Chapter:

Dark Burnt Honey

Part Two


Warnings/Tags: Size Kink, incest, thigh riding, smut, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, loss of virginity, mentions of war, death and nightmares.


Maegor Targaryen & Haraella Targaryen


IV

Things became easier, in a sense, after that night for Haraella and Maegor. Sometimes, when they broke fast in the morning, when the family ate together when agendas aligned, Haraella would linger in her seat, long after the platters and silverware were whisked away, and she would see sunlight in with hushed conversation over cuts of cold meat and bread with him.

And if her head dipped a little too close for propriety, she was quick to rectify her position.

It wasn't attraction, she told herself, it was attention.

When someone spoke to you it was only polite to meet their eye.

Really, it was.

Maegor, surprisingly, had a rather witty dry sense of humour that was certainly misunderstood for insensitivity by most.

Haraella found it refreshing, his readiness to say what others could or would not.

Occasionally, when Haraella was not flying or helping her father negotiate terms with Dorne, she would find herself outside by the stables, in the little nook Maegor had hewn into an arena.

Rogar Baratheon had seemed shocked the day Maegor had laughed to the heavens, when Haraella had tried lifting his training axe and had only succeeded in denting the cobble stones.

Maybe she made Maegor's days a little brighter like he did hers.

And possibly she liked the laughter a little too much.

And perhaps she played upon it, this foolery, pretending to drop daggers, and break bow strings, and knock off pommels from sword handles, if only for Maegor to laugh a little louder, laugh a little longer, laugh a little brighter.

She was being a good sister, that was all.

What sibling would not like to see their brother laugh and smile more?

Not one Haraella ever wished to be.

Every so often, they rode together on the back of Kilgarrah. Maegor had no mount of his own, although the dragonpit was writhe with whelps and fledglings, evidently Balerion and Kilgarrah had some late-night activities of their own, and he said there was to be but one dragon for him.

He was the only other person Kilgarrah would allow upon her back, hissing and spitting at any others who dared too close, even her mother, Lily.

It became a passing joke in the Red Keep. Where Princess Haraella goes the looming shadow falls.

And at times, more often than not as the days passed, Haraella found herself edging across his chamber floor to huddle beneath the furs of his bed. If Visenya's Kingsguards noticed anything, their parents too, they said nothing, did nothing.

Why would they?

It was innocent. They slept. Sometimes they talked and then slept. Once, Maegor had read an old Valyrian fable to her, and then they slept. Nothing more.

There would never be anything more to it.

Haraella didn't want anything more.

And if she kept telling herself that, one day she was going to bloody well believe it.


V

Haraella dreamt she was on a ship, swaying out on the wide-open sea, scaling up a flagpole to the sails above.

It was a lovely dream, the only type of dream she had when slumbering next to her brother.

However, there was no ship, there was no sea, and this was no dream. Yet, there was rocking.

She must have turned in her sleep, rolled to press her nose to the peppercorn scent at a mast that could be a throat, and her shift had ridden up, over her legs and hips, hustled at the dip of her pale stomach.

Her hips swivelled, tossing, just as the rope between her legs moved.

Or was it a thigh?

Haraella wasn't too sure. She was still half asleep, still hazy, caught between ships and sea and flesh and heat, so she did it again, swivelled to climb higher, to get that grip she needed, felt a drop and a drive between her legs like a tide laps at a shore, moaning seafoam and want.

Wood creaked… It did not groan…

Hands at her waist tightened, fingers almost long enough to encircle, drew her further up the ship, up the mast, up the thigh, to the crow's nest or hip, pulling her down harder, faster, and her cold toes wiggled when the lights behind her eyes began to flicker to life like Christmas lights.

In her dream, the skies lit with lightening leaving behind a trail of aurora borealis.

The green and the purple, like her and Maegor's eyes-

Her eyes blinked open as the thigh beneath tensed, and she came eye to eye with a stubble shaded neck.

No… Definitely no ship fashioned from fairy lights.

The hands at her waist flexed, readying to push her away, to pull her impossibly closer, a bob of an Adam's apple, the bare flesh beneath her hands took a breath quaking awake before everything stilled.

It seemed they had both awoken at the same time.

Had Maegor been on a ship made from starlight too?

Or something infinitely more physical?

Something with sticky fingers, and sweet sweat and-

They could pretend to still be asleep, beg ignorance in the morning and the day and the life after this night. It would be easy. They would hold still and wait out the few hours till dawn, excruciating hours of mingling dread and unsated need, where Haraella would pretend to yawn and say, gosh, cheers for the bed, Maegor, see you later and hightail it out of there.

Hightail it straight from the Red Keep.

She had heard the North was pleasant, as pleasant as it could be, around this time of year.

She had spent a whole year living on the run once, jumping from forest to forest.

She could do it again.

They would spend the rest of their lives not meeting eyes over the dining table, but it would be normal. Right. Sickening.

The thought made her feel sick.

Anew, the fingers flexed, and Haraella understood once more.

You're choice.

And it was.

No prophecy, no war, no world in need of saving. Only Haraella in the dark with someone who made her feel safe.

That was intimacy.

Not kisses or smiles or sweet nothings ghosting along goosepimpled flesh, but care, care to hold her hand gently, care to wrap her in furs, care to make it all her choice.

Her fingers braced on the calm chest, felt a heartbeat pounding beneath the stretch, calm no more as she tentatively rolled her hips.

A groan shattered the air, not of seafoam and want but dark burnt honey. The fingers squeezed at her waist, large enough to hook into her ribcage, and the thigh below drove again, sank stronger.

"That's it… Just like that…"

His voice was black, as black and bottomless as the night outside, so close she could feel the heat of his breath skim the top of her head, tussle her curls, as another type of heat entirely began to flower between her legs, between his and her legs, tangled, twisted. Thorny.

The type of rose that pricks a finger if plucked.

Haraella did not pick that rose.

She ripped up it from the dark, secret soil right from the root.

She didn't know how, but her ankles turn, lock, just as Maegor rolled.

Not over her, but onto his back, as if he knows.

Knows she would have freaked like a filly if he had rolled on top, covered her, blocked her into the dark.

She'd been terribly claustrophobic since that damned under stairs cupboard.

Couldn't bear the thought of being trapped anywhere again and-

Oh-

He dragged her with him, over, legs still entwined, and there was a moment, just one, as gravity did its thing, and she sank on the thigh between her legs and the friction burned.

Hot.

Right there, between them, as if someone had set fire to where their flesh met and sparked.

She swept her hips anew, across the wide expanse of thigh, and-

Yes.

Fire.

It was sugar-scented madness after that.


VI

Need, sizzling and intoxicating, and want, sweet and sour, and something that blazes so bright it nearly blinded Haraella.

That's Maegor's touch, she thought.

Something that blinded.

The shift is pulled up over her head, and Maegor lost his breaches and his smallclothes with a rip, and it was still too warm, still too hot, still not enough.

It was hard to tell where she ended, and he began, and if there would be anything of them left after this fire had burned its course.

They're everywhere.

Thumb shaped bruises on hips.

Pink scratches down a heavy arm.

He was up, and she was down, and suddenly he was dripping sharp searing kisses across her chest, branding her skin with his lips.

He growled as her fingers threaded through his clipped shorn hair, tugging none too gently.

The noise does something to her, made her belly plunge and turn like a wave she had no hopes of cresting, made the burn between her legs splutter like fresh coals, and she was lost.

They crash against one another.

She nestled in his lap, he loomed, her shadow, her brother-

The man that made her feel safe.

Fingertips snaked up her thighs, down to the place that ached so nicely, just as her own slipped down, curious.

He was heavy in her hands.

Heavy and hot and lengthy.

She had to use both hands, just enough to grip, to hold, and Maegor hissed low and long when her fingers tightened just so.

She joined him when there was a sudden brush between her legs by thick fingers, and the world ignited in those aurora borealis hues. Her grip stiffened, jerked up before she could think, and the groan that came sounded as if it were wept.

Tentatively, she stroked downwards.

Another groan, another swipe, and sweet, delightful fire.

It was like the arena again, a tit-for-tat, a give and take, and Merlin-

A large hand braced against her hip, helped her roll just so, as the other sank in tighter, sweeps, dips in.

It burns for a moment, it hurts, a stinging stretch, as something aching is filled.

Her wrist twists on the next upstroke, and Maegor's hips stutter beneath her, bowing up, chasing her hands.

"Gods!"

He sounded broken, as broken as she felt, and she did it again, and again, and again, twist, twist, twisting herself closer, under his skin, in his blood, in his fire.

The finger inside slips and slides, in and out, searching and-

"fuck-"

It presses against something, something Haraella had not known was there, and she was arching nearer, rolling deeper, holding tighter.

There was a knot in her belly, deep between her legs, a growing band that felt cruel, and wild, and so very fucking good.

Faster.

Deeper.

Harder.

There, right there, and-

A thumb moves somewhere, sneaks up, brushes, and-

And she bows and breaks, just as Maegor does, and something hot splashes up the pale expanse of her stomach, across her breast, searing hot and wet and marking her.

"Haraella."

Her legs tremble, her spine locks, and suddenly she sees stars, and endless skies, and her toes coil as if she were standing on the sands of time and-

A creak of wood from behind the open curtained bed.

Abruptly, Haraella was crashing back into her body, limbless, sagging, sweaty.

Incinerated.

She turned.

A shadow by the wall, by the ajar bedroom door.

She knows those lilac eyes, even as the sticky voiceless mess she currently is.

She knows those silver curls too.

"Shit!"

Haraella tried to move, to leap away from the equally boneless body of Maegor, scrambled for the silken sheets and the furs, but her muscles don't cooperate, jellied, just as Maegor blinked over to what had caught her attention, managing to sweep them both under cover.

It's too late by then, of course.

Aenys has already gotten an eyeful and darted right out the door before either could do much more.


NEXT CHAPTER: In a world where having a Soulmate means loosing a part of your senses until you manage to find one another, Haraella Targaryen has lived a life of frigid winter, never warm, never knowing the taste of heat. Oberyn Martell, likewise, has lived a life of never, not once, seeing the sky without passing out. A cold Targaryen is a lonely being, and a Martell who cannot see the home of the sun is something tragic, but both make do… Until Elia Martell gets betrothed to Rhaegar Targaryen, and suddenly the world is both brighter and hotter than either of them ever thought it could be.

OR

The one where Oberyn warms Haraella down to her bones, and Haraella makes Oberyn see stars.

OR

The one where Rhaegar and Elia are just trying to finish their betrothal banquet and instead get an eyeful of the Targaryen and Martell engaged but not betrothed.

OR

Oberyn and Haraella can't keep their hands to themselves. That's it.


A.N: This Maegor shot has one more part to go before it is done, and I will give a little heads some… Aenys has his moment… 😉. I hope you are all looking forward to that, and of course, the next chapter which is the requested Oberyn/Fem!Harry one.

Of course, if any of you have a Prompt, please send them in! This fic is being used to stretch my writing and test what I can do in the smut arena, so all prompting is welcome!

Thank you all for the reviews, favourites, and follows, and as always, if you have a moment, don't forget to drop a word or two, and I will hopefully see you all soon. ~AlwaysEatTheRude21