Maegor I Targaryen x sister reader
Maegor Targaryen faces troubles after an unexpected kiss—A violent young man and the troublesome feelings as he begins seeing his insipid little sister as not so little anymore, as something greater.
Warning: Targcest, whorehouses/brothels, mentions of nudity, Maegor sister is just as strange as he is.
NOTE: I tried to retain some of his cruelty, while still trying to make his weird incest obsessionwith his own sister mildly believable with his character. Comments, likes, reblogs and constructive criticism and such are very much appreciated!!! (lowkey not proofread)
The morning sun beats down on the window of Maegors chambers, casting golden patterns upon the lavish covers of his bed, bright enough to keep him from his sleep. Things are kept neat and tidy, Darksister leaning on the wall by the door. His handkerchief—his sisters, if he was being truthful, was crumpled in his grip, almost suffocated by the sheer pressure of his hold. Silken and soft, a gift for a nameday past. He presses it to his nose, inhales it like the memories of that day shall come back with it, curls around himself almost hoping the small piece of fabric cradle him back. You we so sweet then, sweeter than you are now, but he doesn’t mind. It doesn’t suit a lady to remain a little girl forever. He’d pushes you to the cold floor then, smiled when you sniffled and cried and followed him around.
The bed creaks beneath his weight, soft sheets kissing his skin as he tosses and turns, hurls the small piece of silk across the room. Watches it catch the air, flutter upon the ground like a butterfly in flight.
Mother stalls our marriage, Maegor thinks. Why else are we not wed yet? Why else must she wait so long for me?
The street of silk had sung to him the night before, whispered its sweet songs into his ear, made him leap off the ship of his restraint into unknown waters. The head lady offered him his pick of the litter, girls or women, skinny or curvy, pale or tanned. Clothes—if he could even call them that, seemingly in tatters, as if split at every second stitch. Exposing an inch there, an inch here. The bud of breast, the swell of a hip. He’d seen too many noble ladies and their high collared gowns to grow used to whores and working girls and the shitstained rags they called garments.
Too quick to undress, too quick to accept payment. He felt no satisfaction, not the chest swelling pride he feels winning a tourney, hearing maiden squeal at his gallant victories. They been too loud, to dull. Empty headed and witless. Seen their eyes glimmer in pleasure at the clanking of coins in their palms.
“My dragon, how generous.” A woman drawled, seemingly tipsy off cheap wine, bare and pliant, silver wig ajar on a seemingly pretty face—if she were truly silver haired and not so obscene, he’d have found her pleasant. “You spare no expense on your pleasure, i see.” She drawls, thin finger dipping down the curve of his abdomen. He knew expensive wine when he tasted it, this fermented piss in a goblet certainly wasn’t close to wine, he could smell it on her breath.
“You seemed in desperate need of it.” his hand caught hers, shoved it away rather violently. He tossed her another golden dragon upon the tiled floor, grinned when the silver-haired whore practically got on her knees to scamper for it as he dressed.
“For better wine.” He’d said, lips almost unmoving in his words. They always said his eyes were judgmental, sharp in a way that could dismantle people. He almost relished in the way people avoided his gaze when he left the whorehouse, as if he’d won something, perhaps he head.
An idea of what to dream of at night.
“Where have you been?” A voice cuts through the quiet shuffling in his room, a gentle voice, gentler than Visenyas, too easygoing to be a servant.
“Good morrow, sister,” Maegor sits up in mild displeasure, eyes adjusting to the light. You may have caught him with a handkerchief to his nose, its of no importance, he discreetly shoves it under his pillow. “It’s unfit for a lady to be seen entering my chambers, or leaving them, for that matter. Mother forbade you from such antics when you were merely a girl.”
Maegor runs a calloused hand over his face, watches the way your gaze falls from his tired face to his skin. No marks, not a scratch, not a kiss. He almost preens in satisfaction when you seem to visibly loosen. “Mother cannot punish me when she does not know.” You tilt up your chin, assessing, watching Maegor rouse himself from sleep. Muscles rippling when he gets himself on his feet. “I can certainly tell her.” He said.
“I can tell her of your…your antics.”
“My antics?” Maegor scoffed, tugging a dark colored tunic over his head, slipping his arms into the sleeves, almost laughing in your face. “And when mother questions you of how you came to such information, what shall you say then?”
“My handmaiden informed me.”
“You’re prattling like a child, threatening me with the fact you shall tell our mother i visited a whorehouse? Don’t be a fool.”
“You did visit the street of silk, my sources seem to be correct.”
“What of it?” His voice is dismissive, temper close to flaring already. His lips curl, the displeasure twisted on your face is a sight for sore eyes. Perhaps the kiss wasn’t a mistake, you’ve never been so invested in him before. “You concern yourself with which whores i lay with? You’re wasting your breath.”
“It’s not proper, it’s vile and unbecoming of you—“
“Enough of your prattle, you bore me.”
“I did not seem to bore you so at the celebration of your knighthood.” You grinned, sly and conniving and for a moment Maegors jaw tightened. No, that kiss was most definitely a mistake. His hand clenches around nothing, tight enough it could go numb if held too long, and the catty look in your eye nearly sets him off. You’ve never been so daring, always sincere, kind to everyone, all smiles and happy things. He must bring out this horrid side of you. Perhaps hes seen so little of you, and you’ve always been this way. He wants to kiss you again.
“Leave at once before i cave your pretty face in.” He thinks back to the brothel, to the sultry glance of the woman curled against his side. She most certainly wouldn’t have dared to curl her lips at him in such a way, enough to set his chest ablaze. You leave, giggling like a child, proud as if you’d won some grand tourney. You’d won this time, he knows it. Gotten under his skin, stoked the embers of his temper. Has no one ever told you not to toy with dragons, for they are fire incarnate?
Maegor spends the day pondering amidst chatty lordlings and the beating sun against his head. How his sweet sister, in this case her handmaiden, found out of his adventure to the brothel last night. He’s surrounded by young lords and squires, but they’re not truly his friends. They must have told, heart fluttering at the sight of the princesses close friends enough to loosen their tongues and spout whatever came to mind first.
You passed above the training yard, a gaggle of ladies in similar fashions and colors behind you, leaned against the awning and peered down at the swordsmanship before you. He saw one of the lords, a Redwyne squire to some knight, turn their head up, looking at the girl whose arm yours was threaded through—that one seemed to be your close friend, so he cannot punish her, but he can punish the dolt who flapped his tongue at her.
Lovesick fool, betraying my confidence for that thing?
The handmaidens look away when his gaze pierces them, mutter in quiet whispers with each-other, the gasps come later when the sparring gets out of hand. There is a danger in associating with Maegor, his temper isn’t predictable, perhaps if it was any other day he wouldn’t have cared about this little scene. Once he’d killed a palfrey for kicking at him, slicked at the stable boy who ran at its cries.
Beating the Redwyne bloody is too easy, his mop of curly red hair stuck to his cheek, half limp in the Targaryens hold, pleading at the prince that he concedes, that his sword is halfway across the yard and he hasn’t hit back since it fell.
He looks up at you, at your scowl, the gentle hand curling against your friend’s arm as if to comfort her for the bloody scene before her—To apologize. ‘Im sorry my brother beat your lover bloody’, or ‘Im sorry my betrothed made a fool of your beloved’. He suddenly notices it in your eyes, a glint of something ferocious, not an apology, no. You do not wince at the lordlings face ajar, caked in the dirt of the training yard, you scowl, deep and beautiful.
Angry he has beat you, that your little game is not so fun anymore. You may have won in the morning, but this encounter is his victory. No other success could compare. Not even you complaining to Visenya about it.
“Hush,” She’d told you, furrowed her brow in a manner that made all other words stop from leaving your lips.
“He beat him on purpose, to best me!”
“I was horribly mistaken for thinking distance was the answer between you two—like children, you bicker.” Her hand tightened in Maegors hair, brought your foreheads together as if to jostle reason into both of you. “Is this how i raised you?” your scalp stung at the grip of your mothers hair against your carefully braided crown, Maegor clenched his jaw, succumbed to the scolding. “My dragons—fighting over whores and handmaidens? To keep you apart was a foolish notion, to stall your wedding even more foolish.”
She finally lets go, Maegor swears she’s torn out hair. “It was foolish, your beloved daughter has lost her morals. She’s too far gone, mother. You ought find me a better bride.” His sneer is vicious, eyes narrowing in disapproval. Your cunning has only made you more interesting—has only made him more angry. For wanting it, wanting you. It makes his head throb.
“I’ve lost my morals? Oh, brother, you truly are—“
“Enough!” Visenyas voice booms, her footsteps echo almost angrily against the stone floor. The room seems to coil around her, as if the tapestries and scrolls and books all breathe through her. Your cheeks burn in embarrassment, humiliation at being scolded like a babe, fingers curling upon your rich violet skirts. The picture of a princess.
“You are more than this act, you two are more than this game, the way you dance around eachother like clucking hens—“ She grabs Maegor by the forearm, tugs him and he relents. He could stay planted, with the way he’s filled out, grown stronger, bigger than you’d think,though mother has a way of commanding attention. She’d wrangle a bull with her hands tied behind her back, if she was made to. “You are a king—blood of my blood, and what have you to show for it? Your strength is meaningless, you have no tact, no guile.“
“And you, my only daughter—surrounding yourself with flocks of sheep. Are you a sheep?” Her finger finds you, ornamented in a single grand ring as she points at you. You almost shrink beneath her gaze, both children suffocating under the scrutiny of your mother. Prophecy, blood, honor.
Maegor seems perpetually angry any time hes scolded, like he’s failed her. Perhaps he has. He slips from Visenyas grip with a sharp tug. Why have Dark Sister at his hip if he cannot do the one thing he was born to be?
You swallow thickly, allow yourself to be tugged closer to your brother even as he retreat. Your answer comes quick, defensive. “No, mother! im no sheep.”
“You demean yourself, daughter. You are a marvel, and what do you do but prance and preen and giggle? You are not a sheep, you are not even the Shepard—you are a dragon.” Her calloused hands clasp yours with Maegors, he cringes at her words.
“On the first of the next moon, you will be wed. This has gone on long enough.”
Maegors fingers stiffen above your hand, almost imperceptibly. The next moon, its beginning is in seven days. The thought of being married makes his stomach churn. He remembers the whore, the silver wig, tries to toss the memory aside.
“Understood,” Your voice comes out quieter, ashamed, chin bowed in acceptance as your mother lets you two go. Both of you quickly step back, Visenyas eyes narrow. “Look at you two, like strangers. I thought time would make you grow fonder of eachother, but distance has teeth.“
Maegor is quiet, back straight as a blade as he stands there, the toe of his boot tapping against the floor. Quiet protest, anger maybe. His palms feel clammy with the revelation of your wedding day. You, him, married. He could gag.
“You’re excused. Do not fail me again.”
Note: sorry is this is short, i’ve been on a bit of a slump. Any comments/likes are much appreciated!! I can’t tell if Maegor or Visenya are too ooc.
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