Chapter 5 – A Dragon's Tale
~ Margaery Tyrell ~
The scent of lavender and sex hung heavy in the air of the royal bedchamber, a musk that Margaery Tyrell was quickly learning to associate with power. The sheets were a tangled ruin of fine Myrish silk, bearing the damp evidence of the last hour's exertions. She lay beside him, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that sought to match the calming beat of her own heart.
Beside her lay Aegon Targaryen. He was sprawled on his back, one arm thrown carelessly over his eyes, his silver-gold hair fanned out against the pillows like a halo of spun moonlight. He was a creature of beautiful violence, a man who was about to carve kingdom out of chaos not with a smile, but with fire.
Margaery traced a finger down the centre of his chest, feeling the hard ridges of muscle beneath the skin. She was playing the game, as she always did, but the board had changed. The pieces were heavier, the stakes lethal. She needed to understand the source of his strength. She needed to know the monster to tame the man.
"They tell a thousand stories, you know," she murmured, her voice a soft purr against the silence.
Aegon moved his arm, cracking one violet eye open to look at her. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Do they? And which one is your favourite, my dear?"
"The one about the beast," she said, her finger swirling around his navel before drifting lower, teasing the waistband of the sheet. "Some say you hatched him from a stone found in the depths of Dragonstone. Others say you summoned him from the Seven Hells with blood magic. But I look at you..." She paused, her eyes searching his. "And I wonder where a man finds a nightmare like the Cannibal."
Aegon chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the mattress. He caught her wrist, his grip firm, halting her hand.
"A story for a story?" he teased, though his eyes held a glint of predatory command. "Or perhaps a service for a story."
Margaery smiled, the practiced, coy smile of a highborn lady, though her pulse quickened. "And what service does the King require?"
Aegon shifted, sitting up against the headboard and pulling the sheet away, revealing himself. He was already stirring, the blood rushing back to him at her touch. He gestured to the space between his legs.
"The truth is a heavy thing, Margaery. It requires concentration. Kneel," he commanded softly, the authority in his voice absolute. "Serve me, and I shall tell you how an exiled dragon found a hidden one."
Margaery didn't hesitate. She moved with the grace of a dancer, shifting until she was kneeling between his spread thighs. The sight of him, thickening and twitching in anticipation, sent a jolt of heat through her belly. She placed her hands on his knees, looking up at him with her doe eyes.
"As you wish, Your Grace," she whispered.
She leaned forward, her tongue darting out to taste the salty bead of pre-cum gathering at the tip, before she opened her mouth and took him in.
Aegon hissed a breath through his teeth as the warmth of her mouth enveloped him. He placed a hand on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her brown curls, guiding her rhythm.
"It was after Winterfell," he began, his voice taking on a distant, gritty quality, contrasting sharply with the wet, sloppy sounds of her devotion. "I had done what needed to be done in the North. But I needed to move South, and I needed to do it unseen. The Kingsroad was too watched. So, I chose the Vale."
Margaery bobbed her head, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked him deep. The sensation was maddeningly good, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head of his cock.
"I dyed my hair black as pitch," Aegon continued, his hips bucking slightly to meet her thrusts. "Dressed in roughspun wool and boiled leather. I looked like a hedge knight, or a deserter. No one looks twice at a man with a rusted sword in the Mountains of the Moon."
~ Aegon Targaryen (Flashback) ~
The wind had been a knife that day, cutting through the layers of wool as if they were spider webs. Aegon trudged through the snow, the high passes of the Mountains of the Moon looming over him like the teeth of a giant. He was alone. It was a foolish risk, perhaps, but anonymity was his shield.
He heard the crunch of snow before he saw them.
They emerged from the rocks like ghosts—men of the Burned Men clan, their faces scarred and mutilated, marks of their courage and their madness. There were twelve of them. They carried axes of black iron and jagged swords they must have stolen off corpses, and they smelled of unwashed bodies and old blood.
"Pretty sword," the leader grunted, eyeing the blade at Aegon's hip—Blackfyre, concealed in a scabbard of rot-treated leather. "Give."
"Come and take it," Aegon said, his voice flat.
The fight was not a duel; it was a slaughter. They rushed him all at once, a chaotic wave of steel and fury. Aegon drew. The Valyrian steel sang as it left the sheath, a dark ripple in the white snow. He moved not like a knight, but like water.
He ducked a swinging axe, the wind of it stirring his dyed hair, and took the man's leg at the knee. A backhand slash opened the throat of a second. The snow turned red, steaming in the cold air.
Aegon fought with a ruthlessness that startled even him. He wasn't playing at war; he was surviving. He gutted a man who tried to flank him, spun, and drove his pommel into the face of another, shattering bone. But they were relentless. A jagged blade caught his shoulder, slicing through the leather, biting into flesh.
He didn't scream. He roared.
When the last man fell, gargling blood into the snow, Aegon stood panting, his breath misting in the freezing air. His arm throbbed, and exhaustion pulled at his limbs like lead weights. The sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows across the peaks. He couldn't stay in the open. The cold would kill him as surely as the clansmen tried to.
He saw it then—a maw in the side of the mountain. A cave, dark and foreboding, situated high up a jagged cliff face. It looked like a skull screaming into the void.
~ Back in the bedchamber ~
Aegon groaned, his hand tightening in Margaery's hair.
"Deeper," he commanded, his voice strained. "Take it all, Margaery."
She obeyed, gagging slightly as he pushed himself to the back of her throat, her eyes watering. She hummed a vibration against his shaft that made his toes curl.
"I found a cave," he gritted out, the pleasure mounting. "But it wasn't... empty. The floor was thick with ash. Not wood ash. Bone ash."
~ Flashback ~
The cave was warm. Unnaturally so. The smell hit him first—sulfur and brimstone, so thick it coated the back of his throat. The deeper he went, the hotter it became. The ground crunched under his boots, a carpet of charred bones—some animal, some distinctly human.
He should have turned back. Every instinct screamed at him to run. But the blood of Old Valyria did not run; it walked forward.
In the centre of the cavern, a vast hollow lit by a shaft of moonlight from a fissure high above, lay a shadow darker than the night. It was a mountain of scales and spikes.
The Cannibal.
The beast had been a myth, a ghost story of the Dance of Dragons, said to have vanished. Yet here it slept, ancient and terrible, its scales the colour of midnight, its eyes closed.
Aegon stepped on a brittle rib cage. Snap.
The sound echoed like a thunderclap.
The dragon's eye snapped open. It was a baleful, glowing green, a furnace of malice. The beast raised its head, a serpentine motion that displaced the air with a rush of heat. It looked at the small, insignificant human standing before it.
It didn't roar. It simply opened its mouth.
Emerald and black fire, hot enough to melt stone, erupted.
Aegon had no time to dodge. He threw his arms up, bracing for death, accepting it. The inferno washed over him. The roar of the flame was deafening, a physical force that hammered him backward. He felt his clothes disintegrate, the wool turning to ash in an instant. The leather boiled and vanished.
The heat was agonizing, terrified... and then, suddenly, it wasn't.
The fire dissipated.
Aegon stood in the centre of the scorched circle, naked, smoke rising from his skin. The black dye had been burned from his hair, leaving the silver-gold strands shimmering in the dim light. His skin was untouched, save for the soot.
The Cannibal lowered its massive head, bringing it inches from Aegon. The dragon sniffed, a sound like a bellows working. It smelled the burnt wool. It smelled the blood of the clansmen. And beneath it all, it smelled the magic.
The beast let out a low, chirping growl—a sound of confusion, and perhaps, recognition.
Aegon lowered his arms. He looked into the green eye of the monster, his own violet eyes blazing with an ancient, genetic arrogance. He reached out a hand and placed it on the dragon's snout. The scales were burning hot, but they did not burn him.
"I am not food," Aegon whispered to the beast, the Valyrian rolling off his tongue. "I am blood."
~ Flashback End ~
Aegon was close. The wet suction of Margaery's mouth, the way she fondled his balls, the memory of the fire—it was a potent cocktail. He looked down at her, seeing her devotion, the way she served him with such intent.
"The fire... it burned away the lies," he gasped, his hips snapping forward, fucking her face with increasing urgency. "It left only the dragon."
Margaery sensed the change in him. She doubled her efforts, her tongue swirling wildly, her suction tightening. She moaned around him, the sound muffled and erotic.
"That's it," he growled. "Take the dragon's seed, my Queen."
His body went rigid. The pleasure crested, a wave of pure, white-hot ecstasy that mirrored the dragonfire of his memory. He held her head firmly in place, thrusting deep into her throat as he erupted.
Margaery gagged but did not pull away. She swallowed him down, taking every drop of his release, her throat working rhythmically. She drank the power he offered, accepting his essence into her.
Aegon rode out the spasms, his breathing ragged, his hand slowly relaxing its grip on her hair. He pulled out slowly, leaving her lips slick and swollen. Margaery coughed once, wiping a stray trailing of fluid from her chin, and looked up at him. Her eyes were bright, triumphant, and adoring.
Aegon smirked, the afterglow softening the hard lines of his face, though the conqueror remained in his eyes. He reached down, cupping her cheek with a possessive tenderness.
"Regardless of how many wives I take," he said, his thumb brushing her lower lip, "you shall be my favourite in bed."
Author's Notes
Felt inspired.