The Dragonslayer's Dilemma
Copyright© 2026 by Dragon Cobolt
Chapter 3
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 3 - In a kingdom of magic and myth, there were two twins - Adrin and Lyrian - who excelled in the arts of sword and sorcery respectively. Their younger sister, Miryan, grew into a beautiful woman and caught a covetous eye. Unfortunately, the eye rested in the skull of a terrible dragon, who captured Miryan from her home and flew to the far mountains. Now, with the kingdom in uproar, Adrin and Lyrian must quest to save their sister But one must remember the old adage about those who fight dragons...
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/Ma Mult Consensual Hypnosis Reluctant Romantic Gay BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction High Fantasy Paranormal Furry Were animal Cheating Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Gang Bang Group Sex Harem Polygamy/Polyamory Anal Sex Transformation
It is known by most that dragons can breathe many things – fire, acid, screams that turn men into stone. It is known by few that such things are not truly breath, not as men know such things. There is no essence of the soul to it, no fundamental nature. A dragon breathes as a liar speaks, to unmake and claim the world as their property. And so, as Aheddighast belched his wash of pink fire, Adrin did what any good men does when they face a liar: He twisted aside, kneeing the prince of horses into a vaulting leap in that vast chamber. The flames scorched the floor, leaving it awash in bubbling wax and hissing spite, while Lyrian tumbled from the back of his brother’s horse and landed upon his own two feet. His dream battle with the dragon had left him utterly drained – and yet, not helpless.
“His weakness, my brother!” Lyrian called out. “It’s-”
The vast tail of Aheddighast, Sin Breather, whipped across the room and forced Lyrian to lift his own staff above his head and call out one of the ten words of command. The marble beneath his feet cracked and the tail rebounded off thin air that had become as hard as steel. Drained further still, Lyrian fell to his knees, gasping, while Aheddighast turned to look upon Adrin, who had cast aside his lance – it had caught some of the dragon’s flames and was now a wilting thing. He drew his sword, nameless as it was, and held it above his head.
“Prepare to die, wyrm!”
Aheddighast boomed a laugh that shook the room. His bulk slithered along the walls – moving more as a shadow than a living thing – and he swept towards Adrin’s side. A claw blow struck and though Adrin lifted his sword to try and interpose his weapon between the attack and himself, what could a human man, even a man such as Prince Adrin, do against the hate of a dragon. The talons split open the belly of the prince of horses, and that was the end of his line, and all horsekind was lessened from that day furhter – even the unicorns would pay their respect in time.
Adrin, though, had no time to grieve. He had only the moment of battle, to roll, to come to his feet and to charge between the legs of the mighty beast. It was here that the harsh lessons of the Battle of the Pass came to mind. Many a knight was slain not by the heroic hewing that was so favored by bards and historians – instead, the common killer was sucking mud, hammers denting helms, and daggers sinking into the joints of armpits and groin. And so, Adrin thrust up into the pendulous sack of the dragon, and pierced his most precious organ.
Aheddighast shirked in shock, pain, and rage and with a frantic reach, he grabbed onto Adrin and hurled him across the room, as a furious child might cast a doll that displeased it. Adrin struck the wall as a boulder strikes a castle wall and lay still, broken upon the floor. But Aheddighast was not to leave it there – too many a hero had struck down too many a dragon with their final breath. His jaw unhinged and he breathed once more, and pink flame consumed Adrin, and the Prince was no more.
Lyrian, though, had regained himself. Choking back the sobs in his throat, he spoke with a tone that even stones must listen to. “Aheddighast! Sin Breather! Drought of Kingdoms! Hark! Hark and know that your Doom is upon you!”
Chained by three names and by the man he had dream-touched, Aheddighast had no choice but to turn his vast, triangular head upon the wizard that stooped before him, leaning upon his staff. His clawed hand clutched at himself in a human way – blood dripping between his scales of glittering obsidian. His teeth flashed and he growled.
“My Doom?” He laughed. “It is to laugh, Prince-Thing. Stick-Man. Weak-Wizard.” His nostrils flared and with every word he spoke, the spellcraft that had made Lyrian stand tall and straight and strong frayed around the edges. And yet, still, Lyrian stood and gave back his own pronouncement.
“Yes, Doom. I saw it, when I was within your foul body and fouler soul – you flee every time, before Prester John and his priests, before Flavius Belisarius and his army and the High Patriarch of the Byzantine Church. And how you would flee, with my sister in tow, before my brother and I. You flee for you are a thing of lies and wickedness – but of truth eternal. You flee for you are a villain in a tale, oh Aheddighast, and you are always cast forth. To stand and fight, you know your only end is to die upon a heroes blade.”
“A charming fable, oh Prince-Thing,” Aheddighast hissed. “A foolish hope. A child’s dream, that a world might be made less dark by saying oh it is not so! And yet, I do not flee!” His wings flared. “I do not run from your words, Stick-Man. You, ere now, fall to your knees. Even with words, you cannot match my strength.”
It was true, both Aheddighast and Lyrian knew it. As the flames spread along what furnishings were on the east wall of the room, as smoke billowed to the ceiling, Lyrian’s body grew weaker and weaker. He would soon join his brother in death ... and yet, he had not spoken foolishly. No wizard trained by Prospero, even so fleetingly, might be as foolish as to claim such power without some insight – and Lyrian was many things, but no fool was he. He knew that as much as Aheddighast was a thing of the land, he was also a thing not of the land, of the world created by the gods before God. He had lurked outside the Garden, and was fated to die to a heroes sword.
And sometimes, such swords were small and slender things. A penknife, in truth, made more to sharpen quills than slay monsters. It was less that it allowed Princess Miryan to wound Aheddighast. Instead, it gave the naked, spunk slicked, defiled princess the purchase to scale the beasts back as swiftly as any could imagine. There, clinging to his head, she snarled an oath that none but Aheddighast heard – and none but Miryan would remember, and she would never speak, not even after the rout of the Black Army and the ending of the tale.
Aheddighast recoiled, but it was too late. The penknife drove into the vastness of his eye and blood gushed in a fine, brilliant spurt. He shrieked his pain and the words he had cast around Lyrian went away. Stick-Man, Prince-Thing, Weak-Wizard, each cascaded from Lyrian and he stood, hefted his staff and whispered softly. “Goodbye, dear friend.”
He cast the staff as if it were a javelin of silver fire, and it smote Aheddighast in the heart, piercing scale, bone and flesh, and Aheddighast was slain – as all dragons are, sooner or later.
In the end, it was Miryan who was the only one standing. Still liberally smeared with draconic spunk, her thighs burning with a need to rut against the massive scaled beast, she picked her way over the outstretched wing and the rubble of the room. She saw that the pink flames he had breathed into existence had winked out – as if taking his breath had taken his magic from the world as well. This left her brother, who she had seen slain, whose death had driven her to her madness, exposed. And Miryan found the first of many shocks she would feel that day.
For Adrin ... was alive!
The Prince groaned and shifted in the pile of armor and rubble that the dragon had cast him into – and when Miryan threw herself to her knees beside her brother, she said: “Adrin!”
But it was not Adrin who sat up from the rubble – for Adrin had never had hair of such luminous blond beauty, curling down shoulders that were slender and athletic, framing features as heart shaped and perfect as his sister’s were. His eyes were the same princely hue, but the armor and clothing that she wore hung oddly on a frame that was now more curved than muscular. She rubbed her head, and spoke. “What happened to me?”
And merely speaking those words, her hand went to her throat, then the collar of her tunic. She scrambled to her feet, and in doing so, most of her leggings slid down, revealing that the Sin Breather had reshaped her body – but she had managed to cling, somewhat, to at least part of her that she treasured, for her titanic cock remained quite in place. Her balls, too. Her hand scrabbled for her leggings, and Miryan’s eyes went rather crossed as she tried to understand what she beheld.
“That damned beastly dragon!” Aldria, the feminine form of Adrin, squeaked. “That foul creature! I’m going to kill him!”
“Well, Lyrian already has,” Miryan said, then took her newly minted sister’s arm and guided her towards where Lyrian knelt on the ground. Lyrian was panting heavily, his body trembling. The silver flames that his staff had been wreathed in had scorched his right hand badly, and he was hunched over it. The smoke filled room made his head spin, and when he lifted his gaze, he saw the beauty of his sister and his new sister and blinked a few times in muddled confusion.
“Oh,” he whispered. “Right. Aheddighast said he would turn you into a cocksleeve.” His grin was impish as he lifted his gaze. “We may need to concoct some complex potions to restore you, Aldria. Or should I stick to Adrin?”
“Aldria for now, brother,” his twin said, smirking slightly at him, her hand dipped down to hike her ill fitting pants up to cover her titanic cock – it seemed, to her, that flashing such a thing at this moment would only compound their issues. But still, despite it all, her smile was cheery. “We did it, we slew the beast!”
“We?” Lyrian chuckled. “I slew him.” He put one foot under him and shoved himself to his feet. He winced at his hand, while Miryan, careless of her nudity – it is the way of dragon-whores, they utterly lost their care around their bodies, if they had ever had any – hurried to the bedding that she had laid on. Ripping and tearing shifts, she made a bandage for Lyrian, and the trio made their way down the mountain. The mare that Lyrian had ridden on was prancing nervously from hoof to hoof, having been left behind during the Prince’s glorious charge up the way, and when she saw that the prince of horses was not with them, she ducked her head low, and shed three tears – those tears would later bloom into flowers that, even now, graced the very bottom of the winding stairs that the ancients had carved into the mountain.
They made camp in a valley that felt much freer, more airy, and less dangerous, and while they made their bedding, Miryan – who was dressed in a makeshift arrangement of silken sheets tied into a crude approximation of a toga – knelt beside Aldria, who was herself trying to keep her clothing tight on her body with adjustments of her belt – including adding an extra hole or three with her dagger, crude as it was. She spoke, softly.
“Is Lyrian strange to you, or is it just me?”
“No, he seems well enough, save for his wounds,” Aldria said, smiling at her younger sister, her eyes sparkling. “In fact, I’d dear say that slaying a dragon has done wonders for his confidence.” She hesitated. “How are you, sister?”
“I’m fine,” Miryan said, lying, for she had begged a desperate need to take her relief three times in their walk down the mountain and into the valley, but in truth, she had ducked behind a tree, bitten onto her wrist to muffle herself, and plunged her needy fingers into her cunt, fingering herself with swift, jerking motions, her thumb rubbing the bead of her clit with a ferocity that caused almost as much pain as it caused pleasure, and that edge of pleasure and pain pushed her higher and faster than she had ever gone before, her body trembling, arching, spurting juices along her fingers. She came so swiftly – and yet, her burning need remained unquenched. And she knew the reason why: She thirsted, desperately, for dragon cum. Her mind kept drifting back to the feeling of the dragon’s cock against her entire body, the raw smell of him.
“Excellent,” Aldria said, smiling warmly.
The three bedded down, without need for watches for more than a simple cantrip.
And Lyrian did not dream. Instead, he laid atop his bedroll, sweating profusely. Fever seemed to tingle through his veins, and his hand ached more than he thought possible. His eyes grew slitted as he watched the stars wheeling overhead – the constellations becoming smears against his perceptions. There moon rose and scudded across the sky like a shooting star, and yet the night did not end. He felt as if the world was not standing still, but rather, that he was flying rapidly through the air. His hand flexed and twitched under the bandages, and still, he sweated. He grabbed onto the hem of his shirt and he yanked it above his head, revealing his sweating body. He arched his back, wriggled, and his leggings slipped past his hips, and his cock slapped against his belly. He panted as he felt the urge to rut, to stroke himself, to cum. To spurt. To...
Claim.
His eyes grew hooded and he looked down at his hand, at the bandages that still shrouded his fingers. His other hand rose, fingers quivering, shaking. He gently took hold of the seam of one bandage and he teased it slowly open ... so slowly, as if he both feared what he was going to see and as if it was some long anticipated sweet – as if he wanted to revel in the flavor of it. The bandage sloughed aside and he felt a deep pang in his belly ... for his fingers were all too human. He had expected some kind of ... something ... something different.
Of course, they were a human’s fingers after they had been cast into a fire. The skin was brilliant red and glistening here and there, blackened and charred. And yet, there was little pain. He had heard that the worst of the world’s burns felt little pain, as if the skin itself was simply unable to bear it any more and retreated. Such wounds would invariably suppurate and fester, gangrene would take. It would crawl along his arm, and he would need to sever the infected limb.
Lyrian grabbed onto the wrist of his hand. He snarled. The pain that throbbed from that contact almost drove away that hazy lust he had felt – but then it came back, redoubled. His fingers twitched and he saw the glittering red of that wounded flesh ... and saw something that caught his breath in his throat.
Could it be?
It...
It couldn’t be.
He reached up, slowly, bit by bit, and at last, his finger took hold of the fold of skin above one of the wounds. He tugged with the same strength he had used on the bandage, and the blackened skin crumbled and peeled in equal measures, flakes drifting to the ground, revealing the crimson red, the ruby red – but it was not blood and muscle that dribbled onto him. In fact, the burn was quite dry. He pulled and pulled and pulled, and the skin came away around his finger in a coiling pattern, until it snapped at the knuckle and he tossed it away, his eyes boggling at his finger ... for that red was not the red of a wound, it was the red of ruby, the red of rusty sunsets. It was the red of scales, with a blackened claw-tip at the finger.
“W-What is happening to me?” he whispered. He knew he should waken his sisters, that he should beg their help. But instead, he stood and crept from the camp. They had taken up a place near a river, and when he ducked his hand in the water, steam rose and he hissed through his teeth. He drew his hand back and the ragged skin that dangled around his fingers seemed to ruffle in the air – a flag. He tore at it with his left hand, yanking, peeling. There was a sharp sting, yes, as his palm came away from his own hand, but the sting of it only amplified the pleasure that roared through him. He ducked the hand in the water again, then drew it forth – and it gleamed. Ruby red scales, sharpened claws. The tiniest of webbing between his fingers, as if he was a creature made as much for the sea as for the sky and the land.
Lyrian laughed. He had no choice. His hand, down to the wrist, was the hand of a dragon.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.”
He knew so many spells, so many counter-curses, that might break such a power. And yet, none came to his mind. His lessons fled with his wits, and he was left with nothing but a dizzying sense of standing at the edge of a deep dark cliff.
He had proclaimed Aheddighast’s doom as being the doom of stories. But what story was older than that of the dragonslayer himself?
Lyrian closed his eyes.
Then he heard the crack of a twig beneath a bare foot. His head jerked around and he ducked his hand beneath the water. Standing in the clearing leading to the river was his sister, Miryan, her body lit entirely by the glow of the moonlight. Her eyes were glazed and her lips were parted. Her nose flared and she whispered. “I smelled something good,” she breathed – and Lyrian could do nothing. He simply kept his hand beneath the water and drank in the view of his sister. Her makeshift nightclothes dangled around her slender shoulders, and her achingly hard nipples jutted eagerly against her top. She took a step, then another step, towards her brother.
“G-Go back to bed,” Lyrian whispered.