Prologue
It was the morning of The Realm's Delight
wedding day. She was to wed Laenor Velaryon, the heir to Driftmark, uniting the two houses once again. At that moment, however, she was not preparing for the ceremony, but rather keeping company with her king and dragon.
Contrary to what one might think, the king was not conversing—at least, that is what the guards at the door believed the king and the young bride-to-be were doing.
Behind the door, however, the room echoed with muffled moans and cries. Aenar was behind his future bride, taking her without mercy. His sizable member wreaked havoc on Rhaenyra's most intimate part, which felt stretched to its limit. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the chamber.
Rhaenyra was already in ecstasy, her mind empty of thoughts, capable only of moaning. Aenar held a handful of her hair, pressing her face into the pillow, which she bit in an attempt to endure the intensity—but it was impossible to keep up with the pace he set.
An intense orgasm racked her belly, exploding in wet waves that soaked the bed. But the dragon did not cease his movement, continuing to thrust into her forcefully.
After what felt like hours, Aenar finally reached his climax, releasing a thick, abundant load inside her, which overflowed and trickled down her legs, forming a puddle on the sheets. Meanwhile, Rhaenyra experienced another peak, mingling her fluids with his.
As he withdrew, Aenar pulled her by the hair and brought her to his mouth, forcing her to clean his still-throbbing member. She, as his grand-niece and a princess promised to another house, obeyed, while he guided her head with his hands tangled in her silver strands.
He then finished in her mouth, and she, true to her upbringing, swallowed what she could—but the excess ran from her nose and the corners of her lips, marking her face.
— Next time, if you come without Alicent, you'd better not come at all.
He lay down beside her, and a heavy silence filled the room, broken only by Rhaenyra's ragged breathing. After a few moments, she spoke, her voice a thread of sound laden with worry.
— And Laenor? — she whispered, turning her head to face Aenar. — They say he has no... interest in fulfilling his conjugal duties. How will we ensure the consummation? Without it, the marriage can be annulled, and this entire alliance will crumble.
Aenar turned to her, his face impassive, without a shadow of concern.
— Rhaenys, as Hand of the King, has already resolved that — he said, his voice calm and firm. — She spoke with Laenor himself and reached an... understanding. He will perform his role on the wedding bed, in whatever way is necessary to satisfy the lords and the Septon. You need not carry that burden.
He raised his hand and, with a gentle gesture, brushed his fingers across her sweaty brow.
— Now, what you must do is rest. Sleep. Later, you must rise and prepare yourself to become the most dazzling bride the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen.
Exhaustion finally overcame Rhaenyra. Her heavy eyelids closed, and she fell into a deep sleep almost instantly, her body still beside him.
Aenar watched her for a long moment. Then, he whispered arcane words in a forgotten tongue. A faint, golden glow emanated from his hands, washing over Rhaenyra's body. The grime, the sweat, and the marks of their union vanished, as if washed away by an invisible water. Her body was left clean, and a thin, fresh nightgown was laid upon her. With another whisper, he cast the final spell: a guaranteed awakening, which would bring her back to consciousness precisely at the right time, revitalized for her grand day.
Part 2: The Future of the Stepstones
Months had passed since the wedding that united Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon. The autumn in King's Landing was beginning to give way to a colder air, but in the Red Keep, events remained as heated and intricate as ever.
On his way to the Small Council chamber, Aenar Targaryen, the Immortal Dragon, walked with firm steps. Queen Gael radiated a serenity that was both a balm and a fortress to him. As they walked, the red carpets muffling their footsteps, Aenar's memory flew back several moons, to an unusual request from Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was and his Hand.
Worried about her son Laenor's ability to consummate the marriage and secure the lineage, Rhaenys had sought Aenar in secret. The solution was twofold. First, an aphrodisiac potion of his own creation, so potent it would incite an uncontrollable fury of desire in the drinker. Second, hidden beneath the wedding bed, a ritual circle drawn by himself, a conduit for ancient energies to guarantee fertility and ensure Rhaenyra would conceive.
From the confidences Rhaenyra herself had shared with him, the method had worked vigorously. Laenor, taken by the potion, had taken her from behind with an animalistic intensity, his mind clearly elsewhere. Despite the unorthodox nature of the encounter, the goal was achieved: Rhaenyra was pregnant. And not just pregnant, but with a belly already visible, a remarkable feat for such a short time, a silent testament to the power of Aenar's ritual. The succession, for now at least, was secured.
The atmosphere in the Small Council chamber was charged with a sense of opportunity. The news of the victory over the pirates in the Stepstones had injected a new energy into those present.
Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, was the first to break the silence. "Your Grace, the expulsion of the pirates opens a long-closed path. The Stepstones must be formally annexed to the Crownlands. It is time to raise fortresses, establish a permanent fleet, and levy legitimate tolls for protection."
Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, was quick to endorse the vision. "Lord Strong is quite right. Direct control over that route will not only pacify the Narrow Sea but also provide a steady stream of wealth for the royal treasury."
Aenar listened, absorbing the arguments with a gaze that seemed to see beyond the walls of the room. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but the decision in it was unquestionable.
— The vision of both is sound. The Stepstones will become a possession of the Crown — the King declared. — However, they will not be ruled from here in King's Landing. That place needs a strong ruler, with a grip of steel and the heart of a dragon.
He paused, allowing the tension to settle.
— Send a message to my nephew, Prince Daemon. His new mission, and his reward, will be to begin the construction of a castle and a fortified port on Bloodstone. From there, he will rule the islands of the Stepstones in my name. He will collect the tolls and keep the peace with fire and blood, if necessary.
The revelation caused a surprised frisson around the table. Aenar then rose, his imposing figure silencing any murmur.
— And to cement this new power, I grant my nephew a new title. He will not merely be a prince of the royal family. From this day forth, Daemon Targaryen shall be the Prince of the Stepstones and Protector of the Isles.
The declaration echoed in the room. It was a title of great pomp, equivalent to that of a Great Lord.
— However — Aenar's voice cut the air, sharper than Valyrian steel — this title shall not be hereditary. The office of Prince of the Stepstones will be an appointment of the Crown. I, who remain to guide this kingdom through the centuries, shall personally choose the next ruler from among the members of House Targaryen when the time comes. The Stepstones are the sword that guards the throat of Westeros. And the hilt of this sword — he concluded, his gaze sweeping each face at the table, his immortality hanging tacit over all — must always be in the hand of the King.
The strategy was brilliant: it satisfied Daemon's ambition, giving him glory, power, and a kingdom to rule, but simultaneously kept him tethered to the Crown, preventing him from founding a rival dynasty. It was a masterstroke, possible only for a sovereign not subject to time, typical of the shrewd mind of Aenar, the Immortal Dragon.
Part 3: Prosperous Years
In the year 114 AC, the corridors of the Red Keep whispered with the echoes of a transformed realm. Aenar Targaryen, the dragon who had shaped fate with unyielding hands, known to many as The Healer, walked through the shadowed passages of his ancestral seat, his mind a whirlwind of reflections on the recent years that had redefined House Targaryen. The Iron Throne, a symbol of power he had claimed through blood, fire, and relentless ambition, loomed in his consciousness as a reminder of his duty. Even with peace reigning over the Seven Kingdoms, the personal ties of his lineage wove a tapestry of intrigue and complexity.
His thoughts first turned to his own hearth, to the miracle that was his firstborn, Galadriel. At two years old, she was a vision plucked from the legends of Valyria. Her grace was ethereal, an elegance that seemed to float above the mortal, causing even the most seasoned courtiers to pause in reverence, as if she danced upon whispers of the wind. Her golden hair gleamed with an inner light, as though stars had been woven into each strand, catching the torchlight in an almost supernatural way. And her eyes—lilac, slit like a dragon's, inherited directly from Aenar—held a singular enchantment. Unlike his own eyes, which inspired fear even at rest, Galadriel's captivated, drawing all who gazed into them into a chasm of fascination. "As if she could bend hearts with a single look," Viserys had once said, with a mix of awe and admiration. Though they shared Aenar's draconic essence, her eyes carried a magic of their own, a trait that marked her as something beyond the common Targaryen lineage. She was his pride, his living legacy, and in her childish laughter, he saw the promise of a future free from the curses of their house.
But the web of Targaryen fates stretched far beyond his immediate family. His interventions had altered the course of many lives, especially that of his kinsman Viserys. Viserys's marriage to Aemma Arryn, now expanded to include Alicent Hightower through political necessity and Aenar's influence, still sought balance, teetering between affection, duty, and veiled tensions. The birth of the son Viserys had so longed for should have been a beacon of hope, but fate had nearly exacted a cruel price. Aemma, on the brink of death during childbirth, had been saved at the last moment by Aenar's healing magic, the gift that earned him the title of The Healer. With his power, he had pulled her back from the abyss, but the victory was bittersweet: the boy, who would have been named Baelon, was stillborn, a blow that left scars on all. Alicent's mind, revealed to Aenar through his secret gift of mind-reading, brimmed with suppressed frustrations—loneliness, unfulfilled desires, and the strain of sharing Viserys's affection with Aemma. Viserys, in turn, struggled to meet the demands of two wives, his heart and vigor divided under the weight of expectations. It was a volatile situation, Aenar mused, one that required vigilance to keep from igniting.
Daemon, the Rogue Prince, led an unexpectedly tranquil life. Never wed to Rhea Royce in this world, his first wife had been Lysara Rogare, the Lysene beauty whose merchant ties brought wealth and exotic alliances. She had given him a robust heir, named Baelon after his father, securing his lineage with ease. Now, his second wife, Laena Velaryon, carried twins, her womb a testament to Daemon's renewed vigor. He lived lightly, Aenar thought with a wry smile—soaring the skies on Caraxes, shining in tourneys, and reveling in feasts, his restless spirit soothed by fatherhood and the comforts of his households. For now, Daemon was a dragon at rest, far from the storms of his past.
The most recent union, however, stirred Aenar's deepest curiosities: that of Rhaenyra and Laenor Velaryon. Their marriage, which had sealed the alliance with House Velaryon, had been consummated against the odds. Laenor's preferences were whispered in court gossip, but an aphrodisiac potion provided by Aenar had overcome that barrier on their wedding night. Beneath their bed, a circle of Valyrian runes had pulsed with subtle magic, ensuring fertility where nature might have faltered. Now, Rhaenyra carried twins, her pregnancy celebrated with fervor. Aenar pondered what was to come—who would these children be? In visions of an alternate fate, Rhaenyra's first son had been Jacaerys, sired by Harwin Strong, a boy of fire and resolve. But here, with Laenor's seed quickened by sorcery, would the boy still emerge as Jace, bearing the same spirit? Or would time weave something new, a divergence beyond his visions? The uncertainty intrigued him, a reminder that even a dragonlord could not master every current of fate.
Lost in these reflections, Aenar turned a corner into a dimly lit corridor, the air heavy with the scent of beeswax candles and nightshade from the nearby gardens. There, adjusting the folds of her emerald gown, stood Alicent Hightower. Their eyes met, and the weight of their shared history hung between them—an old flame, never fully extinguished, born of stolen moments amid the chaos of court, fueled by ambition and forbidden desire.
"Alicent," Aenar said, his voice low and commanding, stepping closer until the space between them thrummed with tension. "We have unfinished business to settle. Later, in my chambers. Do not keep me waiting."
Her cheeks flushed, a mix of apprehension and anticipation in her green eyes, but she nodded, a subtle smile curving her lips. "As you command, Your Grace."
He moved on, leaving the promise lingering like smoke in the air—a hook for what would come, when shadows deepened and secrets unfolded.
Interlude: The bold one
That night, in the royal apartments of the Red Keep, Aenar Targaryen—Dragon, The Healer, Knight of the Pest, and King of the Seven Kingdoms—stood by the window, his eyes tracing the veil of lights flickering in the city below, like stars fallen upon King's Landing. The silence of the night was broken by the soft creak of the door, a sound he recognized without turning. His keen perception, sharp as the flames he commanded, had sensed her presence the moment she left her own chambers. Alicent Hightower entered the room, cloaked in a dark cape that concealed her form, her hesitant steps carrying a tacit promise. Without raising his gaze, Aenar commanded in a deep, authoritative voice: "On your knees, Alicent. Before the armchair, as always."
She obeyed, the fabric of her cape brushing the floor as she knelt. Aenar, probing her mind with his secret gift of mind-reading, glimpsed the secrets she guarded. Alicent confided nearly everything to her father, Otto, but what transpired there, in that chamber, remained locked in her heart—a secret not even the gods could pry from her.
In the surface of her thoughts, Aenar saw the nights she shared with her husband, Viserys. He was a passable lover, diligent, but often tried to bite off more than he could chew, unable to meet the demands of two wives. This failure, Aenar realized, was the root of Viserys's inability to give Alicent the child Otto so fervently pressed for, an absence that gnawed at both their nerves. Alicent's frustration was a silent river, flowing beneath the facade of her composure.
Aenar walked to the armchair, the weight of his steps echoing in the silence, each movement laden with the gravity of a man who shaped destinies. He sat, his gaze fixed on her, and with a subtle gesture of his magic, the cape covering Alicent slipped to the floor, revealing her bare skin under the flickering candlelight. A faint smile curved his lips. "Bold," he murmured, noting the signs of a madness that, in another timeline, would consume her entirely, already beginning to bloom. In her mind, he saw the fragile justifications she had constructed: to Alicent, Aenar had an unquestionable claim over the women of House Targaryen. She saw herself as a dutiful wife, serving her husband's house by yielding to him. More intriguing still, he caught a plan forming in her mind—a desire to convince Aemma to join her, as if such an act could appease her conscience. These rationalizations, fragile as glass, had solidified in her mind as an unshakeable truth.
Alicent moved with feline grace, positioning herself between his legs. With deft fingers, she freed his member, her movements devoid of any shame, as if she stood before a sacred altar. Her tongue traced a slow, reverent path from base to tip, a ritual she performed with devotion. Aenar seized her by the hair, the auburn strands slipping through his fingers, and guided her to his mouth, moving her with firmness. After countless stolen nights and secret practice with an object crafted in its likeness, she had become masterful in the act, each gesture precise and calculated.
As she continued, the doors of the chamber opened again, and Queen Gael entered, her presence as imposing as a dragon at rest. She walked with deliberate steps to the armchair, seating herself on its arm beside Aenar, her dress brushing the polished wood. King and queen exchanged words about trivial court matters, but Gael's eyes, sharp as a beast's, fixed on Alicent from the moment she crossed the threshold. The weight of that gaze made Alicent tremble—she knew Gael could destroy her with a single gesture if she so wished. Yet, the fear mingled with a forbidden excitement, a fire that consumed her from within. It wasn't long before an orgasm surged through her, her body quaking as she continued to serve Aenar, who maintained firm control, guiding her movements with the strength of a Dragon.
After a time, Aenar reached his climax, his release flooding her throat with overwhelming intensity, the excess spilling in rivulets from the corners of her mouth and nose. Even so, he continued to move her, prolonging the moment through several thrusts. When he finally finished, after another wave of pleasure, he lifted her face. The sight was chaotic: tears, saliva, and his seed mingled on her skin, a portrait of surrender and disarray. Aenar, with a spark of humor, thought he should invent something like mascara to enhance that wild image in the future.
"Go," he commanded, his voice sharp as Valyrian steel. "My wife will keep me company tonight." Alicent, still trembling, covered herself with the cape and rose, rushing toward the door. Before she crossed the threshold, Aenar called out, his voice carrying an unexpected note of courtesy: "Alicent, congratulations to you and Viserys on your first child." She froze for a moment, her body tense, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and confusion, before fleeing the room, her cape billowing behind her. Aenar, with a subtle wave of his healing magic, erased the marks of her passage, leaving her pristine.
After her departure, Gael, who had maintained a stern expression, burst into a resounding laugh. Aenar raised an eyebrow. "Was it truly necessary to frighten her so?"
Gael leaned closer, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "A dragon is territorial, Aenar. If you didn't surrender to every woman who crosses your path, I wouldn't need to intimidate these 'innocent' maidens."
He laughed, the sound echoing through the chamber, laced with irony. If there was one thing Alicent Hightower was not, it was innocent.
Final Part: The House of the Dragon is United
In the year 114 AC, the Red Keep pulsed with renewed energy, as if the very air of King's Landing carried the anticipation of new beginnings. Aenar Targaryen—Dragon, The Healer, Knight of the Pest, and King of the Seven Kingdoms—stood in the royal apartments, his eyes tracing the veil of lights flickering in the city below, like stars fallen upon the capital. The imminent birth of Rhaenyra Targaryen's children had drawn her to the capital, a wise precaution given the shadows that loomed over Targaryen births. With Aenar, the Healer, nearby, any complication could be mitigated by the hands that had already saved lives on the brink of the abyss. The court buzzed with whispers of the impending arrival, and Aenar had prepared the halls to receive the royal family with all the splendor House Targaryen deserved.
In the solar of the Hand of the King, a spacious chamber adorned with ancient maps of Westeros and tapestries of Aegon the Conqueror's triumphs, Aenar sat at a polished oak table, discussing kingdom affairs with Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was. Rhaenys, her regal posture and eyes sharp as those of her dragon Meleys, leaned over a parchment detailing reports from the eastern borders. "The lords of the Vale grow restless over land disputes," she said, her voice firm but tinged with subtle weariness. "And the Iron Islands remain a latent threat. We must reinforce maritime patrols."
Aenar nodded, tracing a path on the map with his finger. "Agreed. I'll dispatch more ships from the Royal Fleet to patrol the waters near Dragonstone. But what of Essos? The Free Cities send emissaries, eager for alliances. Lys and Myr, in particular, see us as a counterweight to Volantis."
Rhaenys sighed, leaning back in her chair. Her face, etched with the lines of time and lost battles, softened as she thought of her family. "The gods have blessed my son with twins," she said, a note of frustration laced with a faint blush of shame coloring her cheeks. "Laenor is a good man, but he hesitates to repeat the ritual. The aphrodisiac potion you provided was a blessing, but he feels ashamed, thinking it a weakness to rely on such artifice again. I understand him, but… the gods seem to have compensated his reluctance with this double gift."
Aenar raised an eyebrow, a subtle smile curving his lips. He knew well the dilemmas of flesh and duty. "The gods, or perhaps the fate I've shaped. Laenor will do what's needed for the lineage. But don't press him too hard, Rhaenys. House Velaryon has already given us much."
Their conversation was cut short by the distant roar of a dragon, echoing through King's Landing like primordial thunder. Aenar and Rhaenys exchanged glances and moved to the window, where they saw Seasmoke, Laenor Velaryon's silver dragon, spiraling down over the Keep's courtyard. Laenor, clad in gleaming armor and a cape embroidered with his house's seahorse, dismounted with grace, waving to the approaching guards. His youthful face, marked by determination, glowed with the pride of impending fatherhood.
Soon after, the maritime horizon revealed the royal ship, *Sea Snake II*, captained by Corlys Velaryon's brother, who had recently returned from a brief absence. Corlys himself was back on his expedition across distant waters, by Aenar's command, seeking to strengthen overseas alliances. Rhaenyra Targaryen, radiant in a purple dress embroidered with dragons, disembarked with her entourage's aid, her prominent belly signaling the nearness of her birth. She waved to Laenor, who rushed to her, enveloping her in a protective embrace.
The Targaryen family gathered in the Great Hall, a spectacle of silver and gold beneath flaming banners. Aenar and his queen, Gael, approached first. "Welcome, niece," Aenar said, his voice resonant like a dragon's roar. "Congratulations on the blessing you carry. Fear not for the birth; I'll be at your side, and no harm will come." Gael, with a maternal smile, touched Rhaenyra's arm. "The gods smile upon you, child. May these twins bring glory to our house."
Viserys, his face flushed with joy, approached limping slightly, leaning on his cane. "My daughter!" he exclaimed, embracing Rhaenyra with emotion. "Congratulations on what's to come. You fill me with pride." Beside him, Aemma Arryn, Rhaenyra's mother, wiped tears of happiness, her voice trembling as she whispered, "My girl… may the Seven bless you and these little ones."
Meanwhile, Viserys pulled Rhaenyra aside, discreetly pointing to Alicent Hightower, whose green dress revealed a subtly rounded belly. "Alicent is also expecting our child," he murmured, eyes shining. "I informed her by letter, but now you see it with your own eyes." Rhaenyra froze for a moment, a spark of distrust crossing her face. Alicent, with whom she had once shared confidences, now seemed distant, but beneath that facade, a secret bound them: both had been entangled with Aenar before their marriages, and neither intended to stop now. This forbidden tie prevented them from becoming true enemies. Rhaenyra forced a smile and extended her hand to Alicent. "A truce, then," she said softly. "For the sake of our families." Alicent nodded, relieved, and they exchanged a knowing glance.
The following days brimmed with preparations, and Rhaenyra's birth arrived without dramatic fanfare. In the royal chamber, surrounded by midwives and with Aenar vigilant, she gave birth naturally, without complications. The twins emerged crying, healthy and vigorous. The eldest, a boy with silver hair and violet eyes—pure Valyrian traits, unlike his canonical counterpart clouded by doubts of paternity—was named Jacaerys Velaryon. The girl, bearing the same ethereal heritage, was named Alysanne, in homage to Rhaenyra's great-grandmother and Aenar's mother, a legendary queen whose wisdom still echoed in the halls of power.
The news spread like wildfire, and Aenar decreed a grand tournament to honor the births. The court filled with nobles from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms: lords from the North in thick furs, knights from the Vale in gleaming armor, and merchants from Dorne in exotic silks. The tournament field, erected on the banks of the Blackwater, was a spectacle of colors: flaming Targaryen banners, barded horses, and sharpened lances. The reunited family occupied the royal pavilion, a sea of silver hair and lilac eyes.
Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince and Aenar's nephew, had arrived with his wives: Lysara Rogare, the Lysene beauty who had given him the heir Daemon, and Laena Velaryon, cradling their recently born twin daughters in her arms. The girls, with delicate features and soft cries, drew every eye. "Look at them, uncle," said Daemon to Aenar, clapping him on the shoulder. "My lineage thrives." Aenar smiled, observing the scene: Viserys laughing with Aemma, Rhaenyra nursing the twins beside Laenor, Alicent conversing with Rhaenys. Even the Velaryons were present, reinforcing their bonds. "The House of the Dragon is united," Aenar thought, a genuine warmth filling his chest. "In this timeline, there is no dance of dragons, only harmony."
To further lift his spirits, nothing like eliminating a subtle threat. His eyes turned to Otto Hightower, the snake in the garden. With false sadness in mind, Aenar thought, "It's time to bid farewell to the most faithful servant to the kingdom and crown." Using his secret gift, he lightly damaged Otto's brain—enough to trigger a fulminant stroke in a few days, after the tournament's end. He wouldn't tarnish such a joyful moment.
His gaze returned to the joust, where Ser Criston Cole, in immaculate armor, unhorsed Prince Daemon with a precise lance. The crowd roared, and Aenar laughed heartily. "Some things truly never change," he thought, satisfied with fate's balance.
The tournament was more than jousts. Archery contests saw young lords vying for glory, while a fierce melee left the field spattered with blood and sweat. Aenar watched it all, his mind drifting through recent years. He had saved Aemma, reshaped marriages, and now reaped the rewards: a strong family, free of the cracks that once led to war. Galadriel, his two-year-old daughter, played at Gael's feet, her slit eyes captivating courtiers. "The future is ours," Aenar murmured to himself.
At night, banquets lit the halls. Wines from the Arbor flowed, and bards sang ballads of dragons. Daemon raised a toast: "To House Targaryen, united by fire!" All echoed, and Aenar felt the peace he had forged. But vigilance remained key; Otto's end was near, and the kingdom would prosper.
The days stretched into festivities, with fireworks illuminating the sky, heralding a new era. Rhaenyra, recovered, danced with Laenor, while Jacaerys and Alysanne slept soundly. Alicent, touching her belly, whispered to Rhaenyra, "Our secrets bind us." Their truce was real, forged in forbidden fire.
From his high throne, Aenar saw it all. The House of the Dragon, once fractured, was now whole. With Otto's fall imminent, the path ahead was clear.
Epilogue: Shadows of Faith
In the shadowed cloisters of the Great Sept, where the air hung heavy with the scent of incense and wax from a thousand flickering candles, Septa Maegelle Targaryen moved with the grace of a woman untouched by time. At 52 years of age, she appeared no older than a maiden in her prime—her skin smooth and luminous, her silver-gold hair cascading in waves that caught the light like threads of moonlight, and her lilac eyes holding a depth that could ensnare souls. The people of King's Landing whispered of miracles, calling her the Blessed Saint of the Seven, a living testament to divine favor. The leaders of the Faith had all but canonized her, elevating her to a position of reverence that bordered on worship. Little did they know that her eternal youth was no gift from the gods, but a secret borne from her forbidden liaisons with her brother, King Aenar Targaryen. His seed, infused with ancient magic, coursed through her veins, halting the ravages of age and binding her to him in ways the Faith could never comprehend. She was his sister, his confidante, and his secret lover, a bond forged in the fires of their shared bloodline and hidden from the world.
Maegelle had been summoned to this clandestine meeting under the guise of spiritual counsel, but she knew better. The High Septon, an elderly man with a face etched like cracked parchment and eyes burning with fanatic zeal, had gathered his most trusted advisors in a secluded chamber deep within the sept. The room was austere, its walls adorned with frescoes of the Seven-Pointed Star and statues of the Crone, the Warrior, and the Mother gazing down with stern marble eyes. Around a heavy oaken table sat a dozen high-ranking septons and septas, their robes pristine white, embroidered with golden threads symbolizing the Faith's unyielding light. Yet, beneath their pious exteriors, Maegelle could sense the undercurrents of ambition and lust—especially lust.
Her attire marked her elevated status. No longer did she wear the simple gray robes of an ordinary septa; instead, her gown was a flowing garment of purest silk, dyed in the sacred hues of the Seven—subtle bands of blue for the Father, green for the Mother, and gold for the Smith. Though chaste in design, with a high neck and long sleeves that concealed her arms, the fabric clung subtly to her curves, accentuating the swell of her breasts, the taper of her waist, and the graceful sway of her hips. It was a dress befitting a saint, one that elevated her above the common clergy, yet it invited the very sins the Faith preached against. Over it, she wore the traditional septa's cape, hooded and modest, a reminder of her vows even as her presence stirred forbidden desires.
As she entered the chamber, the assembled leaders rose in deference, their murmurs of "Blessed One" and "Saint Maegelle" filling the air like a hymn. She inclined her head modestly, allowing her cape to slip slightly, revealing the elegant lines of her gown. Immediately, she felt their gazes—hungry, lingering stares that roamed her form with barely concealed greed. The High Septon's eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked to her chest before darting away. A portly septon from the Westerlands licked his lips unconsciously, while a younger advisor from Oldtown shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his cheeks flushing. A septa from the Reach averted her eyes, but not before a flicker of envy crossed her features. Maegelle suppressed a shudder of disgust; these men, who preached purity and asceticism, were no better than beasts in heat. The septas, too, harbored jealousy masked as piety. Yet, inwardly, she rejoiced. Not because she enjoyed their leers—they revolted her to her core—but because their distraction played perfectly into Aenar's grand design. The conversation unfolding here would give him the final threads needed to unravel the Faith from within, destroying it before it could threaten the throne.
"Saint Maegelle," the High Septon began, his voice quavering with age but laced with authority as he gestured for her to sit at the head of the table. "We are honored by your presence. The Seven have truly blessed us with your guidance in these dark times."
Maegelle took her seat, folding her hands demurely in her lap, her expression one of serene piety. "The honor is mine, Your Holiness. The Seven speak through us all, and I am but their humble vessel."
The High Septon nodded, his wrinkled hands clasping a seven-pointed star amulet around his neck. He leaned forward, his advisors hanging on his every word. "Indeed, you are more than that. The people revere you as a saint, untouched by the corruption that plagues our realm. Your youth, your beauty—they are signs from the gods themselves. And now, we must call upon that divine favor for a greater purpose."
Maegelle tilted her head slightly, feigning curiosity. "What purpose do you speak of, Your Holiness? I serve the Faith and the realm as the Seven command."
The High Septon exchanged glances with his council, their eyes gleaming with conspiracy. He lowered his voice, as if the walls themselves might betray them. "The throne is tainted, Saint Maegelle. Your brother—King Aenar—wields vile magic, consorting with the red demons of Essos. Those accursed dragons are not beasts of the gods but abominations spawned from the pits of hell. The monarchy is possessed, in league with these infernal forces. We have seen the signs: unnatural healings, eternal youth, and whispers of sorcery that mock the natural order."
One of the septons, a gaunt man from the Riverlands, interjected with fervor. "The people suffer under this tyranny! Taxes for dragon pits, wars fueled by fire and blood. The Seven demand justice!"
A portly advisor from the Westerlands nodded vigorously, his jowls quivering. "The red priests from the east spread their heresy, and the king allows it. We must act before the realm falls to darkness."
Maegelle's heart raced, but her face remained a mask of contemplative doubt. She knew of Aenar's plans—how he had infiltrated the Faith with spies, sowed seeds of discord among the septons, and prepared to crush any rebellion before it could ignite. This meeting was the culmination, the proof he needed to justify purging the corrupt elements. "Such accusations are grave," she said softly, her voice trembling just enough to convey hesitation. "Aenar is my blood, my king. To stand against him... it would be treason, a sin against the crown the gods have anointed."
The High Septon reached across the table, his hand hovering near hers without touching—though his eyes betrayed a desire to do so. "Not treason, Blessed One, but salvation. We will rally the people, depose these monarchs corrupted by foul sorcery and their demonic allies from the east. Once done, we shall establish a realm governed by the Faith, guiding all the poor souls of the Seven Kingdoms to true peace—a peace that can only be achieved by following the Seven Who Are One, the only true gods."
His advisors murmured in agreement, their voices rising in a chorus of righteous indignation. "The Crone grants wisdom, the Warrior strength—we shall be the instruments of divine will!"
The younger septon from Oldtown leaned in, his voice fervent. "Imagine it, Saint Maegelle—a theocracy where the septons and septas lead, free from the taint of dragonblood. No more wars for power, no more magic defying the natural order. The people will follow us, for they see the signs of corruption in the king's eternal vigor and his unholy alliances."
"And you, Saint Maegelle," the High Septon continued, his tone turning persuasive, almost pleading, "as the chosen saint, blessed by the Seven, it is your duty to stand with us. After deposing the evil king on the throne, you shall rule in his stead—with our guidance, of course. A future of brilliance awaits, where the Faith leads, and sin is eradicated."
Maegelle allowed a long pause, her lilac eyes downcast as if wrestling with her conscience. She could feel the weight of their stares intensifying, the lust in their eyes mingling with their fanaticism. The portly septon shifted again, his breath quickening under his robes. The younger advisor's hand trembled on the table. It disgusted her—these hypocrites who cloaked their base desires in holy words. Their plan was folly; Aenar would crush them like insects. But she played her part, hesitating, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.
Finally, she lifted her gaze, her voice steady but laced with feigned reluctance. "If this is the will of the Seven... then I accept. For the sake of the realm and the true faith, I will stand with you."
The chamber erupted in relieved sighs and fervent prayers. The High Septon beamed, clasping his hands in triumph. "The gods rejoice! With you at our side, Saint Maegelle, victory is assured."
As the meeting adjourned, Maegelle rose, pulling her cape tighter around her shoulders to shield herself from their lingering gazes. She excused herself with a bow, gliding from the room like a phantom. Outside, in the cool corridors of the sept, she allowed a small, secret smile to grace her lips. The trap was set. Aenar would dismantle them piece by piece, and the Faith would burn for its hubris. Internally, she already saw them as dead men, their ambitions crumbling like ash in dragonfire.
But as she walked through the sept's halls, passing devotees who knelt in prayer at her approach, a flicker of something deeper stirred within her. The magic that kept her young was a double-edged sword, a reminder of her bond with Aenar—a bond that transcended sibling love into something profane and intoxicating. She could still feel the echo of their last encounter, the way his touch ignited her, the power flowing through her like liquid fire. It was sinful, yes, but in a world where gods and kings played games of destruction, what was one more secret? The Faith's downfall would be her gift to him, and in return, she would remain eternal, a saint in name but a dragon at heart.
The epilogue faded into the night, the Great Sept standing silent under the stars, unaware that its foundations were already cracking under the weight of impending doom.