon. The system confirmed: [Descendant Line Extended. Bloodline Purity: 78%. Rebirth Options: Twins Unlocked.]
Visenya met his gaze across the room, a secret smile curling her lips. Aegon claimed them as his, of course—another triumph for the dynasty. But she knew. And in the nights that followed, she came to Aenys's bedchamber often, riding his monstrous cock until dawn, her belly still soft from birth but her hunger sharper than ever.
The Conquest dragged on. Westeros knelt kingdom by kingdom—Stormlands, Riverlands, Vale—but Dorne remained a thorn, sands swallowing armies whole. Aegon grew impatient. In 10 AC, he declared total war: dragons would burn the Dornish until they bent.
Rhaenys prepared to fly south on Meraxes, her laughter still bright despite the years. But on the eve of departure, she sought Aenys in his solar. The prince—now twenty-one, a towering figure of muscle and menace—sat polishing his new Valyrian steel blade, a gift from the system after a hidden quest.
"Mother," he greeted, voice low.
She closed the door, her crimson gown whispering like flame. "Not mother tonight. Just Rhaenys."
The air thickened. She crossed to him, dropping to her knees between his spread thighs. Her hands worked his laces with practiced ease, freeing the beast that strained against leather. It sprang out—eleven inches, thick as her wrist, head already beading.
"For luck," she murmured, violet eyes locked on his.
Aenys threaded fingers through her silver-gold hair as she took him in her mouth. Slow at first—lips stretching wide around the girth, tongue swirling the underside. She couldn't take it all; no one could. But she tried, hollowing her cheeks, bobbing deeper with each pass. Saliva dripped down the shaft; her hands stroked what her throat couldn't reach.
He groaned, hips bucking involuntarily. The system's stamina held him back, letting the pleasure build like a storm. Rhaenys hummed around him, vibrations sending sparks up his spine. She looked up through lashes, eyes watering but fierce—queen, sister, lover.
When he came, it was volcanic. She swallowed pulse after pulse, the overflow spilling from her lips, staining her gown. She licked him clean, then rose, wiping her mouth with a satisfied smirk.
"Conquer them for me, my son."
She flew at dawn.
Hell's Underpass, Dorne, 10 AC.
Meraxes wheeled low over the jagged rocks, Rhaenys scanning for Dornish scouts. Then the scorpion bolt struck—forged in secret, tipped with sand viper venom. It pierced the dragon's eye; Meraxes roared, crashing into the canyon walls. Rhaenys tumbled from the saddle, body broken on the stones. Dornish spears finished her.
Word reached Dragonstone like a thunderclap. Aegon howled in grief; Visenya sharpened Dark Sister with murder in her eyes. Aenys felt the system's cold ping: [Key Ally Lost. War Escalation: Unlocked. Tactical Genius Boost: +50%.]
He mounted Vhagar's Shadow that night—his dragon now full-grown, wings spanning a hundred yards, flames black as night edged in crimson. "We end this," he told Aegon. "Follow my lead."
The Dornish War became Aenys's canvas.
First strike: Planky Town, 11 AC.
Aenys led from the air, Vhagar's Shadow scouting ahead while Balerion and Vhagar lumbered behind. Dornish archers massed on the Greenblood banks, scorpions cranked and ready. Conventional assault would have been suicide—dragons picked off mid-dive.
But Aenys's weapon-master mind, amplified by the system, saw patterns: wind currents, sun glare, river bends. He signaled Aegon and Visenya to hold high, then dove low—skimming the water at dusk when shadows hid his approach. Vhagar's Shadow's black scales blended with twilight; he unleashed targeted bursts of flame, igniting scorpion oil reserves without scorching the town.
Explosions ripped through the Dornish lines—chains of fire leaping from machine to machine. Archers panicked, loosing wild shots. Aenys pulled up sharply, banking into a thermal updraft the system had calculated to the second. Balerion and Vhagar descended then, unchallenged, razing the remnants.
Planky Town burned; survivors fled inland. Aenys claimed first blood: 5,000 Dornish dead, zero Targaryen losses.
Sunspear Siege, 12 AC.
Princess Meria Martell hunkered in her sandstone fortress, wells deep and walls thick. Aegon's initial bombardments cracked towers but couldn't breach the inner keep. Starvation siege would take years—Dorne's hidden oases supplied them endlessly.
Aenys studied maps by dragonlight, system overlaying holograms only he could see: [Terrain Analysis: Complete. Weak Points: Aqueducts (82% vulnerability), Shadow City tunnels (95% infiltration potential).]
He proposed the unorthodox: ground assault blended with air. Visenya scoffed—"Dragons win wars, not sneaks"—but Aegon listened.
Under moonless night, Aenys led 500 Unsullied-like elites (Targaryen loyalists hardened by his training) through sewage tunnels he had scouted via dragon low-flys. Weapon-master skill turned the crawl into a silent march: daggers muffled, breaths synced.
They emerged in the Shadow City, sabotaging aqueducts with alchemical charges (system recipe: sulfur + pitch = controlled blast). Water flooded lower levels, drowning guards and collapsing barricades.
From above, Aenys signaled flares—Vhagar's Shadow's crimson-tipped flames lighting targets without full burn. Balerion hammered the breached walls; Visenya strafed reinforcements.
Meria's forces crumbled. Aenys stormed the throne room personally, his Valyrian blade singing through spears like butter. He disarmed the princess's champion in three moves—parry, feint, decapitate.
Meria knelt, offering terms. Aenys refused: "Dorne bends unbroken, or burns."
She signed unconditional surrender that dawn.
Yronwood Ambush, 13 AC.
Final push: the Boneway passes, where Dornish guerrillas harried supply lines. Traditional sweeps failed—hit-and-run tactics bleeding the army dry.
Aenys's brilliance shone: decoy convoys laced with wildfire barrels, rigged to ignite on scorpion impact. He positioned dragon perches on high cliffs, using thermals for rapid redeploy.
When ambushers struck, the "convoys" exploded in green hellfire, incinerating hundreds. Vhagar's Shadow dove from blind spots—system-calculated angles exploiting canyon echoes to mask approach. Aenys rained black flame on escape routes, herding survivors into kill zones where ground troops waited.
Lord Yronwood surrendered his castle keys by noon, 2,000 rebels slain.
Vaith River Crossing, 13 AC.
Last stronghold: Hellholt, guarded by the Brimstone's toxic fumes and quicksands. Dornish poisoned wells, forcing thirst-maddened assaults.
Aenys innovated: dragon-dug canals diverting the Vaith River, flooding enemy positions while creating safe fords. He led the charge on foot—monstrous cock safely laced, but his presence a morale weapon. Sword in hand, he cleaved through lines: whirlwind strikes felling ten men per breath, arrows dodged with preternatural agility.
Visenya fought beside him, Dark Sister flashing. Their twins—now toddlers—waited safe on Dragonstone, but her ferocity was maternal fire amplified.
Hellholt fell in hours. Lord Uller begged mercy; Aenys granted it conditionally: "Serve the dragon, or join the ashes."
By 13 AC's end, Dorne was conquered—years ahead of canon, losses halved by Aenys's tactics. He stood atop Sunspear's Spear Tower, Vhagar's Shadow coiled below, surveying the kneeling lords.
Aegon crowned him Prince of Dragonstone that day. Visenya whispered in his ear: "Our daughters will rule empires."
The system pinged: [Conquest Complete. Level Up: Warlord Tier Unlocked. Next Rebirth: Pending.]
Aenys smiled into the desert wind. The seed had taken root; the line would burn eternal.