Chapter 1: Forged in Fire, Bound by Blood
Chapter Text
The storm raged on, its treacherous rains and thunderous roars marching like vengeful soldiers. High above, Balerion the Black Dread soared with unyielding might, cutting through the tempest as if waging his own war against the heavens. Below, the distant lights of Lys faded into obscurity, swallowed by the storm’s wrath. Astride the mighty dragon, Aegon Targaryen, first of his name and Lord of Dragonstone, braved the unrelenting downpour, his fiery gaze fixed on the horizon.
At last, through the storm’s veil, the shores of Dragonstone emerged like a beacon of hope. The sight stirred a warmth in the hearts of both rider and beast, a shared relief after an absence far too long. The ache of homesickness melted away, replaced by the fierce drive to return to their sanctuary. Spurred by the vision of home, Balerion surged forward, his colossal wings slicing through the rain with renewed vigor. Gliding through the storm, the dragon carried his master with an almost joyful determination.
“That’s it, Balerion—fly hard!” Aegon bellowed, his voice defiant against the howling winds as rain lashed his face. Together, they tore through the tempest, unstoppable in their bond, their shared longing for home guiding them through the fury of the heavens.
As the welcoming party began to form on the shores of Dragonstone, Aegon turned back, locking eyes with Balerion. The Black Dread loomed like a living shadow, his black scales glistening with rain as though polished obsidian. His wings, vast enough to engulf entire towns, folded slowly, their movement resonating like the beat of distant thunder. His golden eyes, molten and fierce, burned with ancient wisdom, meeting Aegon’s in silent understanding. The bond between them was unspoken yet absolute, forged in fire and sealed in loyalty. With a low, resonant growl, Balerion acknowledged his master’s silent command, then launched into the stormy sky, his immense form disappearing toward the dragon’s nest atop the citadel.
Aegon turned back toward the path, where Dragonstone loomed before him. The fortress, carved from black stone with Valyrian sorcery, rose like a grim monument to the might of his ancestors. Its walls, shaped and melted by dragonflame, bore the unmistakable forms of dragons—coiled tails forming archways, claws clutching torches that flickered like living flame, and wings spread wide above the smithy and armory. The battlements were crowned not with merlons, but with grotesques—basilisks, manticores, and hellhounds—that leered down at all who approached. Doors were set in the gaping maws of stone dragons, and the air was thick with the tang of salt, smoke, and brimstone, a harsh yet familiar scent that spoke of home.
At the forefront of the welcoming party stood Lady Valaena, Aegon’s mother, her regal bearing as unyielding as the storm itself. She wore a gown of dark grey with intricate silver detailing, its shimmering patterns reminiscent of dragon scales. Her silver-gold hair, untouched by the rain’s fury, framed her face in an elegant cascade. Unlike her ladies, who clung desperately to their drenched cloaks and wiped at their eyes, Lady Valaena stood tall, her piercing gaze fixed on the horizon. Beside her was Orys Baratheon, Aegon’s closest friend. Cloaked in black and gold, he maintained a respectful distance, his presence understated but commanding. Though he said little, his noble lineage and loyalty were evident in his steadfast demeanor.
When Balerion landed with a thunderous crash, the storm momentarily seemed to falter in awe of his might. Aegon dismounted with practiced ease, his broad shoulders and tall frame unmistakable even through the rain. His short silver-gold hair clung to his face, his violet eyes scanning the gathering before softening at the sight of his mother.
“Aegon!” Lady Valaena called, her voice cutting through the storm. She moved forward with unshaken grace, pulling her son into a firm embrace.
“You’ve been gone too long,” she chided, though her tone carried affection.
Aegon chuckled. “Forgive me, Mother. Lys demanded more time than I intended.”
Orys stepped forward, clasping Aegon’s arm in greeting. “How was Lys?” he asked.
Aegon gave a short nod, his expression unreadable. “I’ll explain everything later. Let’s get out of this storm first.”
Arm in arm with his mother, Aegon led the party up the path to the citadel. The doors, carved into the yawning maw of a massive stone dragon, opened to reveal the flickering warmth of Dragonstone’s torch-lit halls. As they ascended, Aegon’s voice broke the quiet. “Where are my sisters?” he asked, his tone tinged with longing.
“Visenya has been sulking,” Valaena said with a chuckle.
Aegon raised an eyebrow. “Visenya? Sulking? I didn’t think her capable of such a thing.”
“Certainly not,” Orys chimed in, grinning. “She’s been practicing the sword relentlessly. There’s only so many beatings I can take pretending to lose to her.”
Aegon laughed at the image of Orys gasping for breath as Visenya battered him into submission. “And Rhaenys?”
“Your little bird hasn’t kept her feet on the ground since you left,” Valaena said fondly. “Visenya has had to drag her back for meals.”
Aegon smiled, warmth spreading through him. “Thank you, Mother.”
At the main hall, Valaena paused. “Now, I’ll leave you and Orys to discuss the spoils of victory. Tonight, we feast in your honor.” She embraced her son once more before departing.
Inside, Aegon and Orys delved into the details of Lys and the battles fought there. Time passed as the storm outside raged on. Suddenly, the heavy doors swung open, and Aegon instinctively reached for his blade, but he stopped, already knowing who it was.
Visenya stood in the doorway, her imposing figure framed by the firelight. Clad in dark armor etched with Valyrian designs, she seemed a warrior out of legend. Her braided silver-gold hair caught the light as her piercing violet eyes locked on her brother. She cast her sparring helmet to the ground with a metallic clang that echoed like a second introduction.
“Visenya,” Aegon said with a smile, rising to his full height. Though taller and broader than most, her commanding presence seemed to match his.
“Brother,” she replied, her voice clipped but warm.
As Aegon approached, the siblings clasped forearms, their bond unspoken but unbreakable. In that moment, Dragonstone, storm-lashed and unyielding, stood as witness to the enduring strength of the Targaryens—a family forged in fire, storm, and steel.
As Visenya stepped into the hall, her armored boots clicking against the stone floor, Orys rose from his seat. With a respectful nod to both siblings, he said, "I'll see you both later," and excused himself, his exit swift and without ceremony. Aegon and Visenya barely acknowledged his departure, their focus solely on each other.
The moment they were alone, the tension between them shifted. Aegon stepped forward, but before he could speak, Visenya’s sharp words cut through the air. “With no word… what were you thinking?” she demanded, her voice carrying an edge of anger tempered by an undercurrent of worry. “It has been almost two months, Aegon! Two months without a single raven. Orys had to pull me off my dragon to come and find you!”
Her violet eyes burned into his, and though she held herself with the strength of a commander, there was a flicker of vulnerability in her expression. Aegon sighed, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Visenya… I am sorry. Truly. I had no intention of worrying you. Lys took far more of my attention than I had originally thought it would.”
He began to recount his travels, the details spilling out in earnest. His sister listened intently, her face a mask of stoicism, though her eyes betrayed the tempest of emotions swirling within her. As Aegon finished, Visenya’s voice cut through the air once more, sharp as the blade she carried.
“You should have sent for me,” she scolded, her tone unforgiving. “Not left me here to wait like some humble housewife. I am not Rhaenys!” Her voice rose with the force of her conviction, her words laced with both pride and frustration.
Aegon’s mind turned to her words, and he knew them to be true. The two women could not have been more different. Rhaenys, his “little bird,” was a dreamer who loved songs, dances, and the romance of life. Visenya, in contrast, was a warrior, a soldier, and a commander whose strength and fire rivaled that of any dragon. Yet, he knew her statement was not meant as an insult to Rhaenys—Visenya loved her younger sister fiercely, sometimes even more than she loved him.
“I’m sorry for the offense, sister,” Aegon said sincerely. “It was not my intention. If anything, it was the tedium of politics, not battle, that kept me. You would have been bored,” he added with a faint smile.
That slight curve of his lips softened Visenya’s expression, if only marginally. She sighed, her rigid posture relaxing just enough to show she had let the matter drop. “Let us speak of this no more. Mother is planning a feast,” Aegon said, his tone resigned.
Visenya raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. Aegon couldn’t suppress his laughter, knowing how much his sister despised such gatherings. “Another feast… why?” she asked, rolling her eyes in exasperation.
“I can only imagine it’s to celebrate the return of her favorite,” Aegon teased.
Visenya smirked at that. “We both know Rhaenys is everyone’s favorite,” she remarked dryly.
Aegon chuckled. “That is true.”
For a rare moment, they both laughed together, the sound reverberating through the hall like the echo of a shared history. Aegon stepped forward, pulling his sister into a brief but affectionate embrace. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, a rare gesture of tenderness between the two.
Visenya pulled away, her smirk returning. “I’m guessing Mother will be hunting me down soon to force me into a dress,” she said, her tone filled with reluctant humor as she moved toward the door. Just as she reached it, she turned back, her expression as sharp as her wit.
“Aegon,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “You absolutely stink. You need to wash.”
Aegon burst into laughter, shaking his head as Visenya exited the hall, her armored silhouette disappearing into the shadows. Even after she was gone, her words lingered, bringing a smile to his face as he began preparing for the feast ahead.
As the laughter from his exchange with Visenya faded, Aegon left the hall, the dim light of Dragonstone casting long, flickering shadows against the black stone walls. The fortress was eerily quiet, the storm outside muffled within the thick, fire-forged walls. The scent of salt, smoke, and aged stone lingered in the air as Aegon made his way through the winding corridors toward his chambers.
Dragonstone was as imposing on the inside as it was on the outside, its halls adorned with carvings of dragons, their eyes seeming to follow him as he walked. Reaching the far side of the keep, Aegon stopped before the massive doors to his chambers. Before he pushed the door open, he noticed the faint flicker of candlelight spilling from beneath the door and caught the soft sound of a sweet, familiar hum drifting through the air.
Aegon smiled to himself. He knew instantly who awaited him.
Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, and the sight that greeted him stole his breath. His chambers were vast, befitting a prince. At the far end of the room stood a large bed with dark, richly embroidered silks draped over its posts. A grand desk, adorned with maps and scrolls detailing battle strategies and the realms of Westeros, sat near a tall, towering bookcase that was filled with tomes recounting tales of old Valyria and ancient conquests. Armor and weapons, remnants of past campaigns, lay scattered across the room in a state of casual disarray. At the center of the space stood a gleaming gold bath, its edges adorned with intricate Valyrian designs. Steam rose from the warm water, carrying the delicate scents of lilies and roses, and the bath was scattered with petals.
Within it, Rhaenys reclined, her radiant beauty amplified by the soft glow of the candles that surrounded her. She was the most beautiful of his siblings, her silver-gold hair, usually loose and cascading down her back, now pinned up elegantly, with strands curling against her damp skin. Water droplets glistened on her slender form, sliding down her pale, flawless skin. She exuded an effortless allure, her purple eyes half-closed in serene contentment as she hummed softly, seemingly unaware of his presence.
But Aegon knew better. Rhaenys was never unaware, least of all when it came to him.
He felt his heart quicken, his body stirring at the sight of her. For a moment, he simply stood there, watching her as the floral aroma enveloped him. Her delicate fingers traced patterns in the water, and though she did not look at him, a faint smile played at her lips.
Aegon stepped further into the room, removing his sword from his belt and placing it carefully on its rack. Piece by piece, he began shedding his heavy outer armor, letting it fall with dull clinks to the floor. His eyes never left her as he moved closer, his footsteps soft against the stone.
Kneeling beside the bath, Aegon leaned forward, his breath brushing against her ear as he whispered, “I think this bath was meant for me.”
Before she could respond, he pressed a gentle kiss to her neck, the dampness of her skin warm against his lips. She tilted her head slightly, allowing him better access, but still did not turn to face him. Her composure, playful yet composed, sent a thrill through him.
“You took your time,” she murmured finally, her voice teasing but soft, carrying the same melodic quality as her hum.
Aegon chuckled lowly, trailing another kiss along the curve of her neck. “I had to survive Visenya’s scolding first.”
“And here you are,” Rhaenys replied, her tone light but laced with affection. Her fingers reached up to toy with a lock of his silver-gold hair, finally acknowledging him fully.
“Here I am,” Aegon echoed, his voice thick with desire as he leaned closer, their foreheads almost touching. The storm outside raged on, but within the warmth of the chamber, time seemed to stand still.
"Join me," Rhaenys whispered, her voice soft yet commanding, as she opened her eyes and locked her gaze with Aegon’s. Her violet eyes glowed with a warmth that could have melted dragonfire itself, drawing him in as if the very air between them pulsed with electricity.
How could he refuse such a request?
Without a word, Aegon rose to his full height, his broad shoulders and powerful frame illuminated by the flickering candlelight. His movements were deliberate as he began shedding his remaining garments, piece by piece, letting the damp fabric fall unceremoniously to the stone floor. Rhaenys shifted forward in the bath, causing ripples to cascade across the water, the rose petals parting around her like a crown of crimson.
Aegon’s gaze never left her. He drank in the sight of her, the curve of her shoulders, the slender line of her arms as she pushed the petals aside, and her glistening skin, luminous in the golden light. Her breasts rose just above the water’s surface, droplets clinging to her like jewels, and he found himself captivated, unable to look away.
How he had missed her.
The weeks apart had felt like an eternity, and now, standing before her, every moment of longing came rushing back. He stepped closer, the cold stone beneath his feet a stark contrast to the heat that burned within him. Rhaenys smiled, a knowing, playful curve of her lips as her gaze dropped briefly over him, her eyes filled with unspoken affection and desire.
“Come,” she murmured, tilting her head invitingly, her hair pinned back to reveal the elegant line of her neck. The faintest blush warmed her cheeks, but her confidence was unshaken.
Aegon stepped into the warm bath, the water lapping gently against his skin as he settled in behind Rhaenys. She leaned back into him, her lithe body fitting perfectly against his solid frame. The floral scent of lilies and roses enveloped them, mingling with the faint steam rising from the water. Her soft smile met his as she tilted her head back slightly to rest against his shoulder.
“I missed you,” she murmured, her voice carrying the warmth of her affection.
“And I, you,” Aegon replied, his lips brushing against the curve of her neck. His kiss lingered there, the wet heat of his breath making her shiver despite the warmth of the bath. His arms encircled her, drawing her closer until there was no space between them.
Reaching for the sponge floating near the surface of the water, Aegon let his fingers trail along her skin before lifting it. He moved it over her chest with slow, deliberate strokes, the rough texture of the sponge contrasting with the softness of her skin. Rhaenys let out a soft, involuntary moan, her head tilting further back against him. Her reaction sent a thrill through him, and he felt his manhood stir and grow against her back.
Rhaenys shifted slightly, the faintest smile playing at her lips as she felt him, her body relaxing completely into his embrace. Aegon’s lips found her ear, his breath warm and teasing. In that moment, with the storm raging beyond the walls and the world forgotten, Aegon knew that this was home—Rhaenys, her presence, her touch. After weeks of war, politics, and distance, he was finally where he belonged.
They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in each other’s embrace. The warmth of the water, the softness of Rhaenys’ humming—an old Valyrian melody that seemed as timeless as the dragons themselves—lulled Aegon into a rare moment of serenity. Her voice was a gentle balm, and he held her tightly from behind, savoring the peace that had eluded him for weeks.
“Visenya nearly killed Orys when he tried to stop her from coming to your aid,” Rhaenys said suddenly, breaking the tranquil silence.
Aegon stirred, roused from what had been the beginnings of a light slumber. Her words pulled him back, and he let out a quiet chuckle, imagining Visenya’s fierce determination. “I did not need aid, my love,” he replied, his voice low but steady.
Rhaenys turned in his arms, her eyes meeting his, the playful glint in her gaze now replaced by a shadow of sadness. “I was worried,” she admitted softly. “When there was no word of your travels… no word of you.” Her voice trembled slightly, and Aegon’s heart clenched at the sight of her vulnerability.
“I am sorry, my love,” Aegon said, his tone filled with regret. He reached up, brushing a wet hand gently over her cheek, the droplets of water trailing down her skin like tears. He hated to see her like this, so far removed from the vibrant, joyful presence she usually exuded.
He attempted to lighten the mood. “Mother told me you were barely on the ground these past weeks,” he teased, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve been flying more than either Visenya or I.”
A faint smile broke through her sorrow as she leaned into his touch. “She keeps me sane,” Rhaenys said, referring to her dragon, Meraxes. There was a glimmer of pride in her eyes, a reminder that she was as bound to her dragon as she was to him. Flying was her freedom, her escape, and her strength.
But the shadow of her worry had not completely lifted. Without warning, Rhaenys leaned forward and captured Aegon’s lips in a heavy, impassioned kiss. It was filled with all the emotions she had kept locked away—her longing, her loneliness, her fear. The weight of her love and the ache of their separation poured into the kiss, and Aegon responded in kind, pulling her closer as if to erase every mile, every moment, they had spent apart.
Her hands tangled in his damp hair as she deepened the kiss, the warmth of the water around them paling in comparison to the heat between them. In that moment, nothing else mattered—not the storms, not the politics, not the world beyond these walls. It was just the two of them, bound by love as strong as the dragons they rode, lost in each other’s embrace.
Suddenly, Rhaenys pulled herself from Aegon’s embrace, her sudden movement catching him off guard. His violet eyes widened slightly, but she simply smiled down at him, her lips curving with a playful mischief that he knew all too well. Rising gracefully, she stepped out of the bath, water cascading from her form and pooling around her feet.
In the soft glow of the candlelight, she stood there unabashedly, her silver-gold hair pinned elegantly, droplets clinging to her slender figure like tiny jewels. Aegon could do nothing but stare, utterly captivated by the sight of her. She moved with a quiet confidence, every step purposeful as she crossed the room to his wardrobe.
Opening it, she selected a silver robe, one of her own garments, and draped it over her shoulders before tying it securely around her waist. Aegon didn’t even think to question why some of her clothing was in his chambers—of course, it was. They spent nearly every night together, their lives and their love deeply entwined.
Once her body was concealed, Rhaenys returned to the bath, kneeling beside him. She reached out and kissed his forehead, her lips soft and warm against his damp skin. “I have no doubt Mother is working strenuously to prepare a feast to mark your return,” she said with a knowing smile. “So, I must go and make myself decent.”
Before he could respond, she leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a tender kiss. Aegon, however, refused to let it end there. He deepened the kiss, his hand reaching up to cradle the back of her neck. His lips moved against hers with a passion that made her gasp softly, and when she tried to pull away, he whispered against her mouth, “Fuck the feast. Stay with me.”
Rhaenys laughed, her voice light and melodic. “Aegon,” she said, her tone affectionate but firm. “I want nothing more than to never leave your arms, but I fear Visenya is currently throwing curses at the serving girls for attempting to make her more of a lady of the court.”
Aegon couldn’t help but laugh at the image, reluctantly loosening his hold on her. “She probably is,” he agreed, his chuckle low and warm.
Rhaenys leaned down for one final kiss, soft and fleeting, before standing and heading toward the door. He watched her every step, the sway of her robe and the grace with which she carried herself. As the door closed behind her, Aegon let out a long sigh, the warmth of her presence lingering in the room.
With a wry smile, he sank back into the bath, dunking himself under the water to clear his thoughts. The floral-scented warmth surrounded him, and though the storm outside still raged, he felt a rare moment of peace.
After dressing in clean, dark leathers trimmed with fine Valyrian embroidery and a crimson cloak draped over his shoulders, Aegon took a moment to jot down the details of his most recent victory in Lys. The act was a ritual for him, a way to preserve the triumphs and hardships of his campaigns for future reflection. Once satisfied with his account, he set the quill aside and left his chambers, his boots echoing softly against the stone floors as he made his way toward the main hall.
As he approached, the lively hum of music and chatter reached his ears, accompanied by the tantalizing aroma of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh bread. The grand doors to the hall loomed ahead, flanked by two guards clad in the black and red of House Targaryen. Upon seeing him, they straightened and opened the doors wide, their voices ringing out to announce, “Prince Aegon Targaryen, first of his name, Lord of Dragonstone.”
The hall before him was a dazzling sight. Great braziers along the walls cast warm, flickering light over the black stone, their flames reflecting off the gilded carvings of dragons that adorned the pillars and walls. Long tables stretched down the length of the room, laden with an array of sumptuous dishes—whole roasted boars, spiced fowl, platters of fresh fruits and cheeses, and pies that steamed with their golden crusts. Goblets of wine and ale glimmered in the light as servants moved gracefully through the crowd, refilling glasses and ensuring no plate went empty.
Noblemen and women, draped in their finest silks and velvets, filled the room with laughter and conversation. The banners of loyal houses hung proudly along the walls, their sigils illuminated by the golden glow. Familiar faces greeted Aegon as he walked in—lords, knights, and friends who had gathered to celebrate his return.
At the far end of the hall stood the raised head table, commanding the room. The central seat, traditionally reserved for the lord of Dragonstone, was currently unoccupied—a subtle nod to the absent patriarch of House Targaryen. Instead, Lady Valaena sat a seat to the right, her presence no less commanding. She wore a gown of pale silver that shimmered with soft blue accents in the firelight, the fabric flowing like water with her every movement. Her silver-gold hair was styled in an intricate braid woven into a delicate bun, accented with small sapphires that caught the light like stars.
To her left sat Orys Baratheon, uncharacteristically dressed in noble finery rather than his usual armor. His dark blue doublet bore the golden crowned stag of House Baratheon embroidered over his heart, and he sat with his usual easy confidence, a goblet of wine in hand as he exchanged quiet words with Lady Valaena.
Aegon’s sisters had not yet arrived, their absence noticeable to him even amidst the crowd. He allowed himself a brief smile, imagining Visenya’s irritation at being forced into a dress and Rhaenys’ penchant for making an entrance. He knew they would both appear soon enough, each commanding the room in her own unique way.
As Aegon entered the hall, heads turned to greet him. Lords and knights raised their goblets in salute, and a ripple of cheers spread through the room. Aegon nodded to them, his demeanor calm but commanding, as befitted a conqueror. He approached the head table and took his place beside his mother. Lady Valaena’s sharp yet affectionate gaze met his, her lips curving into a proud smile as the hum of celebration around them carried on.
Before their conversation could begin, the guards at the door announced the arrival of his sisters.
"Princess Visenya and Princess Rhaenys!" their voices rang out, silencing the hall.
The sisters entered arm in arm, their contrasting presence immediately commanding the room. Visenya, fierce and imposing, carried herself with the air of a warrior even in her formal attire. Her silver-gold hair was styled in two braids that joined into one cascading down her back. She wore slender silver earrings adorned with diamonds that caught the firelight, while her dress—a high-necked masterpiece in deep purple—was accented with silver detailing across the chest, forming a design that resembled armor. Her stern expression only added to her formidable beauty, a presence that commanded respect and silence.
Beside her, Rhaenys radiated warmth and charm, her smile lighting the room as her adoring admirers gazed at her. Her deep red gown, with its slightly daring neckline, showcased just enough of her natural grace and allure. Her silver-gold hair was styled in soft waves, with the top braided into a delicate bun while the rest fell loose around her shoulders. A ruby necklace rested at her throat, glimmering like fire in the candlelight. Where Visenya exuded strength, Rhaenys embodied joy and elegance.
As the sisters made their way to the head table, the room broke into murmurs of admiration and awe. They took their seats beside Aegon, with Visenya sitting closest to him, her stern demeanor unchanged, while Rhaenys sat beside her, smiling as she exchanged polite nods with nearby nobles. On the opposite side of Aegon sat Lady Valaena and Orys, the latter already nursing another goblet of wine.
Aegon rose to his feet, the room falling silent once again. His deep voice carried across the hall with ease. “Peace has been restored in Lys,” he announced, his tone steady and commanding. “Our efforts have secured not only stability but a strong alliance with Pentos. Together, these ties strengthen our house and ensure that the storm beyond these walls will not touch our shores.”
The room erupted into cheers, goblets raised high as shouts of “For House Targaryen!” echoed throughout the hall. Aegon smiled briefly and gestured for the feast to begin. Servants moved swiftly to fill goblets and serve the exquisite dishes. Chatter filled the room, and the sound of laughter soon rang out from the head table.
As the evening wore on, Visenya and Orys found themselves deep in discussion about the significance of peace with Pentos. “It may stabilize the region,” Orys mused, his voice low but thoughtful, “but Pentoshi loyalty is as fleeting as their wealth.”
“True,” Visenya agreed, her tone sharp. “It is a peace bought, not earned. We will need to watch them closely.”
Rhaenys, rolling her eyes at their serious conversation, smiled mischievously. “Will you two stop plotting long enough to enjoy yourselves?” she teased.
Visenya smirked at her sister’s interruption. “Some of us think beyond the next dance, little bird,” she said dryly, causing Orys to chuckle.
As the night stretched on, Rhaenys, ever restless, clapped her hands and called for the musicians to play something livelier. She was the first to take to the floor, her laughter infectious as she twirled with an energy that drew others to join her. Nobles hesitated at first, unsure whether they should follow, but her enthusiasm was impossible to resist. Slowly, others joined her, the hall filling with the sound of feet tapping against stone and the joyous notes of the music.
Lady Valaena excused herself after a time, her elegant demeanor never faltering. “Do not let the wine flow too freely,” she warned with a knowing look before retiring for the evening.
Rhaenys remained on the floor, her laughter and grace captivating all who watched. Many men would have given anything for the chance to dance with her, but none dared overstep in Aegon’s presence. His protectiveness over her was well-known, and any man who tried to touch her inappropriately would risk his wrath—a fatal mistake no one dared to make.
At one point, Rhaenys, glowing from the dance and the attention she commanded, returned to the head table. “I need a partner,” she declared with a playful grin. Her eyes sparkled as she looked between Aegon and Visenya, but both were unmoved.
Visenya scoffed, leaning back in her chair. “I think not,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Aegon smirked but shook his head. “You’d best ask someone else, little bird.”
He turned to Orys, who met Rhaenys’ gaze with a resigned smile. “You wouldn’t let me refuse even if I tried, would you?” Orys said, rising from his seat.
“Not a chance,” Rhaenys replied, her smile bright. She took his hand, leading him to the floor. Orys danced with a surprising ease, though he occasionally stepped on her foot, prompting laughter from both of them. Despite his missteps, Rhaenys’ lighthearted nature kept the mood jovial, and Orys couldn’t help but enjoy her company.
Back at the table, Visenya and Aegon remained deep in conversation. She leaned closer to her brother, her expression thoughtful. “You should have taken me to Lys,” she said, her tone low. “It isn’t right, leaving me behind like a caged dragon.”
Aegon sighed, his violet eyes meeting hers. “I know,” he admitted. “I’ve made my decision—next time, you’ll be by my side.”
Visenya’s sharp features softened ever so slightly, a rare smile tugging at her lips. “Good,” she said simply, taking a sip of her wine as they continued their quiet conversation, the storm of politics and war now forgotten in the warmth of family.
Orys returned to the table with a hearty laugh, his face flushed with exertion and wine. As he sat, he immediately joined the conversation Aegon and Visenya were having. Aegon, still amused by the evening’s events, leaned forward with a grin.
“So, tell me,” Aegon said, gesturing between the two, “what’s the score between you? Who holds the upper hand?”
Visenya smirked, her violet eyes narrowing at Orys. “I’ve bested him more times than I can count,” she declared confidently.
“Only because you cheat!” Orys shot back, pointing a finger at her dramatically, his drunken state amplifying his indignation. “You always go for the same feint!”
“And yet you fall for it every time,” she replied smoothly, taking a deliberate sip of her wine.
The two continued to argue, their playful banter filling the table with laughter. Aegon leaned back, watching them with a wide smile. “Enough!” he said, chuckling. “You’re both insufferable. Tomorrow, you’ll settle this properly with another duel. No excuses this time—find the ultimate winner.”
Visenya and Orys exchanged challenging glances before nodding in agreement. “Fine,” Visenya said, her voice calm but firm. “He’ll regret stepping onto the field with me again.”
“Not likely,” Orys shot back, though his grin betrayed his enjoyment of their rivalry.
Aegon raised his goblet in a mock toast. “Good luck to you both—you’ll need it.”
As the night wore on, Visenya grew tired of the festivities. She shifted in her chair and let out a soft sigh. “Enough of this,” she said, rising to her feet with her usual grace. Orys, clearly feeling the effects of the wine, joked, “Ah, it must be the witching hour.”
Visenya smirked at his comment, her sharp features softening ever so slightly. She turned to Aegon, giving him a nod of respect, which he returned in kind. Without another word, she swept out of the hall, her regal demeanor intact as always.
Orys yawned loudly, his drunkenness now accompanied by weariness. Aegon gave him a knowing look. “Perhaps it’s time you called it a night as well, old friend,” he said with a smirk.
“You’re right,” Orys admitted, stretching as he stood. “Tomorrow, I’ll need my strength to deal with that she-dragon.” He laughed at his own joke before giving Aegon a clap on the shoulder. “Goodnight, my prince.”
Aegon watched as Orys stumbled out of the hall, leaving only a handful of nobles behind, most of whom were still on the dance floor with Rhaenys at their center. She was radiant, her energy and joy lighting up the room even as the hour grew late. Aegon smiled to himself before rising from his seat.
He crossed the room silently, approaching her from behind as she twirled gracefully to the lively music. Sensing his presence, Rhaenys turned her head, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “Has my husband finally decided to join the dance?” she teased, her voice playful.
Aegon chuckled, shaking his head. “Not to dance,” he said, his voice low and warm, “but to take you away with him.”
Rhaenys turned fully to face him, her smile softening as she met his gaze. “Well,” she said, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, “how can I refuse?”
The two bid their farewells to the remaining revelers, Rhaenys laughing softly as she let Aegon lead her out of the hall. Together, they walked through the darkened corridors of Dragonstone, the echoes of music fading behind them as they retreated into the quiet warmth of the night.
Visenya stood in her chambers, her tall frame illuminated by the pale glow of the moonlight streaming through the arched window. Her room, like its occupant, was austere yet commanding, exuding an air of power and purpose. The walls were carved black stone, adorned with intricate Valyrian runes and reliefs of dragons twisting and roaring in silent fury. Shelves lined with ancient tomes and scrolls occupied one side of the room, their spines cracked and faded from centuries of use. On the opposite wall, a rack held her armor, polished and gleaming, alongside her sword, Dark Sister, its slender blade resting in quiet menace.
A large bed dominated the far corner, draped in dark, simple silks of black and deep violet, a stark contrast to the warmth of the head table she had just left. There were no frivolities, no adornments of soft comfort. This was a room of a warrior, not a dreamer.
Dressed only in her smallclothes, Visenya stood by the window, her silver-gold hair cascading loosely down her back, the braids from earlier undone. Her violet eyes, sharp and reflective, stared unblinkingly at the moon, its cold light casting long shadows across the room. The world often whispered of her loneliness, but in truth, she had no need for the companionship others so desperately sought. She had not married Aegon for love but for duty and power, an arrangement she had embraced with clarity and pride.
Theirs was a union of necessity, a consolidation of strength. Where Rhaenys and Aegon were bound by a consuming, almost reckless love, Visenya valued their arrangement for what it was: practical, efficient, and rooted in strategy. There was no jealousy in her for Rhaenys. She loved her sister deeply, fiercely, and she found comfort in their dynamic. Rhaenys could be the heart, the warmth, the dreamer. Visenya would remain the blade, the protector, and the unwavering force behind the throne.
Rarely did she and Aegon consummate their marriage. When they did, it was never out of love or desire, but fleeting moments of lust born more from duty than need. It was not something she craved, nor something she resented. She was content to wield her own power in her own way, separate yet equal in might to her brother-husband.
The cool air of the night brushed against her skin as she lifted a small dagger, its blade catching the light of the moon. The weapon was simple in design but honed to perfection, its edge sharp enough to pierce even the finest steel. Visenya’s hand was steady as she pricked the tip of her finger, a bead of crimson welling up and rolling down her pale skin. With precision, she let the drop fall onto a rune stone set on the windowsill.
The rune stone was ancient, its surface etched with Valyrian glyphs that glowed faintly as the blood touched it. She murmured words in High Valyrian, her voice low and resonant as the old spell took shape. The air around her seemed to hum, vibrating with a quiet energy that carried the weight of generations long past.
Visenya’s expression was unchanging, her eyes fixed on the rune as the spell activated. It was a small piece of the old power, a connection to the strength of Valyria and the legacy she carried. She was Visenya Targaryen, a force unto herself, and through these rituals, she reminded the world—and herself—of the strength she wielded.
As the glow of the rune faded, Visenya remained at the window, the dagger still in her hand. The moonlight illuminated her face, stern and unyielding, a living embodiment of the unbroken line of dragonlords. She had no need for the trappings of love or the distractions of sentiment. The power she wielded was her companion, and it was enough.
A few halls down from the quiet and solemn chambers of Visenya, Aegon’s quarters were alive with light, warmth, and fervent passion. The flicker of dozens of candles cast a golden glow over the room, illuminating the richly adorned space. Soft furs draped the floor, silks hung from the bedposts, and the air was thick with the heady scent of roses and lingering smoke from a freshly doused hearth. The room radiated life, a stark contrast to the dark austerity of his elder sister's chambers.
Aegon lay sprawled on the grand bed, his powerful, muscular form completely bare, the silver-gold sheen of his hair catching the firelight. His eyes, darkened with desire, were locked on the figure atop him—Rhaenys, his beloved sister-wife. She was as radiant as the room itself, her long, silver-gold hair cascading freely over her shoulders and framing her flushed face. Her skin glistened, her lithe body moving with purpose and rhythm.
Her hips rolled against him, deliberate and commanding, the union of their bodies as natural as the fire of the dragons they rode. She moaned his name, her voice a breathless symphony of love and lust, her movements drawing soft groans of pleasure from Aegon. His hands rested on her waist, his strong fingers gripping her firmly, guiding her rhythm even as she led their dance.
“Rhaenys,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and thick with emotion, as her body arched above him. His violet eyes roamed over her, captivated by the sight of her—a goddess in her own right, her beauty unearthly, her passion untamed.
Her head tilted back, her soft cries filling the room, blending with the faint crackle of the candles and the distant hum of the storm outside. There was nothing in the world but the two of them, their love, their desire, their bond. She leaned forward, her hands pressing against his chest as she moved, her every motion a testament to the unbreakable connection they shared.
Aegon reached up, one hand sliding to the curve of her back, pulling her closer. Their breaths mingled as she leaned down to capture his lips, the kiss heated and fervent, a melding of souls as much as bodies. Rhaenys broke away only to whisper his name again, her voice trembling with both affection and ecstasy.
Aegon’s hands tightened on Rhaenys’ waist as he shifted beneath her, his strength evident as he flipped her effortlessly onto her back. She let out a surprised gasp, quickly followed by a breathy laugh, her silver-gold hair splaying out across the silken pillows. Her violet eyes gleamed with excitement and desire as she looked up at him, her lips parted, her breath quickened.
Aegon wasted no time, positioning himself between her legs and thrusting into her with a powerful urgency. The sudden motion drew a loud moan from Rhaenys, her back arching as her hands instinctively gripped his shoulders. His movements were fast, almost frantic, each thrust driven by the ache of longing and the fire of passion that had built during their time apart.
Her fingers dug into his skin as she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, her cries growing louder with every motion. “Aegon,” she gasped, her voice trembling as her nails raked across his back, leaving faint red trails in their wake. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. His powerful frame moved against her with a rhythm that was both commanding and relentless, his muscles taut as he buried himself in her over and over. The room was filled with the sound of their union—the creak of the bed, their ragged breaths, and the mingled cries of pleasure that echoed off the stone walls.
Aegon’s hands roamed her body, sliding from her waist to the curve of her hips, holding her firmly as he drove deeper. His lips found her neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone before murmuring her name, his voice rough and thick with emotion.
Rhaenys clung to him, her body trembling as she met his thrusts, her own pleasure building with every motion. Her head tilted back, her eyes closing as she let herself be consumed by the overwhelming intensity of the moment. They moved together as if they were one, the passion between them a fire that could not be extinguished.
As their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, Aegon’s breaths grew heavier, his voice raw with passion as he called her name, “Rhaenys.” The sound of it was filled with devotion, need, and an unmistakable connection that transcended words. With a final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself deep within her, his body trembling as he reached his peak.
Exhausted and spent, Aegon slumped forward, his weight pressing gently against her. Rhaenys welcomed the closeness, her arms wrapping around him as their breaths mingled, still ragged but slowing as they both came down from the height of their passion. She ran her fingers softly through his silver-gold hair, her touch soothing as he rested his head against her shoulder.
The two stayed like that, tangled in each other, their hearts beating as one. The warmth of their embrace chased away the chill of the storm outside, and the soft glow of the candlelight seemed to dim, wrapping them in a cocoon of intimacy and peace.
Neither spoke. Words weren’t needed. Their bodies pressed together, their breathing evened out, and sleep began to claim them. Aegon’s weight was a comforting presence against her, grounding her as they drifted toward the land of dreams. Rhaenys pressed a soft kiss to his temple, her eyes fluttering closed as her grip on him tightened slightly, unwilling to let go.
In each other’s arms, they found not only passion but solace. The world and its burdens faded away, leaving only the quiet, shared sanctuary of their love. Together, they succumbed to sleep, their connection as unshakable in dreams as it was in life.
Aegon stood alone on a vast plain, the ground beneath his feet blackened and cracked, as if scorched by dragonfire. The air was heavy with ash, and the sky above churned with ominous clouds, glowing faintly red as if the heavens themselves were aflame. A distant roar echoed through the expanse, not of a beast, but of something greater—a world crying out in chaos.
He turned, searching for the source, when the first figure appeared. A dragon, impossibly large, its wings stretching wide enough to blot out the horizon, descended from the sky. It was Balerion, the Black Dread, but more immense and terrible than Aegon had ever known him. Flames licked the edges of his colossal wings, and his molten-gold eyes bore into Aegon with a power that felt almost divine. Behind Balerion, two smaller dragons followed—Meraxes and Vhagar—though their forms shimmered as though caught between reality and myth.
Aegon felt the heat of their presence, and with it came the weight of purpose, heavy and unrelenting. Before him, the plain shifted, morphing into the shape of a great map—Westeros, its lands carved into the earth itself. Rivers flowed like veins, mountains rose like spines, and cities flickered as faint points of light in the distance.
As he stepped forward, his boots crushing the fragile edges of the map, a voice rang out—neither male nor female, but something ancient, echoing in the depths of his mind.
"The Seven Kingdoms lie fractured, divided, and weak. A storm is coming, and only fire can unite them."
The words sent a shiver through him, though they burned with undeniable truth. Aegon reached out, his hand trembling, and as his fingers touched the edges of the map, flames erupted from the cracks. The rivers boiled away, and the cities burned like embers in the wind. Yet, amidst the destruction, a new shape began to rise—a throne. Forged of twisted metal and shadow, it stood tall and jagged, its edges sharp as dragon’s teeth. The Iron Throne.
From the flames, figures emerged. They were faceless, their forms wreathed in smoke and ash, yet Aegon knew them. Lords, knights, and kings—all kneeling before him, their heads bowed in submission. Their voices were a chorus, murmuring his name, growing louder with each passing second.
"Aegon. Aegon the Conqueror."
He turned to the dragons behind him. Balerion roared, a deafening sound that shook the ground beneath him, and the other two followed, their cries filling the air. The dragons took flight, their shadows stretching across the map, their wings setting the lands below ablaze. The flames roared higher, consuming everything, until all that remained was light.
Aegon blinked and found himself standing atop a mountain, the winds tearing at his cloak. Below him stretched a land transformed. Castles stood tall, banners flew united under the sigil of a three-headed dragon, and the people knelt—not in fear, but in allegiance. It was a vision of power, not born of tyranny, but of unification, strength, and purpose.
He looked to his side, and there stood his sisters. Visenya, her face fierce and unyielding, a sword clutched in her hand. Rhaenys, her smile radiant, her gaze filled with the warmth of hope. Together, they formed the pillars of his dream, his vision.
"Unite them," the voice whispered once more. "Through fire and blood, shape the destiny of the realm."
As the words faded, Aegon woke, his breath shallow, his body tense. The faint light of dawn crept through the windows of his chambers, and he lay still, the dream seared into his mind. It wasn’t just a vision; it was a calling, an undeniable truth that refused to be ignored.
Westeros was fractured, and he would be the one to forge it into something greater. Through fire and blood, he would unite the Seven Kingdoms.
Aegon woke with a start, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as the remnants of the dream clung to his mind like smoke. Sweat glistened on his skin, his body trembling as if he had just emerged from battle. His eyes darted around the room, the fiery visions of dragons and flames still flickering in his memory, before reality began to settle over him.
The familiar warmth of his chambers wrapped around him, and the soft flicker of candles cast gentle shadows across the walls. The distant hum of the storm outside reminded him of where he was. Slowly, he turned his head, and his gaze fell on Rhaenys.
She lay beside him, her silver-gold hair spread out over the pillow like a cascade of moonlight. Her face was serene, her soft breaths the only sound in the stillness of the room. The sight of her, peaceful and untouched by the weight of his dream, brought him a moment of solace. Aegon reached out instinctively, his fingers brushing against her cheek, but she didn’t stir.
Carefully, he slipped out of the bed, his movements slow and deliberate so as not to wake her. He pulled the silken sheets higher over her shoulders, tucking her in with a tenderness that came naturally when it came to Rhaenys. For a moment, he lingered, his violet eyes tracing her features, as if grounding himself in her presence.
But the weight of the dream pressed on him still, a gnawing sense of urgency that refused to be ignored. Quietly, he padded across the stone floor, his bare feet making little sound as he made his way to the door. His hand lingered on the handle for a moment, glancing back once more at the sleeping figure of his sister-wife, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed him even now.
With a deep breath, Aegon opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit hall, the cool air of Dragonstone brushing against his damp skin. The echoes of his dream still whispered in his mind, urging him forward. He had much to think about, and the night was far from over.
Aegon made his way through the darkened halls of Dragonstone, his bare feet silent against the cold stone floors. The castle was quiet, save for the distant sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below. His mind raced as he walked, the vivid images of his dream refusing to fade. He reached the great hall, its vast emptiness amplifying the weight of his thoughts.
He passed the long, empty tables, their surfaces still bearing the faint scent of the feast from earlier that evening. The shadows of the carved dragons along the walls seemed to move in the flickering torchlight, their silent roars a reminder of the legacy he carried. But he didn’t stop. He kept moving, drawn to the balcony at the far end of the hall.
Stepping out into the night, Aegon stood in his smallclothes, the cool air brushing against his sweat-dampened skin. The moonlight bathed him in a pale glow, casting his tall, muscular form in sharp relief against the dark sky. He gripped the stone railing and closed his eyes, tilting his face upward to embrace the night’s chill. Despite the cold, he still felt hot, as if he had walked through fire itself. His body burned with the remnants of his dream, his skin tingling with the echoes of dragonfire and power.
Time seemed to stretch. He stood there, unmoving, his mind replaying the dream again and again—the flames, the throne, the call to unite the Seven Kingdoms. The whispers of the ancient voice still echoed in his ears, its words both a challenge and a command. His breaths grew steadier, but the heat inside him refused to fade, leaving him restless and uneasy.
Then, breaking the silence, came a sound that sent a shiver down his spine: a voice, soft yet commanding, calling his name. “Aegon.”
He turned sharply, his eyes widening as he searched the darkness behind him. Standing at the edge of the great hall, just beyond the balcony’s threshold, was Visenya. Her silver-gold hair shimmered faintly in the moonlight, cascading over her shoulders, and her violet eyes gleamed with an otherworldly intensity. She wore a simple robe, her presence as striking and formidable as ever, but there was something different about her now—a mystical aura that seemed to blur the line between the sister he knew and something far older, far more powerful.
For a moment, neither spoke. Aegon’s breath hitched, and the tension in the air felt almost tangible as she took a step closer, her bare feet soundless against the stone floor. Her gaze never left him, sharp and searching, as if she could see straight into the heart of his thoughts.
“You’re burning,” she said quietly, her voice steady but laced with something deeper—understanding, perhaps, or a shared knowledge that neither had yet spoken aloud.
Aegon’s chest heaved as he met Visenya’s piercing gaze, the tension of the moment thick around them. She stepped closer, her movements graceful and deliberate, until the moonlight illuminated her sharp features. Her violet eyes, so similar to his own, glimmered with an intensity that demanded truth.
“You’re burning,” she repeated, her voice steady but filled with an edge of curiosity, of knowing. “What has set your soul aflame, brother?”
Aegon turned away from her, his hands gripping the cold stone railing of the balcony as he stared out at the endless dark sea. For a moment, he said nothing, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with the weight of his thoughts. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and rough, as if the dream still clawed at his throat.
“I saw a vision, Visenya,” he began, his words deliberate, each one carrying the weight of what he had witnessed. “A dream, vivid and unrelenting. I stood on a scorched plain, and before me lay Westeros, broken and fractured. The sky was aflame, and the ground burned beneath the wings of dragons.”
Visenya stepped closer, her hands clasped before her, her expression unchanging but her eyes locked on his every word.
“I saw Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar,” Aegon continued, his voice gaining strength. “They flew over the land, their flames consuming and reshaping it. From the ashes, I saw a throne—jagged and twisted, forged of fire and iron. And then, the voice came.”
“What voice?” Visenya asked sharply, her tone betraying a flicker of urgency.
“It was neither man nor woman,” Aegon said, his brow furrowing. “It spoke of unity, of the Seven Kingdoms brought together through fire and blood. It called me to conquer, to forge the realm anew.”
He paused, glancing back at her. “It felt… real. Not a dream, but a command. A calling.”
Visenya was silent for a long moment, her face unreadable as she stepped to his side, her gaze now fixed on the sea as well. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm but carried an undeniable weight.
“I asked the gods for a sign,” she said, her words deliberate. “For a glimpse of what lies ahead for us, for our house, for the blood of Valyria. I prayed, and I offered blood—our blood.” Her hand unconsciously touched the small dagger still tucked into her belt, a faint smear of dried crimson on its hilt. “The old ways, the old magics.”
Aegon turned to face her fully now, his expression a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “And what did they show you?” he asked.
“They did not answer me directly,” Visenya admitted, her voice softening. “But they gave me a sense—a vision of fire, of dragons, of power unlike anything the world has seen since the Doom. I felt the weight of a great destiny, Aegon. A destiny that rests on our shoulders.”
Her gaze met his again, and for the first time that night, her usually steely expression softened. “Perhaps your dream was their answer. A sign that our house is meant to rise above the fractured kingdoms of Westeros and forge something stronger.”
Aegon let her words sink in, his mind reeling as the pieces began to fall into place. He had always felt the pull of something greater, a purpose beyond the walls of Dragonstone, but this dream, combined with Visenya’s ritual, made it undeniable. The Seven Kingdoms were weak, divided, and he knew now that he was meant to unite them.
“The gods gave us dragons for a reason,” Visenya said, stepping closer. “We are not meant to sit idly by while petty kings squabble over scraps. We are meant to rule—to shape the world in our image, through fire and blood.”
Aegon nodded slowly, his resolve hardening as he met her gaze. “Then we will,” he said simply. “We will bring the Seven Kingdoms to heel. For our house. For our legacy.”
Visenya’s lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile, her confidence in their path unwavering. “For fire and blood,” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper but resonating with a power that made the words feel like a vow.
Chapter 2: The Rise of House Targaryen
Chapter Text
The faint light of dawn seeped through the heavy curtains of Aegon’s chambers, casting a soft glow over the silken sheets. Rhaenys began to stir, her legs still trembling slightly from the night before. She reached out instinctively, her hand seeking the warmth of Aegon beside her.
Her fingers met only the coolness of empty sheets.
Her eyes fluttered open, and a frown creased her delicate features. She turned her head, expecting to see him preparing for the day or pacing the room, but there was no sign of him. The faint scent of him lingered on the bedding, but the absence of his presence left the room feeling oddly hollow.
“Aegon?” she called softly, her voice thick with sleep.
There was no answer.
Pushing herself up, Rhaenys let the sheet fall to her waist, her silver-gold hair cascading loosely over her shoulders. She glanced around the room, taking in the sight of Aegon’s disheveled quarters. His desk was cluttered with maps and scrolls, while his sword rested neatly on its rack. The flicker of dying candles illuminated the remnants of last night’s passion, the bed still tangled and warm from their union. But Aegon was nowhere to be found.
With a sigh, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool stone floor. The chill made her shiver slightly, and she reached for the red robe draped over a nearby chair, slipping it on and tying it loosely around her waist. Standing, she stretched, the movement easing the lingering tension in her body. Her legs wobbled slightly, and she steadied herself on the bedpost, a wry smile curving her lips.
Whatever storm haunted him, my husband still manages to leave his mark, she thought fondly. But the smile faded as unease crept in. His absence was unusual, especially after a night like theirs.
Rhaenys paused in her steps, her violet eyes scanning the room one last time. Aegon’s presence was always strong, commanding, but here it felt conspicuously missing. A flicker of worry tugged at her as she adjusted the robe around her and turned toward the door.
Halfway there, she stopped. If she were to find him, she needed to prepare herself. I cannot go wandering the halls looking like I’ve just crawled out of bed, she thought, shaking her head. With a determined sigh, she turned back, heading toward her own chambers.
Rhaenys’ chambers were as different from Visenya’s and Aegon’s as she herself was. Where Visenya’s room was austere and cold, and Aegon’s was filled with practical warmth and occasional disarray, Rhaenys’ chambers were a celebration of life and beauty.
The walls were draped with richly colored silks in hues of crimson and gold, their intricate patterns depicting scenes of dragons soaring over Valyrian skies. Chandeliers adorned with sparkling gems hung from the ceiling, casting the room in a soft, multicolored glow. A grand harp stood in one corner, its delicate strings catching the light, and the faint scent of jasmine and roses lingered in the air, carried by a gentle breeze from the open window.
Paintings adorned the walls, vibrant depictions of Valyrian legends and Westerosi landscapes, alongside tapestries woven with the sigil of House Targaryen. Her bed, larger and more ornate than even Aegon’s, was draped in silken sheets and embroidered pillows, inviting and luxurious. A vanity stood against the far wall, its surface scattered with fine perfumes, brushes, and jeweled hairpins.
Jewelry boxes carved from ivory and adorned with rubies rested on a nearby table, their contents glinting in the morning light. In another corner of the room, a rack displayed some of her most prized gowns, each one more elaborate than the last, shimmering with embroidery and gemstones.
She walked to the rack and ran her fingers over the fabric before selecting a gown. The dress she chose was made of deep red silk, the material soft and flowing. It had a fitted bodice that hugged her torso tightly, with an intricate gold wire design beneath her breasts that shimmered like firelight. The sleeveless gown featured golden straps that rested lightly on her shoulders, while the skirt cascaded down in waves, billowing slightly as she moved.
After slipping into the gown, Rhaenys stood before her mirror and began to pin her hair. She decided on a bun at the back of her head, securing it with golden pins, but left a few ringlets to frame her face, their soft curls adding a touch of elegance.
Taking a final glance around her chambers, she straightened her posture and headed toward the door. As she stepped out into the quiet corridor, her unease returned, the faint chill of Dragonstone’s halls brushing against her skin. Whatever burden weighed on Aegon, she would find him—and she would not let him bear it alone.
Rhaenys moved through the darkened corridors of Dragonstone, her golden slippers silent against the cold stone. She had dressed and prepared herself to confront Aegon, but now a faint noise drew her attention—a murmur of voices echoing softly down the halls. She hesitated, listening closely, before following the sound.
The voices grew louder as she neared the main hall. Familiar tones reached her ears—Visenya’s sharp, commanding voice, Orys’ deeper, brooding baritone, and Aegon’s unmistakable steady authority. She paused outside the large, ornate doors, the faint flicker of torchlight spilling out through the cracks. Pressing her hand against the heavy wood, she felt a pang of curiosity and unease. Whatever was being discussed inside, it was serious.
Rhaenys pushed the doors open and stepped inside. Her entrance was met with three pairs of eyes turning toward her. The large table at the center of the room bore maps and scrolls, illuminated by the light of a nearby brazier. Orys Baratheon sat with his arms crossed, his expression dark and contemplative, while Visenya stood by the table, a glint of excitement in her eyes. Aegon, however, rose to his feet, his gaze fierce but softening as it landed on her.
“Just in time,” Visenya said, a rare flicker of warmth in her tone. She moved to greet Rhaenys, who froze slightly as her older sister drew her into a brief, unexpected hug. Visenya, not one for overt displays of affection, pulled back quickly, her sharp features returning to their usual intensity.
Rhaenys, taken aback, arched a brow. “To what do I owe this rare show of tenderness, sister?” she teased lightly, though the edge of her confusion was clear.
Aegon extended his arm toward her, a subtle gesture that beckoned her closer. “Come,” he said simply, his voice steady. Rhaenys crossed the room, her flowing gown trailing behind her, and took his hand as he guided her to a seat beside him.
As she settled into the chair, she looked between them with a curious expression. “It seems I’ve stumbled into a secret council meeting,” she said, her tone light but carrying a note of seriousness.
“No secret plots, my love,” Aegon replied, though a faint smile tugged at his lips. He placed a reassuring hand over hers. “But something… significant.”
Visenya leaned against the table, her excitement barely contained. “Aegon had a dream,” she began, her voice filled with conviction, “and the gods have spoken.”
Rhaenys tilted her head, intrigued. “The gods?”
“Yes,” Visenya confirmed, gesturing toward the table where symbols of old Valyria had been hastily sketched over a map of Westeros. “I sought guidance, asked for a sign of our future, and the gods answered.”
Rhaenys turned to Aegon, her violet eyes narrowing slightly as she searched his face. “What dream? What did you see?”
Aegon’s jaw tightened slightly, his expression resolute. “I saw the Seven Kingdoms, divided and weak. I saw dragons—Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar—flying above the land, their flames reshaping it. A voice, neither man nor woman, spoke of unity. Of bringing the realm together through fire and blood.”
Visenya’s lips curved into a faint smile, her eyes gleaming. “The gods have confirmed it,” she said, her tone almost triumphant. “We are meant to rule. To unite the Seven Kingdoms.”
Rhaenys listened intently, her own intrigue growing as she glanced at the maps and symbols before them. “And what does this mean for us?” she asked, her voice thoughtful as she turned to the three of them.
Visenya’s expression sharpened, her excitement giving way to fierce determination. “It means we will be queens,” she said, her voice sparkling with the weight of her conviction.
Orys, who had remained silent until now, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His dark eyes flicked to Aegon, his voice low as he finally spoke. “And it means war. Countless lives lost in the pursuit of this… vision.” His tone was cautious, even grim.
Aegon remained silent, his gaze fixed on the map before him. The weight of his dream, his sister’s faith, and Orys’ warning all pressed heavily on him. He exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the edge of the table.
Rhaenys looked between them, her mind racing. She saw the fire in Visenya’s eyes, the worry in Orys’ voice, and the heavy resolve on Aegon’s face. Her own emotions swirled—curiosity, excitement, and a flicker of fear for what lay ahead.
“Whatever this path means,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the storm within her, “it seems the gods have chosen us for something far greater than we imagined.”
“There is much planning we must do,” Aegon said, his tone firm and commanding as he straightened, his gaze sweeping over the three people before him. His presence filled the room, the authority in his voice undeniable.
“Orys,” he began, turning to his trusted friend. “I want you to reach out to your men—those you trust implicitly. Inquire about the state of affairs across the Seven Kingdoms. Learn where loyalties lie and where fractures can be exploited. We’ll need to know who might stand with us and who will rise against us.”
Orys nodded, his expression resolute despite the faint trace of unease still lingering in his eyes. “I’ll see to it, my prince. I’ll gather what I can.”
“Good,” Aegon said, before shifting his focus to Visenya. Her stance was already rigid with purpose, and he knew she needed little instruction. “Visenya, I need you to assess our forces. The strength of our army, their skills, their readiness—every detail. Decide who is fit to fight and where we may need more training or reinforcement.”
Visenya inclined her head, her lips curving into a faint, almost predatory smile. “Consider it done. I’ll weed out the weak and prepare the rest for what is to come.”
Finally, Aegon’s gaze softened as it fell on Rhaenys. Her intrigue still danced in her violet eyes, but he could see the weight of his dream settling on her shoulders as well. He stepped closer to her, reaching for her hand. “And you, my love,” he said, his voice gentle but no less resolute, “your task may be the most important of all. I need you to craft the image of our house—something new, something the Seven Kingdoms cannot ignore.”
Rhaenys tilted her head slightly, curiosity deepening in her expression. “The image of our house?” she asked.
“Yes,” Aegon said, releasing her hand and gesturing toward the table. “We will not be like the fractured houses of Westeros. We will be one—united, strong, and unshakable. Our banner, our words, our very presence must reflect that. You have the eye for beauty and the understanding of hearts. Create something that will inspire loyalty and awe.”
Rhaenys nodded slowly, her mind already turning over the possibilities. “I will make sure they know who we are,” she said, her voice steady and assured.
“One more thing,” Aegon added, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he looked at her. “I’ve already instructed a table to be built. A great map of Westeros, to sit here in the great hall. We will plan our conquest upon it and carve our legacy into its surface.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Aegon’s words hanging in the air. Visenya’s excitement, Orys’ quiet determination, and Rhaenys’ thoughtful resolve were palpable. Each of them understood the magnitude of what lay ahead.
“Then let us begin,” Visenya said, breaking the silence, her voice sharp with purpose. “The sooner we move, the sooner Westeros will kneel.”
Some time had passed, and the castle of Dragonstone was alive with quiet purpose. Each of them—Visenya, Rhaenys, Orys, and Aegon—had taken to their tasks, the weight of their ambitions pressing them forward. Aegon, however, found his mind restless as he walked the halls of his ancestral home. His footsteps echoed faintly in the dim corridors, the stormy winds outside a constant companion.
As he turned a corner, his path brought him to a familiar yet untouched door. His father’s old study. The door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a space frozen in time. Dust lingered on the shelves of ancient tomes, and faint light from a high window caught on the edges of the desk where his father had once sat, planning the affairs of their house.
But today, it was not empty. His mother, Lady Valaena, sat at the desk, her posture stooped slightly as she stared down at the papers before her, though it was clear her mind was far from them. She didn’t notice him at first, her silver-gold hair, streaked with grey, spilling loosely over her shoulders. She wore a deep blue nightgown, paired with a silver robe that was tied loosely at her waist. It was a startling sight—Lady Valaena, always so composed and noble, still in her bedclothes.
“Mother,” Aegon said softly, his voice breaking the stillness. “How do you fare?”
She startled slightly at the sound, her head lifting quickly. Her violet eyes met his, and her expression softened instantly. “My Aegon,” she called, her voice a mixture of surprise and affection.
Aegon stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him. He crossed to her side, his brow furrowing as he took in her appearance. “Mother, are you alright?” he asked gently.
“Yes, my son,” she replied, though her voice carried a heaviness that belied her words. “I’m fine. Just... caught in a memory.” Her gaze dropped again to the desk, her hand brushing over its smooth surface as if she could still feel the presence of the man who once occupied it.
Aegon’s expression softened as he realized what weighed on her. “He is missed dearly,” he said, his voice quiet but certain.
She nodded, her lips curving into a faint, bittersweet smile. “Yes, he is. Your father was many things—proud, bold, difficult at times—but he was always the anchor of this family. I find myself wondering what he would make of your plans.”
Aegon straightened, the weight of her words settling over him. “And what do you think he would say?” he asked cautiously.
Valaena looked up at him, her gaze searching his face. “I do not know. Your father spoke often of strength and legacy, but conquest? The unity of the Seven Kingdoms? I think he would have been conflicted.” Her voice was steady, but her words carried an edge of concern. “I’ve known for some time that this was in your heart, Aegon. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
Aegon’s brow furrowed slightly, but his mother gave a faint chuckle, shaking her head. “You’ve sent your siblings on tasks,” she continued. “Visenya isn’t in the courtyard beating swords and boys into submission. There’s no singing from Rhaenys filling the halls. The castle is quieter than it has been in years, and you think I wouldn’t know why?”
Aegon sighed, leaning against the edge of the desk. “You are perceptive as always, Mother,” he admitted. “But I thought it better to act now than delay. The gods have spoken, the path is clear—”
“And yet it is fraught with danger,” Valaena interrupted, her voice calm but firm. “Aegon, I know your strength, your resolve. You are your father’s son. But do not let ambition blind you to the risks.”
Aegon regarded her for a long moment, his expression softening. “I do this for our house,” he said quietly. “For the future of our name and the safety of our people. I will not act recklessly, but I cannot ignore the call that has been placed upon me.”
Valaena’s gaze lingered on him, a mixture of pride and worry in her eyes. “Then be wise, my son,” she said finally. “Be the dragon, but remember the cost of fire.”
Aegon nodded, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her temple. “Rest, Mother,” he said softly. “Leave the weight of this to me.”
She reached up, squeezing his hand briefly before letting him go. As Aegon turned to leave, her voice stopped him at the door. “You are your father’s son, Aegon,” she said, her voice carrying across the room. “But you are also your own man. Do not let his memory, or mine, guide you more than your own heart.”
Aegon paused, letting her words settle over him, before nodding and stepping back into the hall. The door closed softly behind him, and he continued down the corridor, his thoughts heavier than before.
A few weeks had passed since Aegon’s dream, and Dragonstone had transformed into a hive of activity. Plans were being laid, alliances considered, and preparations made for the path ahead. The once-great hall had been renamed the Throne Room, though no throne yet graced its space. In its center stood a massive, newly-carved table—a map of Westeros that stretched nearly the length of the room. Every river, mountain, and castle was etched with precision, a testament to the ambition of House Targaryen.
Aegon stood at the head of the table, flanked by his closest council. Visenya stood to his left, arms crossed and expression sharp, while Rhaenys occupied his right, her eyes flickering with curiosity and a subtle tension. Orys Baratheon leaned over the table, pointing to a section of the map near the Trident. The flicker of torchlight made the carved rivers shimmer like veins of silver.
“My spies tell me that Harren Hoare, the King of the Isles and the Rivers, is nearing completion of his vast castle, Harrenhal,” Orys said, his finger tracing the land west of the map’s riverlands. “He’s said to be looking for more conquests to solidify his power.”
“That would explain why Argilac Durrandon, the Storm King, has reached out,” Aegon replied, his tone measured as he glanced at the map. His violet eyes flicked to the southeast, toward the Stormlands, where the sigil of House Durrandon was carved into the table.
“And what does Argilac the Arrogant propose?” Visenya sneered, her voice cutting through the room like the edge of a blade.
Aegon met her gaze briefly before answering, his tone neutral but deliberate. “He has proposed an alliance, offering me the hand of his daughter, Argella, in marriage. Along with her, he offers dowry lands to create a buffer zone between himself and Harren Hoare.”
“Lands that largely belong to Harren the Black,” Orys added with a smirk, his tone wry.
There was a brief silence as the room absorbed this revelation. Rhaenys’s expression flickered with brief annoyance, though she masked it quickly. Visenya, however, did not bother to hide her disdain. Her lips tightened into a thin line, her violet eyes narrowing.
Daemon Velaryon, standing near the edge of the room, broke the tension with a laugh. “You of course refused,” he said, stepping closer. Daemon was one of Aegon’s oldest and most loyal supporters, his sea-green eyes sparkling with amusement as he spoke. “The very idea of Argilac Durrandon thinking he could buy your loyalty with a daughter and a few stolen fields.”
Aegon’s lips curved into a faint smile as he straightened. “Of course I refused,” he said firmly. His tone carried no hesitation, only the certainty of a man content with his choices. He glanced between his sisters as he spoke, his voice softening slightly. “I am more than satisfied with my warrior queen and my love.” His gaze lingered briefly on Visenya and Rhaenys, whose expressions eased slightly at his words.
Rhaenys arched a brow, the flicker of annoyance in her eyes replaced with curiosity. “Then how did you answer him?” she asked, tilting her head.
Aegon’s smile grew. “I put forward Orys in my place,” he explained, turning his gaze to his closest friend. “I suggested the hand of Argella Durrandon be offered to Orys Baratheon instead, as well as a part of Argilac’s lands as an additional dowry.”
Visenya smirked at this, her sharp tone laced with humor. “You certainly have a knack for making Orys’ life interesting, brother.”
Orys let out a low laugh, though his expression was tempered with thought. “You could say that,” he said, leaning back slightly from the table. “It is no small matter, to marry into the Durrandon line.”
Rhaenys, her curiosity now mixed with disbelief, turned to him. “Are you certain, Orys? Marriage should be for love. The idea of a union without it…” Her voice trailed off, the weight of her own feelings on the matter evident.
Orys met her gaze steadily, his tone firm but kind. “I will do my duty,” he said. “This is not a union for love, Rhaenys, but for the future. For our cause. I understand what is being asked of me, and I will not falter.”
Her expression softened, though the flicker of unease did not completely fade. “I see,” she said quietly, her gaze dropping briefly to the map.
Daemon let out a hearty laugh, clapping Orys on the back. “Marriage to a Storm King’s daughter! It seems your loyalty has earned you more than just honor, my friend.”
“I sent an envoy two weeks ago with the proposal,” Aegon continued, his tone serious once more. “We are now awaiting Argilac’s response. If he agrees, Orys will secure our alliance with the Stormlands. If he refuses…” Aegon’s voice trailed off, the weight of the unspoken alternative settling over the room.
“He won’t refuse,” Visenya said sharply, her expression calculating. “He’s desperate. Harrenhal will be completed soon, and Argilac knows he cannot face Harren Hoare alone.”
“And if he does refuse, we’ll have our excuse to act,” Daemon added, his voice darkening slightly, though his grin didn’t fade.
Rhaenys, ever thoughtful, turned her gaze back to Aegon. “You’ve played this carefully,” she said, a hint of admiration in her tone. “Whether he agrees or not, we gain the upper hand.”
Aegon nodded. “That is the goal,” he said simply. “Every move we make must serve a purpose. This is only the beginning.”
Visenya’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. “Then let us hope the Storm King chooses wisely,” she said. “For his sake.”
Rhaenys sat in her chambers, her needle moving deftly through the fabric stretched before her. The banner was nearly complete, her fingers aching from weeks of relentless stitching, but she pressed on, determined to finish. The black fabric gleamed softly in the flickering candlelight, the intricate details of the three-headed red dragon taking shape with every deliberate motion.
This was her creation, her mark on their legacy. Aegon had tasked her with crafting the image of their house, and she had thrown herself into the work entirely. Yet, it had come at a cost—a cost she was all too aware of each time she sent him away.
She smiled faintly to herself, recalling the look on Aegon’s face the first time she told him to leave her chambers. “You’re banishing me?” he had asked, half-teasing, though his confusion was clear.
“Aegon, my love,” Rhaenys had replied, her tone playful but firm. “I cannot stitch and entertain you at the same time. You are a distraction.”
“And where am I to go?” he had asked, arching a silver-gold brow, his violet eyes narrowing in mock annoyance.
“To Visenya,” she had said simply, earning a bark of laughter from him.
“To Visenya?” Aegon repeated, smirking. “My warrior queen will skewer me before she entertains me.”
“She won’t,” Rhaenys replied, not looking up from her stitching. “You are her king as much as mine, and she has her own way of... appreciating your presence.”
Aegon had lingered for a moment, clearly debating whether to argue. But Rhaenys, her focus unbroken, merely waved him away with a gentle laugh. “Go on, husband. She’s waiting.”
Now, as she completed the final touches of the design, she thought of him. Aegon had, as predicted, gone to Visenya on those nights. The arrangement between the three of them was not born of jealousy or resentment—it was a bond of understanding. She loved Aegon fiercely, and she knew Visenya did too, though in her own way. It was a balance, one they all accepted.
The last stitch went through, and Rhaenys leaned back with a deep sigh of relief, gazing at the banner in its entirety. The black field was stark and commanding, the three-headed red dragon shimmering as though alive, its wings outstretched, its heads snarling with fiery purpose. It was perfect.
She set her needle aside and stood, her legs stiff from hours of sitting. Stretching, she looked toward the door. Soon, she would summon both Aegon and Visenya to reveal her work. The thought brought a smile to her lips. She imagined Aegon’s pride, Visenya’s approving nod, and the moment this banner would first fly over Westeros.
For now, though, she allowed herself a moment of quiet triumph. The three-headed dragon was more than a symbol; it was their bond, their strength, and the fire that would one day unite a fractured realm.
Rhaenys paused her work as a faint commotion drifted through her open window. Frowning, she rose and stepped to the ledge, peering down from her tower. Below, a group of cloaked men made their way toward Dragonstone’s gates, their movements hurried and purposeful. One of them carried a box, its dark wood gleaming faintly in the morning light.
Curiosity pricked at her. Clutching the newly stitched banner to her chest like a precious gem, she decided to investigate. She left her chambers quickly, her steps light and swift as she made her way down the winding staircase to the entrance hall. There, she found her mother, Lady Valaena, standing beside Orys, who had a grim look on his face.
“What is it?” Rhaenys asked, her eyes darting between them as the cloaked messenger stepped forward, holding the box with trembling hands. He passed it to Orys, who hesitated for a moment, his expression hardening as he looked down at the object.
Rhaenys saw the tension in Orys’s shoulders as he gave the messenger a sharp nod. “Follow me,” he commanded, his voice like steel.
“Summon Aegon and Visenya,” Lady Valaena said to one of her servants, her voice calm but firm. Her silver-grey hair caught the light as she turned to Rhaenys, her expression unreadable. “This man came from the Stormlands,” she explained.
“The Stormlands?” Rhaenys echoed, her brow furrowing. Her grip on the folded banner tightened as unease settled in her chest.
Orys led them to the throne room, placing the box carefully on the great map table. The room was eerily quiet, the weight of the unknown pressing down on them as they awaited Aegon’s arrival.
Minutes later, the doors swung open, and Aegon strode in, his silver-gold hair tousled, his broad chest bare save for the loose breeches he wore. Visenya followed closely behind, wrapped in a dark robe tied hastily at her waist, her violet eyes sharp and alert. Aegon greeted Rhaenys with a quick peck on the cheek before moving to the table, his expression darkening as he saw the box.
“What is it?” Rhaenys asked, her voice steady despite the tension filling the room.
Aegon didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he threw open the box, and its gruesome contents tumbled out onto the table. Severed hands, grey and stiff with death, rolled across the map, the stench of decay wafting into the air. A gasp escaped Rhaenys, and even Lady Valaena’s usually composed face tightened in shock.
“What is the meaning of this?” Visenya demanded, her voice cold and dangerous as she rounded on the trembling messenger. With a single motion, she grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall, her strength leaving him gasping for breath. “What does your master, the Storm King, have to say for himself?” she hissed.
The man stammered, his eyes wide with terror. “I—I was told to deliver a message—please!”
“Visenya!” Valaena’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “Release him.”
With an annoyed roll of her eyes, Visenya let the man go, her grip loosening just enough for him to stumble to his knees, gasping for air.
Rhaenys stepped forward, her tone softer but no less firm. “Tell us the message,” she said, her voice laced with a mix of curiosity and unease.
The messenger’s eyes darted nervously around the room before settling on Aegon. “My message comes from Argilac Durrandon,” he said, his voice shaking. “He... he was offended that you rejected his daughter and—” His words faltered as his gaze flicked nervously toward Orys. “—and that you insulted her by offering her hand to a... to a bastard.”
The room fell silent, the air thick with tension. Rhaenys’s breath hitched as she glanced at Orys, who stood unmoved, his expression unreadable. But the offense was clear in the faces of everyone else in the room.
The messenger swallowed hard and continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “Lord Argilac cut off the envoy’s hands and sent them as a message. He told me to say... ‘These are the only hands you will receive.’”
Aegon’s fists clenched, his knuckles white as fury burned in his violet eyes. The message hung in the air, its insult blatant and unforgivable. Visenya’s face was a mask of cold rage, while Rhaenys’s expression shifted between shock and disgust.
“An answer must be given,” Visenya said, her voice low and sharp, her hand twitching toward the hilt of her dagger.
Aegon nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the severed hands lying before him. “And it will,” he said, his voice a simmering growl. “But on my terms.”
As the grisly remains were removed by summoned servants, the tension in the throne room remained thick and unbroken. Valaena issued calm yet firm instructions, her steady hand ensuring the room was cleared with swift precision. Orys, his expression grim, grabbed the messenger by the arm and led him out without a word, though the storm of unspoken emotions was evident in his movements.
When the heavy doors closed behind them, only the three siblings remained.
“You know what this means,” Visenya said, her lips curling into a sharp smile, her violet eyes gleaming with anticipation. She stepped closer to the map table, her fingers brushing against the edge of the carved wood as if she could already feel the fire and blood to come.
Aegon nodded, his expression dark and contemplative as he turned to face his sisters. His gaze lingered on the map, his mind already racing with the steps they would take. “Argilac has made his choice,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Now, we make ours.”
Rhaenys, who had stood quietly to the side, clutching the folded banner close to her chest, felt the weight of the moment settle over her. Her heart was steady, but her hands trembled ever so slightly—not from fear, but from the enormity of what she was about to do. She took a breath, her violet eyes softening as she looked at her siblings.
“It’s time,” she said softly, her voice breaking through the heavy silence. Aegon and Visenya both turned to her, their expressions shifting from contemplation to curiosity.
Rhaenys stepped forward, the folded banner clutched tightly in her hands like a sacred offering. “Aegon, Visenya,” she began, her voice gaining strength, “for weeks, I have worked to create a symbol—a mark that will represent who we are, what we stand for, and what we are about to become.”
She carefully unfolded the banner, letting the fabric unfurl and drape over the table. The black field was stark and commanding, and at its center blazed a three-headed red dragon, its wings spread wide and its tails coiled with fierce purpose. The fire-red threads shimmered in the light, making the dragon appear almost alive.
Visenya’s eyes widened slightly, her sharp features softening as she took in the banner. She reached out, her fingers brushing the fabric. “The three-headed dragon,” she murmured, her voice uncharacteristically reverent. “For us.”
Rhaenys nodded, her gaze steady. “Aegon, you are the head that unites us. Visenya, the strength that protects us. And I…” She smiled faintly, her voice softening. “I am the heart that carries us.”
Aegon stepped forward, his expression unreadable as his eyes traced every detail of the banner. Finally, he looked up, his gaze meeting Rhaenys’s. “It’s perfect,” he said simply, his voice filled with quiet pride.
Rhaenys let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, a smile tugging at her lips. “This is who we are. This is what the world will know.”
Visenya’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. “A mark of fire and blood,” she said, her voice laced with approval.
Aegon reached out, his fingers brushing the fabric of the banner before turning to his sisters. “The time has come,” he said, his voice firm. “The Seven Kingdoms will know this symbol. They will know our name. And they will bend the knee.”
Visenya grinned, her fierce determination blazing in her eyes. “Then let us give them something to fear.”
Rhaenys glanced at the banner once more before stepping closer to Aegon, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “Together,” she said softly, her voice filled with both warmth and resolve.
“Together,” Aegon echoed, his gaze shifting between his sisters.
The three stood united, the banner of the three-headed dragon between them, a silent vow passing through the room. The path ahead would be treacherous, but they were ready. The Targaryen Conquest had begun.
Aegon stood at the docks of Dragonstone, the salty breeze tugging at his silver-gold hair as he watched the horizon. The sea stretched endlessly before him, but his focus was on the fleet of ships departing from the rocky shores, their sails billowing in the wind. Each vessel carried the weight of his ambition, their holds filled not only with supplies but with messages destined for every corner of Westeros.
Beside him stood Daemon Velaryon, a steady presence amid the mounting tension. Daemon’s sharp eyes followed the ships as they sailed further out, his arms crossed over his chest. His sea-green cloak fluttered behind him like the waves crashing against the rocks below.
“You’ve set the board,” Daemon remarked, his voice low and thoughtful. “Now we see who plays the game.”
Aegon’s gaze remained fixed on the fleet, his expression unreadable. “This isn’t a game,” he said simply, his tone firm but measured. “This is the future.”
Each ship bore the same message, emblazoned with the new Targaryen crest—a black field bearing the red three-headed dragon, the symbol of House Targaryen and their fire-forged unity. Within each sealed missive, Aegon’s declaration was written boldly, his words carrying the weight of an unyielding command:
To the Lords and Kings of Westeros,
I, Aegon of House Targaryen, first of my name, declare myself King of the Seven Kingdoms. The petty crowns of fractured realms no longer hold meaning. The time for division is over. A new era begins—one of unity, strength, and peace under the rule of fire and blood.
Bend the knee, and you will find your place in the new world. Refuse, and you will face the wrath of dragons.
Choose wisely.
The words had been chosen carefully, carrying both the promise of mercy and the unspoken threat of annihilation. It was not a request; it was an ultimatum. Aegon had made it clear—there would be no negotiation, no compromise. The Seven Kingdoms would unite under his rule, or they would burn.
Daemon let out a quiet chuckle, his gaze shifting to Aegon. “You do realize they’ll fight you,” he said. “Some of them will see this as nothing more than arrogance.”
“Arrogance,” Aegon said, his voice low but steady, “would be asking for permission. This is destiny.”
Daemon nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Destiny,” he echoed. “Well, the ships are away, and the messages are sent. The Seven Kingdoms will hear your call.”
Aegon turned to face Daemon fully, his violet eyes blazing with conviction. “And they will answer,” he said. “Some will bend the knee. Some will seek to resist. But in the end, they will all fall in line.”
Daemon grinned, the faintest trace of amusement in his expression. “That’s what the dragons are for.”
Aegon’s lips curved into a faint smile, his gaze returning to the horizon. “Yes,” he said softly, almost to himself. “That’s what the dragons are for.”
The ships disappeared into the distance, each one carrying the symbol of fire and blood. Aegon stood tall, the wind whipping around him as he imagined the chaos that would soon erupt across Westeros. He had cast the first stone, and now the Seven Kingdoms would tremble.
This was only the beginning.
Orys stood in the courtyard, the clang of his sword against the training dummy echoing through the air. His strikes were relentless, his blade slicing furiously into the wooden figure, each swing heavier than the last. Sweat dripped from his brow, his shirt long discarded, leaving his powerful frame glistening under the pale light of Dragonstone’s sky.
He had been there for hours. Servants and soldiers passing through the courtyard had dared only to glance at him from a distance, the raw intensity of his movements keeping them at bay. The air around him crackled with unspoken frustration, a storm of emotions he was clearly working to contain. No one had dared approach him.
No one, that is, but Visenya.
She strode toward him, her steps purposeful, her violet eyes fixed on his broad back as he continued his onslaught against the training dummy. The edge of her dark robe swayed with her movements, her silver-gold hair braided tightly, a stark contrast to his wild fury.
“Orys,” she called, her voice sharp but calm.
He didn’t hear her—or perhaps he chose not to—as the sound of his sword crashing down on the wood drowned out her words. Visenya narrowed her eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“Orys!” she called again, louder this time, her tone commanding.
Still, he gave no response, his back to her, his strikes growing more forceful. The dummy splintered slightly under the weight of his blows.
Finally, she stopped a few paces away, her voice rising with an uncharacteristic edge. “Orys!”
This time, he froze mid-swing, his breathing heavy. He stood there for a moment, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword before lowering it slowly. The silence was deafening as he remained still, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each labored breath.
But he didn’t turn to face her.
Visenya tilted her head, studying him. The tension in his stance was palpable, his anger a living thing that filled the space between them. She waited, letting the silence stretch, before finally speaking again.
“Are you going to tell me what’s gnawing at you, or do I have to guess?” she asked, her voice laced with both curiosity and irritation.
Orys let out a slow breath, his hand loosening on the hilt of his sword. “I don’t need to explain myself,” he said gruffly, his voice low and rough, as though it had been dragged from the depths of his frustration.
“No, you don’t,” Visenya replied, her tone cool but unyielding. “But I’m not going anywhere until you do.”
Finally, Orys turned his head slightly, just enough for her to catch the edge of his profile. His jaw was clenched, his expression hard. “What do you want, Visenya?”
She took a step closer, crossing her arms as she regarded him. “I want to know what has you hacking away at that dummy like it’s a Stormlander,” she said plainly. “You’ve been out here for hours, and whatever you’re trying to beat out of yourself clearly hasn’t worked.”
Orys turned fully then, his piercing gaze meeting hers. For a moment, he said nothing, the weight of his unspoken thoughts heavy between them. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter but no less firm.
“It’s the message,” he said. “From Argilac. From the Stormlands.” His jaw tightened again, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. “The insult.”
Visenya’s gaze didn’t waver. “The insult to you,” she said, her tone making it clear it wasn’t a question.
Orys’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t care what they call me,” he said sharply. “Bastard, mongrel, it doesn’t matter. But to send those hands… to send that message…” He trailed off, his anger flaring in his eyes. “It was more than an insult. It was a challenge.”
Visenya studied him for a moment longer before speaking. “And you want to answer it,” she said, her voice calm but sharp, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
Orys looked at her, his expression hard. “Wouldn’t you?” he asked, his tone almost daring.
A faint smile tugged at Visenya’s lips, though it carried no warmth. “If it were me, I wouldn’t still be standing here,” she said. “Argilac would already be ash.”
Orys let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head as he looked away. “You make it sound so simple.”
“That’s because it is,” Visenya replied, stepping closer. “You’re stronger than this, Orys. Stronger than his words, stronger than his insults. But if this rage festers, it’ll do you no good. Save it for when it matters.”
Orys turned back to her, the tension in his posture easing slightly. “And when will that be?”
Visenya’s smile sharpened, her violet eyes gleaming with something dangerous. “Soon,” she said. “Soon enough.”
Visenya tilted her head slightly, her sharp violet eyes narrowing as she studied Orys. Her smirk deepened, and she took another step closer, her hands resting at her sides in an almost casual manner—but the intensity in her gaze was anything but.
“Put your skills to some use,” she said, her voice calm yet laced with challenge. “And spar with me. Unless, of course, you’re afraid.” Her hand moved to the hilt of Dark Sister, drawing the Valyrian steel blade with a deliberate motion. The edge gleamed wickedly in the faint light, a promise of both precision and power.
Orys’s head lifted at her words, his lips curving into the first genuine smile she’d seen from him all day. “Afraid?” he echoed, the humor in his tone contrasting with the tension that still lingered in his posture. He set his sword aside briefly, wiping the sweat from his hands on his tunic, before looking her over. “You’re the only one on Dragonstone who would dare say such a thing.”
“And yet here I stand,” Visenya replied smoothly, rolling her shoulders as she adjusted her grip on Dark Sister. She wore tight, scale-like black breeches tucked into sturdy boots, her chest clad in fitted black armor that hugged her lithe, muscular frame. Each piece seemed designed to emulate the dragons she so fiercely commanded—sleek, strong, and utterly intimidating. She looked every bit the warrior queen, her presence alone enough to unsettle lesser men.
Orys, in stark contrast, stood in the simple garb of a commoner. His tunic was damp with sweat, his boots scuffed from hours in the training yard. He looked every inch the rugged soldier, his powerful build a testament to years of hard-earned strength rather than noble refinement.
“I hope you fight better than you dress,” Visenya quipped, her smirk widening.
Orys let out a laugh, shaking his head as he stepped forward, picking up his sword. “Don’t underestimate the clothes, Visenya. They don’t get in the way when it matters.”
“Then show me,” she said, raising her blade and slipping into a ready stance. “Let’s see if that fury of yours can keep up.”
Without another word, Orys lunged, his sword arcing toward her with practiced precision. Visenya sidestepped effortlessly, Dark Sister flashing as it deflected his strike. The metallic clang of their blades echoed through the courtyard, drawing the attention of a few onlookers who kept their distance, wary of interrupting the sparring match.
Visenya grinned, the thrill of combat lighting her features as she pressed the attack. Each movement was fluid, calculated, her blade striking out with a speed and sharpness that tested even Orys’s considerable skill. Yet he held his ground, meeting her strikes with equal strength, his larger frame giving him an advantage in raw power.
“You’ve improved,” Visenya remarked, her voice steady even as she dodged another swing. “But you’re still predictable.”
“Predictable enough to keep you on your toes,” Orys countered with a grin, his sword swinging low in a feint that forced her to block before pivoting into a strike aimed at her side.
She twisted away just in time, her armor catching the light as she spun, Dark Sister arcing toward his shoulder. He barely deflected the blow, their swords locking for a moment as they stood face-to-face, their breaths heavy with exertion.
“You’re holding back,” she said, her voice low and challenging.
“Only because I’d rather not explain to Aegon why you’re limping,” Orys replied, his grin widening as he shoved her blade back and stepped away, resetting his stance.
Visenya laughed—a rare, genuine sound that surprised even herself. “We’ll see who’s limping by the end of this.”
The sparring continued, each strike and parry building in intensity. For both Orys and Visenya, the duel was more than just practice—it was an outlet, a release of the tension that had been building since Argilac’s insult. They fought not as lord and lady, but as equals, their skill and determination driving them forward.
By the end, neither was declared the victor, though both wore the faint smiles of warriors who had found solace in the clash of steel. Visenya lowered Dark Sister, her breathing steady as she looked at Orys.
“Well,” she said, her voice tinged with satisfaction. “At least you’re not afraid.”
The world was golden and endless.
Aegon stood on an infinite sea of sand, the dunes shimmering under a strange light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The horizon blurred, the air heavy with heat and the distant echoes of war. Above him, the sky churned with clouds, painted in hues of red and gold, as dragons wheeled and roared through the heavens.
In the distance, two figures soared on their mighty beasts—Rhaenys and Visenya, their silver-gold hair catching the ethereal light like celestial flames. Meraxes glided with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, her wings carving through the air as Rhaenys sat tall, her crimson gown flowing behind her like a banner. Beside her, Vhagar was a dark shadow of power, with Visenya commanding her movements with sharp precision.
Rhaenys’s voice carried across the expanse, haunting and beautiful, a song that felt as ancient as the sands themselves. The melody was indistinct, her words blending with the wind, yet it filled Aegon’s chest with a bittersweet ache. It was a song of longing, of hope, and of something he couldn’t quite name.
Visenya, in contrast, was silent but fierce. She wielded her sword from Vhagar’s saddle, striking at shapes in the sky—shadows of dragons, indistinct and flickering, as though made of smoke and fire. Her blade flashed with every movement, a beacon of strength and defiance against the chaos around her.
Aegon tried to move, to call out to them, but his voice seemed trapped in his throat. The sand beneath his feet shifted endlessly, holding him in place as he watched the battle unfold. The wind carried their movements like a dance, Rhaenys’s song weaving through it all, binding the scene together.
But then, something changed.
The light in the sky dimmed, the golden hues fading into deep crimson. The wind howled, and the song faltered. Aegon’s heart clenched as Rhaenys’s voice broke, her melody shattering into silence. The air grew still, unbearably heavy, and the sky seemed to ripple as though it had been torn.
Rhaenys faltered, her form slipping on Meraxes’s back. A single scream pierced the silence, cutting through the sky like a blade. Aegon’s breath caught as he saw her fall, her crimson gown trailing behind her like a streak of blood against the golden sands.
The ground opened beneath her, swallowing her whole, the dunes shifting and collapsing into darkness. The song was gone, replaced by an endless silence that pressed on Aegon’s chest, suffocating him. He reached out, his hand trembling, but she was already gone, lost to the void that now stretched before him.
The sky twisted, the dragons above vanishing into the ether. Visenya was gone, her presence erased as if she had never been. The sands beneath Aegon’s feet turned cold and black, the golden light extinguished. He stood alone, his hand still outstretched, the silence deafening.
Aegon gasped as he woke, his chest heaving, his body drenched in sweat. The room around him was dark and still, the faint light of the embers in the hearth barely illuminating the edges of his chambers. He sat up abruptly, his hand clutching the edge of the bed as he tried to steady his breathing.
“Rhaenys,” he whispered hoarsely, the dream still clinging to him like a shadow.
Beside him, Rhaenys stirred, her warm body shifting closer as her silver-gold hair spilled over her shoulder. She murmured something softly, her voice thick with sleep. “Aegon?” she asked, her hand brushing against his chest.
He turned to her, his violet eyes scanning her face, needing to see her alive, whole. The sight of her steady breathing, her soft warmth against him, eased the crushing weight in his chest. He exhaled shakily, pulling her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“It was just a dream,” he whispered, his voice trembling despite his words. “Go back to sleep.”
Rhaenys frowned slightly, her hand lingering on his chest. “You’re trembling,” she said softly, her voice laced with concern. “What did you see?”
Aegon hesitated, the images of the dream still vivid in his mind. The song, the fall, the silence—it all felt too real, too heavy to put into words. Instead, he shook his head, forcing a small smile as he kissed her again. “Nothing,” he said. “It was just a dream.”
She didn’t press him, though her gaze lingered on him for a moment before she nestled back into his chest. Aegon held her tightly, his arms wrapped around her as though she might disappear. He stared at the shadows on the ceiling, the echoes of her song haunting him as the silence of the dream lingered.
The golden light of dawn streamed softly into Aegon’s chambers, illuminating the room with a gentle warmth. Rhaenys stirred beneath the silken sheets, her body brushing against the solid warmth of Aegon beside her. Slowly, she opened her eyes, her gaze meeting his. He was already awake, his violet eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her pause.
“Is everything alright, my love?” she asked softly, her voice laced with concern.
“Yes,” he replied, though his smile carried an almost sad edge. His hand reached out, brushing a strand of silver-gold hair from her face. “Everything’s fine.”
She frowned slightly, sensing something deeper beneath his words, but she chose not to press him. Instead, she smiled, letting the concern fade for now. “You’re so beautiful,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but filled with a reverence that made her heart ache.
Rhaenys couldn’t help but smile at the unexpected compliment, her cheeks warming. “And you’re too charming for your own good,” she teased gently, leaning in for a small kiss.
Before she could pull away, Aegon deepened the kiss, his lips pressing firmly against hers with an urgency that caught her off guard. Not that she was going to complain. His hands slid up her sides, pulling her closer to him as he claimed her mouth with a need that sent a shiver down her spine.
Without breaking the kiss, he shifted her, his strong hands guiding her until she was straddling him. Rhaenys let out a soft gasp, almost shocked by the urgency of his movements. His hands roamed her body, finding the edge of her nightgown and pulling it off in one swift motion. She barely had time to react before his lips found her neck, his breath hot against her skin.
“Oh, Aegon,” she moaned softly, her fingers threading through his silver-gold hair as his hands gripped her hips. She could feel the tension radiating from him, the weight of something unspoken driving his every touch.
“I need you,” he murmured, his voice rough and trembling with emotion. His violet eyes met hers, and she stilled for a moment, taken aback by what she saw in them. Fear. A flicker of something she had never seen in him before.
She cupped his face gently, her fingers brushing against his jaw. “I’m here,” she whispered, her voice soft and steady. “I’m yours.”
With a mutual understanding passing between them, she reached down, her hand guiding him to her entrance. Aegon’s breath hitched as she moved, her body slowly taking him in. Once he was fully inside her, a moan escaped her lips, low and sweet, as she melted into him. His hands gripped her hips tighter, grounding himself in her warmth as a deep groan rumbled from his chest.
Rhaenys began to move, her hips rolling with purpose, her body responding to his as though they were made for each other. The urgency in his touch fueled her, and she leaned down, pressing her lips to his neck, her breath mingling with his. His hands roamed her back, her sides, her thighs, unable to get enough of her.
Her moans filled the room, soft at first, then louder as the rhythm of their movements grew. “Aegon,” she gasped, her voice trembling with both pleasure and emotion. His hands guided her hips, meeting her every movement with equal fervor.
“I love you,” he murmured, his voice thick with feeling as his hands moved to cradle her face. She leaned into his touch, her heart pounding in her chest as she looked into his eyes. There was something raw and vulnerable in his gaze, something that both scared and comforted her.
They moved together, their bodies and souls entwined, each touch and sound a reassurance, a promise. In that moment, nothing else mattered. The world outside the chambers, the weight of their ambitions, the shadows of dreams—they all melted away, leaving only the two of them, lost in each other.
Over the next few days, Aegon’s uncharacteristic quietness became impossible to ignore, even for those not attuned to him. For Visenya, however, it was obvious. She had always been able to read him like a well-worn map. His usually sharp focus was dulled, his responses to even important matters delayed as though his mind lingered somewhere else.
She watched him now, standing alone in the Throne Room, his hands resting on the edge of the great carved map of Westeros. His gaze was fixed on nothing in particular, his thoughts clearly far from the task at hand.
“You’ve been like this for days,” Visenya said, her voice sharp yet measured as she stepped into the room. Her boots clicked against the stone floor, her presence breaking the heavy silence. “Whatever’s gnawing at you, it’s not doing us any favors.”
Aegon didn’t turn, his fingers tracing a line across the map as if it held answers to questions he couldn’t voice. “I’m fine,” he said flatly, his tone betraying the truth.
Visenya rolled her eyes, coming to stand opposite him at the table. She leaned forward, her hands braced against the wood as she met his gaze. “You’re not fine. You’re quiet, distracted. Not even Rhaenys’s company seems to pull you out of this... whatever this is.”
He sighed heavily, his shoulders stiffening under the weight of her scrutiny. “It’s nothing,” he said again, his voice firmer this time, though not convincing enough for Visenya.
She narrowed her eyes at him, refusing to let him dismiss her so easily. “If you want to keep it to yourself, fine,” she said, her tone cool but unwavering. “But don’t insult me by pretending everything is normal when it clearly isn’t.”
Aegon glanced up at her then, his violet eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment before dropping back to the map. “Some things are better left unsaid,” he murmured.
Visenya tilted her head, studying him. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But silence doesn’t make those things disappear.”
Aegon stayed quiet for a long moment, his hands tightening slightly on the edge of the table. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. “Do you believe in dreams, Visenya?”
The question caught her off guard, though she didn’t let it show. Her expression remained composed as she answered. “Dreams can come from many places,” she said carefully. “Sometimes they’re gifts from the gods, guiding us toward what must be. But other times...” She paused, her gaze sharpening. “Other times, they come from within. From our own demons and doubts.”
Aegon’s jaw tightened at her words, though he didn’t respond. Visenya stepped closer, her voice softening slightly. “You’ve never been one to let fear rule you,” she said. “Whatever you’ve seen in your dreams, remember that they don’t hold power unless you give it to them.”
Aegon exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Where is everyone?” he asked finally, changing the subject.
Visenya straightened, sensing his need to shift the conversation and allowing it, for now. “Mother is busy ordering my new armor,” she said, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “She’s insistent that the new seal be displayed prominently, as if I didn’t already wear the dragon proudly enough.”
Aegon let out a faint, almost amused hum but didn’t respond.
“Orys and Daemon are together,” Visenya continued, “likely talking strategy—or trying to outdrink each other.”
“And Rhaenys?” Aegon asked, his voice quieter, though his focus seemed to sharpen.
“She’s flying,” Visenya said simply, her tone almost reverent. “She took Meraxes out before dawn. Said she wanted to stretch her wings.”
Aegon nodded slowly, his gaze drifting back to the map. “She’s always happiest in the sky,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Visenya watched him for a moment longer, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. She didn’t know what haunted her brother, but she knew him well enough to trust that he wouldn’t let it consume him—at least, not without a fight.
“Whatever it is, Aegon,” she said finally, her voice low but steady, “don’t let it linger. We don’t have the luxury of being ruled by shadows.”
The doors to the throne room creaked open, and Valaena Velaryon strode in, her silver-grey hair catching the faint light as she entered with purpose. Her steps echoed against the stone floor, the weight of authority and wisdom evident in her every movement. In her hands, she carried two parchments, their seals broken, the edges slightly crumpled from the haste of their delivery.
Aegon turned toward her, his expression sharpening as she approached the carved map table where he stood. Visenya, who had remained at the far side of the room, straightened as their mother entered, her keen eyes narrowing as she took in Valaena’s serious demeanor.
“Aegon,” Valaena said, her voice calm but edged with gravity. She held up the parchments. “Messages have arrived.”
She unfolded the first parchment, her fingers deft and practiced as she scanned its contents before looking up. “The Princess of Dorne offers to fight alongside you against the Storm King. However...” She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line. “She will not swear allegiance to you or the Iron Throne.”
Aegon’s jaw tightened, though he remained silent, his violet eyes darkening as he processed the words. Valaena continued, her voice steady. “A compromise she hopes will satisfy. But one that leaves her independence intact.”
“That’s no compromise,” Visenya interjected, her voice cold and sharp as she stepped closer. “It’s defiance wrapped in silk. She’d sooner play us against Argilac than bend the knee.”
Aegon nodded slightly, but his gaze remained fixed on the parchment. He didn’t speak, waiting for his mother to continue.
Valaena shifted to the second parchment, her brow furrowing slightly as she glanced over its contents. “The Queen Regent of the Vale offers an alliance,” she said, her voice laced with disapproval. “But like the Princess of Dorne, she refuses to swear fealty. She proposes mutual protection, but only as equals, not as subjects.”
At this, Aegon let out a low breath, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he leaned forward. His silence was heavy, the weight of inevitability pressing down on the room.
“These are not offers of loyalty,” Valaena added, her tone firm. “They are veiled rejections.”
Visenya smirked, though there was no humor in her expression. “Rejections wrapped in courtesy,” she said. “And meant to buy time while they shore up their defenses.”
Aegon straightened, his expression unreadable as he looked between his mother and sister. “War, then,” he said finally, his voice low but resolute. “They’ve made their choice.”
“Yes,” Valaena replied, her tone measured as she folded the parchments and placed them on the table. “War is inevitable now.”
Rhaenys entered the room just as the words hung in the air, her cheeks flushed from the wind and her silver-gold hair slightly disheveled from her flight. She paused, her violet eyes flicking between them. “What’s happened?” she asked, her tone curious but tinged with concern.
Aegon turned to her, his expression softening briefly before the weight of his decision returned. “The Princess of Dorne and the Queen Regent of the Vale refuse to bend the knee,” he said simply. “They’ve chosen defiance.”
Rhaenys frowned, stepping closer to the table. “And their terms?”
“Empty gestures,” Visenya said, her voice sharp. “They offer alliances but no loyalty. They’d rather play at politics than see the truth before them.”
“And the truth is fire and blood,” Aegon added, his tone quiet but unwavering. His gaze met Rhaenys’s, and something unspoken passed between them—a shared understanding of what was to come.
Valaena watched her children, her expression carefully neutral, though a flicker of sadness crossed her features. “The banners must be raised,” she said softly. “We’ll need every sword at our side.”
Aegon nodded, his resolve solidifying as he turned his attention back to the map. His hand rested on the carved outline of Westeros, his fingers brushing against the Stormlands and the Vale. “They’ve chosen this path,” he said. “And they will see where it leads.”
The siblings stood together, their mother a silent sentinel behind them. The parchments lay on the table, their words no longer holding sway. The decision had been made, and the drums of war had begun to sound.
Chapter 3: The Dragons' First Step
Chapter Text
The shores of Dragonstone were alive with motion as the time for departure arrived. The air was thick with salt and purpose, the cries of gulls mingling with the roar of dragons and the clang of steel. Soldiers scurried across the docks, loading the last of the provisions onto sleek black galleys, while banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snapped in the brisk sea breeze.
Aegon, clad in his regal black and crimson armor, stood at the edge of the dock, surveying the preparations with a quiet intensity. His breastplate bore the newly crafted sigil of his house—a three-headed red dragon, its wings outstretched across the blackened steel. Over his shoulders hung a crimson cloak fastened by a black dragon clasp, the weight of it a reminder of the burden he now carried. His silver-gold hair, carefully braided back, gleamed in the pale morning light.
Beside him, Visenya, dressed in her battle armor, exuded an air of sharp authority. Her armor, forged from dark steel with faint purple undertones, was crafted to resemble dragon scales, each piece a testament to her unyielding nature. Dark Sister, her Valyrian steel blade, hung at her side. Her braided hair was adorned with silver clasps shaped like dragon heads, and her expression was as cold and resolute as the steel she wielded.
To his other side stood Rhaenys, her presence a striking contrast to Visenya’s severity. She wore lighter, more elegant armor, black with crimson inlays that curved like flames along its edges. Her crimson cloak flowed behind her, fastened with a gold brooch shaped like a dragon in flight. Her silver-gold hair, interwoven with fine gold threads, was braided intricately, catching the morning sun and giving her an ethereal glow. She smiled faintly as she oversaw the final preparations, her warmth providing a steadying presence for the soldiers.
Behind them stood Valaena Velaryon, their mother, clad in a flowing gown of deep blue adorned with silver embroidery. Her silver-grey hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her violet eyes were calm, though they betrayed a flicker of concern as she looked at her children.
“This is the beginning,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “Remember who you are. You carry the fire of the dragon and the hope of our house.”
Rhaenys stepped forward, embracing her mother tightly. “We will return, victorious,” she promised, her voice full of confidence.
Visenya gave a curt nod as she embraced their mother, her tone cool but sincere. “We’ll make them remember the power of dragons.”
Aegon was the last to embrace her, his grip firm but filled with unspoken emotion. “We will bring Westeros to its knees,” he said quietly. “For fire and blood.”
Orys Baratheon and Daemon Velaryon, their closest allies, stood nearby. Orys, clad in heavy Baratheon armor, clapped Aegon on the shoulder. “We’ll see this through,” he said gruffly. Daemon, with his sea-green cloak billowing behind him, gave a small, confident nod. “The seas are ours,” he said. “The rest will follow.”
As the Targaryens boarded their flagship, the roar of the dragons filled the air. The fleet began to move, the ships slicing through the waters of Blackwater Bay. None of them looked back as Dragonstone receded into the distance, their focus fixed on the horizon.
The Targaryen fleet approached the Blackwater Rush as the sun climbed higher into the sky. The shoreline ahead was a serene stretch of golden sands and green hills, seemingly untouched by the chaos that was to come. The banners of House Targaryen rippled in the wind, their crimson dragons a stark warning to all who might oppose them.
The landing was swift and efficient. Aegon was the first to step onto the mainland, his boots sinking into the soft sand. Behind him, the dragons descended, their roars shaking the earth. Balerion the Black Dread, massive and menacing, landed with a ground-shaking thud, his black wings folding neatly at his sides. Meraxes, silver and graceful, perched nearby, while Vhagar prowled restlessly along the dunes.
Rhaenys dismounted Meraxes with practiced ease, kneeling briefly to run her fingers through the sand. “This is it,” she said softly, letting the grains fall through her fingers.
Visenya stepped forward, her hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister. “The calm before the storm,” she remarked, her tone sharp and deliberate.
By evening, the Targaryen camp was alive with activity. Fires burned in orderly clusters, casting flickering light across the bustling soldiers and the banners that marked the heart of the encampment. At its center, the Targaryen sigil flew high, its crimson dragon vivid against the black field.
Each of the key figures had their own quarters.
Aegon and Rhaenys shared a tent, a large structure of crimson and black cloth. Inside, the furnishings were both practical and intimate—a low bed draped in fine silks and furs, a sturdy table covered in maps and parchments, and a chest of personal effects. Rhaenys, her hair now loose, sat cross-legged on the bed, humming softly as she combed her hair. Aegon sat nearby, his fingers tracing the map before him as he glanced at her with a rare softness in his gaze.
Visenya’s tent stood slightly apart, its black walls trimmed with silver. Inside, her cot was draped in dark furs, and her table bore Dark Sister, a whetstone, and her armor. She sat sharpening her blade, the rhythmic sound blending with the crackle of nearby fires. Her solitary space reflected her focus, her mind consumed with strategy.
Orys Baratheon’s tent was minimalist, placed near the soldiers’ quarters. The sturdy structure housed little more than a cot, a table, and his armor stand. Orys himself spent much of the evening by the fire, his booming laugh and easy humor a comfort to the younger men.
At the largest fire, Aegon, Rhaenys, Visenya, Orys, and Daemon Velaryon gathered. The flames danced between them, illuminating their faces as they spoke in low tones.
“Are we ready?” Rhaenys asked, her voice soft but steady.
“We are,” Aegon replied. “But readiness doesn’t make what’s to come any easier.”
Visenya scoffed lightly. “War isn’t meant to be easy. But we have dragons. Let them see fire and remember why they should fear us.”
Orys chuckled, tearing into a piece of bread. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got Vhagar. The rest of us rely on steel and grit.”
“Then sharpen your grit,” Visenya shot back, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
As the night deepened, the fire burned lower, and the camp began to quiet. Soldiers retreated to their tents, while the dragons rumbled softly in the distance. Aegon and Rhaenys returned to their shared tent, where she rested her head against his chest, offering him silent comfort. Visenya remained awake, her sword across her knees, her thoughts consumed with the battles to come.
In the stillness of the camp, the Targaryens prepared themselves—not just their weapons, but their hearts and minds—for the storm they were about to unleash. The conquest of Westeros had begun.
Morning broke over the Targaryen camp, painting the golden sands and rolling hills with hues of pink and amber. The sky was clear, the light of the rising sun reflected off the calm waters of the Blackwater Rush, and the air was cool and still. The faint sounds of soldiers stirring and the distant rumble of the dragons added a quiet hum to the tranquility of the dawn.
Aegon Targaryen was the first to rise. The faint glow of dawn illuminated his tent as he slipped from the furs of his shared bed with Rhaenys, careful not to wake her. He dressed simply in dark breaches and a loose black tunic, fastening a crimson cloak over his shoulders before stepping outside. The camp was quiet, save for a few early risers preparing for the day.
Aegon made his way to the cliffside, his boots crunching softly against the rocky path as he climbed to the vantage point overlooking the beach. From there, he could see the vast expanse of water stretching to the horizon and the fleet bobbing gently in the shallows below. The world seemed impossibly still, a stark contrast to the fire and chaos he knew would soon follow.
He stood there, the cool breeze tugging at his cloak, his violet eyes scanning the land that would soon become the stage for his conquest. This was the first step in a journey that would change the course of history, and the weight of it settled heavily on his shoulders. Yet, in the quiet of the morning, he felt a rare moment of clarity.
The sound of footsteps broke the silence. Aegon didn’t turn, recognizing the steady, confident stride of Orys Baratheon as he approached.
“You’re up early,” Orys said, his voice low and rough from sleep.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Aegon admitted without looking away from the horizon. “There’s too much to consider.”
Orys stepped up beside him, resting his hands on his belt as he took in the view. “A fine morning to begin changing the world,” he remarked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Aegon let out a quiet hum of agreement, though his gaze remained distant. “What news from the spies?”
Orys’s smirk faded, replaced by a more serious expression. “They brought word last night,” he said, his tone measured. “Harren Hoare, King of the Isles and the Rivers, took residence in his finally completed fortress, Harrenhal, the same day we landed.”
Aegon’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening slightly at the mention of Harren. “A fortress built on the bones of his people,” he said quietly. “He’ll reap what he’s sown.”
“There’s more,” Orys continued. “The High Septon learned of your landing. He’s locked himself in the Starry Sept, praying day and night for the Seven to save Westeros.”
Aegon turned to Orys, his expression unreadable. “And do you think the gods will answer him?” he asked.
Orys shrugged, a faint grin returning. “I’ve always put more faith in swords than prayers.”
Aegon chuckled softly, though the sound lacked true mirth. “Wise. The gods may hear his prayers, but they won’t save him from dragonfire.”
The two men stood in companionable silence for a moment, the morning breeze carrying the scent of salt and the faint rumble of the dragons far below. Finally, Orys broke the quiet.
“You’ve chosen the right moment, Aegon,” he said, his voice filled with quiet conviction. “The lords of Westeros may think themselves mighty, but they’ve never faced anything like us. They won’t see it coming.”
Aegon nodded, his gaze returning to the horizon. “This land is fractured,” he said. “And I will make it whole. Fire and blood will bind it together.”
Orys placed a hand on Aegon’s shoulder, his grip firm. “You’ve got the strength for this, my friend. And you’ve got us.”
Aegon turned to him then, a faint smile playing on his lips. “That I do,” he said. “And that’s all I’ll need.”
The sound of dragon wings beating the air interrupted them, and both men looked up to see Balerion circling above, his shadow passing over the cliffs. The sight was a reminder of the power they wielded, a force unmatched in the world.
Aegon took a deep breath, the weight of his dreams and the reality of his task settling firmly in his chest. “Come,” he said, his voice steady. “There’s much to do.”
The two men descended the cliffside together, the rising sun at their backs, and the Targaryen camp stirring to life below. The day had begun, and with it, the first chapter of a conquest that would shape the fate of Westeros.
The weeks following the Targaryen landing were marked by ceaseless activity. The camp at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush transformed from a temporary base into the foundation of something far greater. Aegon had chosen the highest hill overlooking the river—later to be known as Aegon's High Hill—as the site for his stronghold. From this vantage point, the Targaryens could oversee the river, the surrounding lands, and any potential threats that might arise.
The work began immediately. Under Aegon’s orders, a crude wood-and-earth castle, named Aegonfort, was to be constructed. It would serve as a symbol of their intent, a foothold from which the conquest of Westeros would grow. Soldiers and laborers worked tirelessly, cutting timber from nearby forests and digging into the soil to raise the walls of the fort. The sound of axes striking wood and the clatter of tools filled the air, mingling with the roars of the dragons perched on the hilltop.
Aegon often stood at the highest point of the hill, overseeing the construction. Dressed in simple black-and-crimson garb, his armor set aside, he observed every detail of the work with a keen eye. The fort was modest compared to the grand castles of Westeros, but it was not meant to rival them in beauty. It was a statement—a declaration of intent.
“This is where it begins,” he said one evening as he stood with Visenya and Rhaenys, his violet eyes scanning the half-constructed walls.
Visenya, clad in her dark armor even during moments of rest, crossed her arms as she inspected the work. “It’s humble,” she remarked, her voice edged with a faint smirk. “But I suppose it will suffice.”
“It’s temporary,” Rhaenys said softly, her crimson cloak fluttering in the breeze. “Someday, there will be something greater here. Something worthy of what we will accomplish.”
Aegon nodded, his gaze lingering on the rising structure. “This is the seed,” he said. “From here, the dragons will take root.”
The design of Aegonfort was simple but effective. The walls were made of timber reinforced with packed earth, strong enough to withstand any immediate assault. Watchtowers were erected at strategic points, offering a clear view of the surrounding land and the river below. A wide, sturdy gate marked the entrance, and a small courtyard within the walls housed the essentials: barracks, armories, and storage areas.
The Targaryen banner, with its three-headed dragon, flew proudly from the highest point of the fort, visible for miles around. It was a constant reminder to the lords and smallfolk of Westeros that a new power had arrived.
Visenya took charge of the fort’s defenses, ensuring that the watchtowers were manned day and night. She personally inspected the work, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She ordered additional barricades and insisted that trenches be dug around the perimeter, creating an additional layer of protection.
Rhaenys, meanwhile, oversaw the logistics, ensuring that supplies flowed smoothly into the camp. She spoke with the laborers and soldiers with a warmth that lifted their spirits, her presence a reassuring contrast to Visenya’s stern demeanor.
Orys Baratheon often worked alongside the men, his booming laughter and encouragement spurring them on. He became a familiar sight among the laborers, his presence a steadying influence on the camp.
Above it all, the dragons kept vigil. Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar perched on the hilltop or circled lazily in the sky, their roars occasionally echoing across the land. Their presence alone was enough to keep potential threats at bay. No lord or raider dared approach the growing fort, knowing that to do so would invite death by dragonfire.
At night, the dragons' silhouettes were visible against the moonlit sky, their shadows casting long, jagged shapes over the camp. Soldiers often looked up at them with a mix of awe and fear, whispering prayers to the gods that the dragons would only ever unleash their wrath on their enemies.
By the time Aegonfort was completed, it stood as a crude but formidable stronghold. It was not meant to rival the grandeur of castles like Harrenhal or the Eyrie, but it served its purpose well. From this foothold, the Targaryens could strike outward, their reach extending into the heart of Westeros.
Standing atop the newly finished walls, Aegon looked out over the land with his sisters and Orys at his side. The rising sun cast its light over the Blackwater Rush, bathing the fort in a warm glow.
“This is only the beginning,” Aegon said, his voice steady but filled with quiet determination. “The world will remember this hill. The world will remember the dragon.”
The crude but imposing Aegonfort stood as the centerpiece of the Targaryen foothold on the mainland. The wooden walls were fortified, the banners of the three-headed dragon flying high above, visible for miles. Inside the fort’s great hall, Aegon Targaryen stood surrounded by his closest council. His sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, were flanking him at the head of the war table, their starkly different demeanors mirroring their roles in the budding conquest.
Visenya leaned over the table, her gloved hand tracing the map spread across its surface. “Rosby must fall,” she said with cold determination. “It is too close for us to leave unchallenged. If they resist, they’ll provide a staging ground for our enemies. If they yield, we secure the Crownlands one piece at a time.”
“Agreed,” Aegon replied, his eyes narrowing as he studied the map. “But who will go?”
Before anyone could answer, Rhaenys stepped forward, her crimson cloak swaying as she moved. “I will,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Meraxes and I can handle this without bloodshed. The sight of a dragon will be enough.”
Aegon’s brow furrowed, his gaze snapping to her. “No,” he said firmly. “It’s too dangerous. I won’t send you into unknown territory alone.”
Rhaenys tilted her head, her expression patient but resolute. “You’ve seen what Meraxes can do, Aegon. There’s no danger they could muster that my dragon and I can’t handle.”
Visenya, standing to the side with her arms crossed, interjected. “She’s right, brother,” she said bluntly. “The lords of Westeros will only take us seriously if they see the strength of our dragons. Let her go. You know she’ll succeed.”
Aegon’s gaze shifted to Visenya, his frustration evident. “And what if something goes wrong? What if they use treachery, poison, or worse?”
Visenya’s eyes flashed with impatience, and she stepped closer, her voice rising. “Do you think we are fools, Aegon? Rhaenys is no helpless maiden, and neither am I. We are Targaryens. We are dragons. Stop trying to shield us like we’re made of glass.”
“Visenya,” Rhaenys said softly, placing a hand on her sister’s arm to calm her. She turned to Aegon, her violet eyes filled with warmth. “I know you worry for me. But this is what I am meant to do. Let me prove it.”
Aegon’s jaw tightened, the conflict playing out in his expression. Orys Baratheon, standing nearby, finally broke the silence. “Let her go, Aegon,” he said. “You need to show the realm that your strength is not just in your dragons, but in the people who command them. Rhaenys is more than capable.”
Aegon exhaled heavily, his resistance fading as he looked at Rhaenys. Her resolve was unshakable, and despite his fears, he couldn’t deny the truth of her words—or the wisdom of sending her. Finally, he nodded. “Very well,” he said. “But be careful. I won’t risk losing you.”
Rhaenys smiled softly, stepping closer to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “I will return before you know it,” she promised.
The following afternoon, Rhaenys prepared for her journey. She stood beside Meraxes, the silver-scaled dragon stretching her wings as soldiers and smallfolk looked on in awe. Rhaenys wore light armor, black with crimson inlays, and a flowing crimson cloak fastened with a gold dragon clasp. Her silver-gold hair was braided neatly, her expression calm yet determined.
Aegon, Visenya, and Orys watched from the fort as she mounted the massive dragon. “Safe travels, sister,” Visenya called, her voice firm. “And remind them why they should bend the knee.”
Rhaenys smirked, giving her sister a playful nod. She looked back at Aegon one last time, her smile softening. “I’ll be back before nightfall,” she said.
With a powerful leap, Meraxes launched into the sky, her massive wings creating gusts of wind that swept across the fort. The dragon’s roar echoed as they ascended, her shadow casting an imposing silhouette over the camp below.
The flight to Rosby was swift, the winds carrying them smoothly across the green expanse of the Crownlands. Below, the patchwork fields of farmland blurred into a tapestry of gold and green, dotted with villages whose inhabitants froze in awe and terror at the sight of the great dragon soaring above.
The modest castle of Rosby came into view as the sun dipped low in the sky, casting the fortress in hues of amber. It was a simple structure, unassuming and without grandeur, surrounded by farmland and orchards. As Meraxes approached, her enormous shadow consumed the castle, sending the garrison into chaos.
Rhaenys circled the castle once, Meraxes roaring loudly enough to shake the walls and send flocks of birds scattering into the twilight sky. Soldiers scrambled along the battlements, their shouts mingling with the terrified cries of smallfolk seeking refuge. Weapons clattered to the ground as the garrison realized the futility of resistance.
Meraxes descended with grace, landing heavily in the courtyard, her silver scales gleaming like molten metal in the dying light. The earth trembled under her weight, and the soldiers who had dared to remain rooted in place dropped their swords, their eyes wide with terror.
Rhaenys dismounted slowly, her crimson cloak billowing behind her as she strode toward the keep. Her violet eyes locked onto Lord Rosby, who had emerged from the shadows of his hall, his face pale and his hands trembling.
“Lord Rosby,” Rhaenys called, her voice calm but commanding, echoing across the courtyard. “I come not as your enemy, but as your queen. Bend the knee, and your house will be spared. Defy me, and Meraxes will make ashes of your halls.”
Meraxes growled low, smoke curling from her nostrils, the scent of sulfur thick in the air. The lord faltered, his legs shaking as he stumbled forward. Slowly, he dropped to his knees, his voice barely audible. “I yield,” he stammered. “Rosby is yours.”
Rhaenys smiled faintly, her warmth offset by the immense power standing behind her. “Then rise,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “You’ve chosen wisely.”
As Lord Rosby struggled to his feet, Rhaenys turned back to Meraxes, climbing gracefully into the saddle. With a powerful beat of her wings, the dragon ascended into the sky, her triumphant roar echoing one last time over the humbled castle.
The flight back to Aegonfort was unhurried, the twilight air cool against Rhaenys’s skin. She allowed herself a rare moment of peace as she looked down at the flickering lights of villages below, knowing that the first step of their conquest had been successful. The sight of the fort rising against the darkened sky filled her with quiet pride.
As Meraxes descended onto the hill, Rhaenys saw Aegon waiting for her, flanked by Visenya and Orys. She dismounted with a graceful leap, and before she could speak, Aegon pulled her into a tight embrace.
“You did it,” he murmured, his voice filled with both relief and pride.
“Of course I did,” she replied, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Did you ever doubt me?”
“Never,” he said, though his grip on her lingered, as if unwilling to let her go again.
Visenya stepped forward, her smirk sharp. “One down. Now let’s see how many more we can bring to their knees.”
Rhaenys chuckled, her gaze flicking between her siblings.
In the days following Rhaenys’s triumph at Rosby, the mood at Aegonfort was one of restless anticipation. Soldiers drilled in the courtyard under the watchful eyes of Orys Baratheon, while Aegon spent hours in council with his sisters, mapping their next moves. The submission of Rosby had been swift and bloodless, a clear demonstration of the power of dragons. However, the next target, House Stokeworth, was known for its stubborn pride.
The sun had barely risen when the decision was made. Visenya and Rhaenys would ride together to secure the submission of Stokeworth. Though Visenya’s stern gaze often brought lords to heel and Rhaenys’s grace inspired loyalty, Aegon remained uneasy. He stood with his arms crossed as his sisters prepared for departure, the tension between them palpable.
“You’re sending both of them?” Orys asked quietly, watching the two women mount their dragons.
“They’re unstoppable together,” Aegon replied, though his jaw was tight. “But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me uneasy.”
The morning was brisk, the sky painted with streaks of orange and gold as Meraxes and Vhagar rose into the air. Below, the soldiers of Aegonfort watched in awe, their heads tilted skyward as the great dragons cast long shadows over the land.
Rhaenys, atop Meraxes, looked over at Visenya as their dragons climbed higher. “Do you think this will be as easy as Rosby?” she called over the wind.
Visenya, seated firmly on Vhagar, glanced at her sister, her expression as sharp as the steel of Dark Sister at her side. “No,” she said bluntly. “They’re closer to the Vale and Stormlands. They’ll want to prove their loyalty to their neighbors before bending the knee to us.”
Rhaenys tilted her head, her braided silver-gold hair catching the sunlight. “And what happens if they don’t yield?”
Visenya’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Then we remind them why dragons are feared.”
Rhaenys chuckled softly, though her tone carried a hint of seriousness. “You’re always so quick to burn everything.”
“I prefer to call it efficiency,” Visenya replied.
As the sisters flew side by side, the countryside unfolded beneath them—rolling green fields, patches of dense forest, and small villages where the sight of dragons sent villagers scattering like startled mice. The occasional plume of smoke from a cooking fire marked a homestead, but the roads were eerily empty. Word of the dragons had spread, and fear gripped the land.
By midday, the castle of Stokeworth came into view, a sturdy fortress atop a gentle hill surrounded by fields and orchards. It was modest, like Rosby, but its stone walls and high towers suggested a lord who valued defense. The sisters circled once, their dragons roaring in unison, the sound reverberating across the valley.
The castle erupted into chaos. Soldiers scrambled along the walls, their shouts carrying faintly through the air. The gates were drawn shut, and smallfolk fled into the surrounding fields, desperate to escape the shadow of the dragons.
“They’re preparing to resist,” Visenya observed, her violet eyes narrowing.
Rhaenys frowned. “Do they really think they can stand against us?”
Visenya’s grip on Dark Sister tightened. “Some men need to see fire to believe it.”
As the dragons descended, the air grew thick with tension. Meraxes landed first, her silver scales gleaming like molten metal, her massive claws sinking into the soft earth of the courtyard. Soldiers on the walls hesitated, their bows drawn but shaking in their hands.
Vhagar followed, her darker, more menacing form creating an even greater sense of dread. Visenya dismounted first, her movements deliberate and commanding as she strode toward the gate, her armor gleaming faintly in the fading light.
From the battlements, a lone soldier loosed an arrow, the bolt sailing toward Meraxes but falling far short. The act of defiance was enough to ignite the dragons’ fury. Meraxes roared, the sound deafening, and Rhaenys, still mounted, called out. “Do you know what you’re doing?” her voice echoed across the courtyard. “You have one chance to submit before we bring fire to your gates!”
The gates remained closed, and another arrow flew, this one aimed at Vhagar. It missed entirely, but the insult was clear.
Visenya’s patience snapped. She turned to Vhagar and issued a single command. The dark dragon unleashed a torrent of flame, the fiery breath engulfing the keep’s roof and sending thick black smoke billowing into the sky. Screams erupted from within as the wooden beams burned, the flames consuming everything in their path.
Rhaenys, seeing the fear now gripping the soldiers below, raised her voice once more. “Your castle burns! Your lives are forfeit if you do not yield. Bend the knee now, and you may yet be spared!”
The gates of Stokeworth creaked open, and a trembling lord stumbled out, flanked by a handful of soot-streaked retainers. His face was pale, his knees visibly shaking as he approached the two dragonriders.
“We yield!” he cried, his voice breaking. “House Stokeworth swears fealty to House Targaryen!”
Visenya sheathed Dark Sister with a sharp motion, her lips curling into a faint smile. “A wise choice,” she said coldly.
Rhaenys dismounted Meraxes gracefully, her crimson cloak trailing behind her as she approached the cowering lord. “Your loyalty will be remembered,” she said, her tone gentler but no less commanding. “See that you do not falter.”
The lord fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground. “We will not, my queen.”
The flight back to Aegonfort was somber, the sisters silent as their dragons carried them over the blackened ruins of the keep. The fires still smoldered, a stark reminder of the cost of defiance.
As they neared the fort, Rhaenys finally spoke. “Do you think he’ll be satisfied?”
Visenya glanced at her, her sharp eyes unreadable. “He’ll be satisfied that we’re still alive,” she said. “But we’ve only just begun. There will be more lords like Stokeworth who think they can resist us. And we will teach them all the same lesson.”
Rhaenys smiled faintly, her gaze turning toward the horizon. “Then we’d best prepare. Westeros has yet to see the full strength of House Targaryen.”
As they descended toward the fort, the sight of Aegon waiting for them at the gates brought a rare warmth to Visenya’s expression. The sisters had returned victorious, and the conquest of Westeros continued to take shape, one castle at a time.
That evening, Aegonfort buzzed with life. The successful submission of Rosby and Stokeworth had marked the first major victories of the conquest, and Aegon had decreed a celebration to honor the accomplishments of his sisters and their dragons. Bonfires blazed in the courtyard, casting flickering shadows across the wooden walls of the fort, and the sound of music and laughter filled the air.
Soldiers, smallfolk, and courtiers mingled together, their usual wariness eased by the promise of wine and the joyous atmosphere. Tables laden with roasted meats, fresh bread, and fruit were arranged around the main fire, and flagons of ale and goblets of wine were passed from hand to hand.
Aegon, seated at the head of the central table, watched over the festivities with a rare smile. Dressed in his black and crimson attire, he radiated quiet pride as he observed his people celebrating. At his side sat Rhaenys and Visenya, their presence commanding as always but touched with the lightness of victory.
Rhaenys was the heart of the celebration. She moved effortlessly among the gathered men and women, her laughter infectious as she joined in their songs and games. Her crimson gown shimmered in the firelight, the golden embroidery catching the glow with each graceful step.
At one point, a group of minstrels struck up a lively tune, and Rhaenys didn’t hesitate to take the floor. “Come, don’t let the music go to waste!” she called, clapping her hands in time with the beat. Her invitation was all the encouragement the soldiers needed, and soon the courtyard was alive with dancing.
Rhaenys herself led the charge, spinning and laughing as she moved among the revelers. Her lightheartedness was a balm to the weary men, a reminder of the joy that could still be found amidst the trials of conquest.
Even Visenya, usually stoic and detached, seemed to let her guard down. Dressed in a dark gown with subtle silver accents that mirrored her armor, she sat near the fire with Orys Baratheon and a few captains, her sharp eyes observing the merriment.
When a soldier, emboldened by drink, approached and asked her to dance, the entire courtyard seemed to hold its breath. Visenya’s expression remained unreadable for a moment, but then, to everyone’s surprise, the faintest smirk curved her lips.
“I suppose one dance won’t kill me,” she said dryly, rising from her seat.
The cheers that erupted were loud enough to make even the dragons stir on the hill above. Vhagar let out a low rumble, almost as if in approval, as Visenya allowed herself to be led to the center of the courtyard.
Though her movements were precise and restrained, there was an elegance to the way she danced, her braid swinging behind her as she moved with practiced grace. For a moment, even the most hardened soldiers saw a glimpse of something softer beneath her fierce exterior.
Aegon remained at the table, sipping from a goblet of wine as he watched his sisters. Daemon Velaryon leaned in beside him, the older man’s sea-green cloak catching the firelight. “It’s good to see them like this,” Daemon remarked. “A reminder of what we’re fighting for.”
Aegon nodded, his gaze lingering on Rhaenys as she spun among the revelers, her silver-gold hair glowing in the firelight. Then his eyes shifted to Visenya, who had returned to her seat, her usual sharp demeanor softened by a rare moment of levity.
“They’ve earned it,” Aegon said simply, his voice steady but filled with pride.
As the night deepened, the dancing gave way to singing. Soldiers and courtiers alike gathered around the main fire, sharing tales of the day’s victories and weaving new songs of dragons and conquest. A bard sang of Meraxes and Vhagar, their roars shaking the walls of Stokeworth, while others recounted the moment Lord Rosby fell to his knees before Rhaenys.
Rhaenys joined in the singing, her voice clear and bright, while Visenya listened quietly, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her goblet. Orys, seated beside her, leaned in with a wry smile. “I didn’t think I’d see you dance, let alone smile tonight,” he teased.
Visenya arched an eyebrow, her tone dry but not unkind. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Orys. Tomorrow, the work begins again.”
Above the fort, the dragons perched on the hill, their massive forms silhouetted against the starry sky. Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar watched over the celebration below, their low growls and occasional snorts of flame a reminder of the power that had secured the victories being celebrated.
Smallfolk and soldiers alike cast reverent glances toward the hill, murmuring thanks and toasts to the creatures that had brought them triumph.
As the celebration wound down and the fires began to burn lower, Aegon found himself walking through the quieting courtyard. He paused near the central fire, where Rhaenys was still seated, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright from the night’s merriment.
“You seemed to enjoy yourself,” he said, his tone warm.
Rhaenys smiled up at him, patting the bench beside her. “It’s not often we get to celebrate,” she said. “We should enjoy these moments when we can.”
Aegon sat beside her, his arm draping around her shoulders as he looked toward Visenya, who was speaking quietly with Orys near the edge of the firelight. “Even Visenya enjoyed herself,” he noted with a small chuckle.
Rhaenys laughed softly. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She’ll deny it to her last breath.”
As the last of the revelers retreated to their tents and chambers, the courtyard fell silent save for the crackling of the dying fires. Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya stood together one final time before retiring, the weight of their next steps heavy in the air.
“Two castles down,” Visenya said, her sharp gaze flicking toward the horizon. “And many more to go.”
Rhaenys nodded, though her smile remained. “Let them come. They’ll know what it means to face dragons soon enough.”
Aegon glanced at his sisters, his heart swelling with pride. The bonds between them—of blood, fire, and determination—were unbreakable. As the flames dimmed, he knew that the conquest was far from over, but tonight had been a reminder of why they fought. Together, they were unstoppable.
Chapter 4: The Weight of the Crown
Chapter Text
The dawn light filtered gently through the rough wooden slats of Aegonfort, illuminating the modest interior of Aegon Targaryen’s chambers. Built with haste atop Aegon’s High Hill, the fort was constructed of timber and earth, its walls sturdy but far from grand. Yet within its simplicity lay the beginnings of something far greater.
The room was sparsely furnished, reflecting the temporary nature of the stronghold. A wide wooden table, cluttered with maps and scrolls, dominated the space. A single brazier near the corner provided warmth during the cool nights, though it now sat unlit. Against one wall rested Aegon’s armor, freshly polished, its black and crimson tones glinting faintly in the soft light. Beside it, Blackfyre, his Valyrian steel sword, lay sheathed on its rack—a silent symbol of his destiny.
Aegon sat alone by the window, his figure framed by the early light of dawn. He was dressed simply, in a loose black tunic and trousers, his silver-gold hair unkempt from sleep. His violet eyes, sharp and thoughtful, gazed out over the waking camp below.
The sights and sounds of the camp stirred faintly. Smoke rose from the morning fires, and the distant clatter of metal and murmured voices reached his ears. Soldiers moved purposefully among the tents, preparing for the day ahead, while the occasional low growl from the dragons perched on the hill reminded all of the power that guarded them.
Yet within the walls of his chamber, all was still. Aegon’s gaze shifted to the horizon, where the Blackwater Rush shimmered in the soft morning light, winding toward the endless sea. Beyond that lay the vast expanse of Westeros, a land still fractured and unyielding.
His thoughts were heavy, as they often were in these quiet moments. The victories at Rosby and Stokeworth had been swift and decisive, but he knew the path ahead would not always be so straightforward. The lords of Westeros would not all submit without a fight, and with each conquest, the stakes grew higher.
He sighed deeply, leaning against the wooden frame of the window. The cool morning air brushed against his face, carrying with it the scent of salt from the nearby sea and the faint tang of smoke from the campfires below.
This was the stillness before the storm, a brief respite before the next step in the conquest. Aegon knew he should savor it, but the weight of his ambitions left little room for peace. He thought of his sisters, Rhaenys and Visenya, and the dragons they rode, their combined strength a key to his success. Yet even that strength could not erase the risks they faced.
He turned back to the room, his gaze falling on Blackfyre. The blade seemed to glint faintly in the dim light, a reminder of the fire and blood that had already begun to shape his destiny.
For a moment, Aegon closed his eyes, allowing the silence to wash over him. But it was fleeting. Outside, the camp was waking, and with it came the responsibilities of a conqueror.
The soft knock on the door roused Aegon Targaryen from his thoughts. He turned, violet eyes narrowing slightly as the world beyond his chamber intruded on his brief solitude. “Enter,” he called, his voice steady but edged with anticipation.
The door creaked open, and Orys Baratheon stepped in first, clad in polished armor that gleamed faintly in the light filtering through the window. Despite his noble bearing, the heavy set of his shoulders and the confident grip on his sword hilt spoke of the warrior within. Daemon Velaryon followed close behind, his sea-green cloak trimmed with silver swaying lightly as he entered. His silver hair, a clear marker of his Valyrian heritage, caught the light, and his expression was one of quiet determination.
Behind them came a young servant, carefully balancing a stand on which rested Aegon’s armor and royal regalia. The polished black-and-crimson breastplate shimmered faintly, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen etched in intricate detail across its chest. Beside it lay his cloak, rich and dark, fastened with a clasp shaped like a dragon’s maw.
Daemon stepped forward, inclining his head slightly. “It is time,” he said simply, his voice carrying the weight of the moment.
Aegon nodded, his expression resolute. He rose from his seat, his tunic rustling faintly as he moved toward the armor stand. As the servant assisted him, piece by piece, he began to transform from a man into a king.
The armor fit snugly, its weight both a burden and a comfort. The breastplate glinted in the light as it was secured, its engraved dragon appearing almost alive as the shadows danced across its surface. His black leather boots, polished to perfection, rose high, their clasps shaped like dragon scales. The crimson cloak was draped over his shoulders, the rich fabric trailing lightly behind him, its clasp fastening securely at his collar.
When he turned to face Orys and Daemon, he looked every inch the ruler. The simple, reflective warrior was gone, replaced by the embodiment of House Targaryen’s strength and ambition. The faintest hint of pride flickered in Orys’s eyes, while Daemon gave a satisfied nod.
“You look the part,” Orys remarked gruffly, breaking the silence.
“And now we make them see it,” Daemon added, stepping aside to let Aegon pass.
The walk to the makeshift throne room was short but laden with significance. The hall had been transformed for the occasion, its crude timber walls adorned with banners bearing the Targaryen sigil. The three-headed dragon, bright crimson on a black field, hung prominently behind the dais, where a simple wooden throne awaited. Though humble, the space radiated an undeniable sense of power and purpose.
The room was filled with allies and newly conquered lords, their faces a mixture of loyalty, apprehension, and awe. Visenya and Rhaenys stood at the head of the room, their presence commanding.
Visenya was dressed in a gown of deep black, edged with silver, her braided hair woven with intricate clasps shaped like dragon heads. She held Aegon’s crown, a simple but striking circlet of Valyrian steel adorned with a single ruby at its center. Her piercing violet eyes scanned the room with the sharpness of a blade, daring anyone to falter in their allegiance.
Rhaenys, in contrast, was dressed in rich crimson, her gown flowing like liquid fire. Her hair was loosely braided with gold threads, her expression warm but no less regal. She stood slightly to the side, her hands clasped lightly in front of her, radiating grace.
As Aegon entered, the murmur of voices ceased. All eyes turned to him, and a hush fell over the room. He moved toward the dais with purpose, his steps firm and unyielding, the weight of the moment etched into every line of his face.
Aegon ascended the steps to the throne, standing before it as Visenya stepped forward. The crown gleamed in her hands, the faint red glow of the ruby catching the light. She turned to face the room, her voice cutting through the silence like steel.
“By the blood of old Valyria,” she began, her tone firm and deliberate, “and the might of the dragon, we gather here to crown Aegon Targaryen as king.” Her gaze swept across the assembled lords. “He has united fire and blood, brought us victory, and stands as the strength of our house.”
Rhaenys stepped forward then, her voice softer but no less commanding. “Today, we crown him not just as Lord of Dragonstone, but as King of All Westeros and Shield of His People.” Her eyes met Aegon’s, a faint smile gracing her lips as she spoke the words.
Visenya turned back to Aegon, stepping closer. “Kneel,” she said simply, her voice carrying an edge of authority.
Aegon obeyed, lowering himself to one knee before her. The room seemed to hold its collective breath as Visenya raised the crown. “Rise, Aegon Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”
She placed the crown on his head, the cold metal pressing lightly against his brow.
Aegon rose slowly, his violet eyes scanning the room. The crown felt heavier than he had imagined, but it fit as though it had always belonged there.
The silence shattered as the room erupted into cheers and applause. Lords and allies raised their voices, shouting their fealty and praise. “Long live the King!” they cried, their words reverberating through the wooden walls.
Rhaenys stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on Aegon’s arm. Her smile was warm, her eyes filled with quiet pride. Visenya stood to his other side, her sharp gaze daring anyone to challenge what they had built.
From the hill above, the dragons roared, their cries echoing across the land, as if even they recognized the significance of the moment.
Aegon turned to face the room fully, his expression resolute. This was only the beginning. Westeros was his to claim, and the world would remember this day.
The firelight flickered against the timber walls of Aegon’s chamber, casting long, restless shadows that danced in the dimly lit space. The air was heavy with tension, a charged silence enveloping the room. Aegon Targaryen stood near the edge of the war table, his crown resting on the wood beside crumpled maps and scattered parchments. His violet eyes, sharp and calculating, shifted as the door creaked open.
Visenya entered without hesitation, her stride purposeful and her presence commanding. She had discarded her ceremonial gown, now dressed in her familiar black leather breaches and a simple tunic. Her silver braid hung over her shoulder, glinting faintly in the firelight, and her piercing gaze locked onto Aegon with an intensity that made the room feel even smaller.
“My queen,” Aegon greeted her, his voice steady but edged with something darker, a mix of challenge and intrigue.
Visenya smirked faintly, stepping closer. “You have two queens, husband,” she replied coolly, stopping just short of him.
“And yet,” Aegon said, his tone dropping, “only one stands here now, daring to look me in the eye like an equal.”
Her smirk deepened, her violet eyes narrowing slightly. “Because I am your equal,” she said, her voice sharp and unyielding. “Perhaps even more so.”
Aegon chuckled softly, but there was no humor in the sound. He stepped closer, the firelight glinting off his silver-gold hair. “You’re bold tonight,” he said, his voice low.
“And you’re predictable,” Visenya shot back, her fingers twitching as though itching for the hilt of her sword. “Always trying to control what you can’t.”
The tension between them snapped like a bowstring. Aegon reached out, his hands gripping her waist with a force that sent her stumbling back against the edge of the table. But Visenya responded instantly, her own hands gripping his tunic and pulling him into a clash of lips and dominance.
It was no gentle kiss, no tender exchange of affection. Their mouths met with the ferocity of combatants, their breaths hot and uneven as they pushed and pulled against each other. Aegon’s grip tightened on her waist, lifting her onto the war table as scrolls and maps crumpled beneath her. The wood groaned under their combined weight, the sound mixing with the crackling fire and their heavy breathing.
Visenya was no passive participant. With a sharp twist of her body, she shoved him back, flipping their positions. Aegon landed on his back atop the table, his crown toppling to the floor as Visenya straddled him, her movements deliberate and commanding. Her hands pressed against his chest, pinning him down as she leaned forward, her silver braid falling over her shoulder.
“You forget who I am, husband,” she hissed, her tone laced with triumph and challenge. “I am no pawn for you to control.”
Aegon’s lips curled into a smirk, his hands gripping her thighs. “And you forget,” he replied, his voice ragged but defiant, “that I’ve never wanted to control you. Only to fight you.”
She laughed lowly, her nails dragging across his chest as she leaned down, her lips hovering near his ear. “Then fight me,” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin.
Their battle continued, raw and unrelenting, each of them pushing the other to the edge. Clothes were torn away in their struggle, falling in a haphazard trail across the room. The chill of the air met the heat of their skin as their bodies collided, the force of their movements shaking the table beneath them.
Visenya clawed at Aegon’s shoulders as he flipped her once more, pinning her beneath him. The sharp edge of her smirk never faded, even as he pressed her down with the weight of his body. But just as he thought he had claimed the upper hand, she surged upward, twisting her legs around his waist and flipping him again.
“You’re losing, my king,” she taunted, her voice low and filled with amusement.
“Am I?” Aegon shot back, his hands gripping her hips as she moved against him with purpose.
It was a clash of dominance, a meeting of equals who refused to yield, their passion as fiery as their ambition.
When the fire finally ebbed, they remained on the war table, their breaths heavy and their bodies slick with sweat. Maps lay in crumpled disarray, and the faint scent of parchment mingled with the tang of heated skin. The firelight danced over their forms, highlighting the sheen of exertion that clung to them both.
But there were no lingering kisses, no soft embraces. Visenya sat up first, her braid loosened, her violet eyes still gleaming with triumph. She pulled her tunic from the floor, slipping it back over her shoulders with practiced ease. Aegon followed, leaning back on his elbows as he watched her with an amused smirk.
“You’re relentless,” he muttered, reaching for his trousers.
“You’d be nothing without me,” Visenya retorted, though her tone lacked malice.
Once dressed, she stood at the edge of the table, her fingers brushing a crumpled map. “We should discuss the next move,” she said, her voice shifting back to its usual sharpness.
Aegon nodded, retrieving his crown from the floor and placing it back on the table. “Stokeworth is ours, and Rosby bends the knee. But the Stormlands won’t yield so easily.”
Visenya’s gaze flicked to the map, her fingers tracing the edges of the Stormlands. “Argilac Durrandon won’t bow,” she said bluntly. “He’ll need to be broken.”
Aegon leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “Then we prepare. Orys will take the lead, but we’ll need to bring the dragons to bear.”
The tension from earlier lingered in the air, now transformed into a shared sense of purpose. Aegon stood, stepping closer to her, his violet eyes locking with hers.
“Together, we’ll show them what it means to defy dragons,” he said.
Visenya nodded, her smirk sharp as ever. “Let them tremble.”
The two left the room together, the fire in the hearth still burning bright, its flames a testament to the unyielding bond between king and queen. For them, love was power, and power was everything.
Chapter 5: The Conqueror's Inferno
Chapter Text
The day began as all great battles do: with a quiet stillness, as if the world itself held its breath for what was to come. Aegon Targaryen had been waiting for this moment. Though his sisters had flown to secure the submission of Rosby and Stokeworth, though alliances had been forged and oaths sworn, it was not enough. Aegon craved the heat of the battlefield, the raw clash of steel and the roar of dragons, the undeniable finality of victory.
Word had come that Lord Darklyn of Duskendale and Lord Mooton of Maidenpool had united their forces—three thousand strong—to march south. They sought to crush the Targaryen uprising before it could engulf the realm. They had underestimated Aegon.
In the courtyard of Aegonfort, the dragons loomed over the gathered soldiers. Balerion, the Black Dread, was a monstrous shadow against the early morning light, his deep growls reverberating through the earth. His scales glistened like black steel, and his immense wings stretched wide as if already eager for the bloodshed to come.
Aegon stood before the beast, clad in his black-and-crimson armor. The sigil of House Targaryen—a three-headed dragon—was etched into the breastplate, its ruby eyes gleaming faintly. His cloak trailed behind him, fastened with a dragon-claw clasp at his shoulder. At his side hung Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel sword that had once belonged to his ancestors.
His sisters were there to see him off. Rhaenys, dressed in a crimson gown with golden accents, her silver-gold hair cascading in soft waves, looked up at him with concern masked by a warm smile. “Promise me you’ll come back,” she said, her voice soft but insistent.
Aegon reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’ll return to you, my heart,” he said, his tone steady, though the fire in his eyes betrayed his eagerness for the fight.
Visenya, in contrast, wore her battle attire: black leather armor that fit her like a second skin, her silver braid coiled tightly. Her violet eyes were sharp, her expression unyielding. She stepped forward, her fingers brushing the hilt of Dark Sister, the blade resting at her side. “Kill them quickly,” she said bluntly. “No mercy. No hesitation.”
Aegon smirked faintly, leaning closer. “You’ve never trusted me to be ruthless enough, have you?”
Visenya’s lips quirked in a half-smile, though her tone remained sharp. “I trust you. I just enjoy reminding you.”
He kissed her forehead briefly before turning to mount Balerion, his gauntleted hands gripping the saddle as he climbed onto the great dragon’s back. The roar that followed as Balerion unfurled his wings was deafening, a sound that sent shivers through every soldier in the courtyard.
“You’ll guard this fort with your lives,” Aegon commanded, his voice carrying over the gathered crowd. “And when I return, we’ll light the realm with fire and blood.”
The plains stretched wide beneath the mid-afternoon sun, but for the men in the camp of Darklyn of Duskendale and Mooton of Maidenpool, the day felt unnaturally oppressive. Though the horizon was clear, a faint haze seemed to linger in the distance. Whispers passed among the soldiers—low, anxious murmurs about the beast in the sky.
The enemy camp was a sprawling hive of activity. Green-and-gold banners of Duskendale and blue-and-silver flags of Maidenpool snapped in the breeze, flying defiantly above rows of tightly packed tents. Soldiers bustled about, some sharpening swords with rhythmic strokes that scraped like a dirge, others carefully preparing black-feathered arrows for their bows. Horses stamped nervously, their riders murmuring soothing words. The smell of sweat, leather, and smoke mingled with the damp earth, creating a heavy, suffocating air.
At the heart of the camp, Lords Darklyn and Mooton conferred under a large pavilion, their commanders arrayed around them. Maps and parchments littered the table before them as they plotted their strategy. Their voices carried over the din of the camp, commanding and assured. Yet every so often, one of the lords would glance upward, their movements betraying a flicker of unease.
They had heard the tales of the Black Dread, but hearing a story and facing a dragon were vastly different things.
High above, Aegon Targaryen circled on Balerion, the Black Dread. The dragon was a monstrous shadow against the pale blue sky, his massive wings blotting out the sun as he moved in lazy arcs. Balerion’s scales glinted like polished obsidian, their edges sharp enough to catch the light. His eyes glowed with a deep red fire, their intensity unnerving even from a distance. His maw was lined with teeth as long as swords, and every beat of his wings sent gusts of wind rippling across the plain below.
The soldiers on the ground froze as the dragon’s shadow swept over them, an immense, ominous presence that seemed to drain the courage from their veins. Heads tilted upward, faces pale, their mouths falling open as they whispered prayers to the Seven.
The moment shattered with a roar that shook the heavens. Balerion’s roar was not just a sound; it was a force, a bone-shaking tremor that rolled across the land. Men dropped their weapons, clapping their hands over their ears, their faces twisted in pain and terror. Horses bolted, their wild cries adding to the cacophony.
Then, the dragon struck.
With a mighty flap of his wings, Balerion descended, his black form blotting out the sun as he unleashed a torrent of fire. The flames erupted from his jaws like a living entity, hotter than any forge, brighter than the midday sun. The air itself seemed to catch fire as the inferno swept across the front ranks of the enemy host.
The grass ignited instantly, transforming the plain into a sea of fire. Men screamed as the flames consumed them, their flesh melting from their bones in grotesque rivulets. Some ran, their bodies ablaze, leaving trails of smoke as they collapsed into charred husks. Others stood frozen, their armor glowing red-hot before fusing to their skin.
The stench of burning flesh and singed hair was overpowering, thick and choking. The heat was so intense that it warped the air, creating shimmering waves that distorted the view of the carnage.
The soldiers further back watched in horror as the front lines disintegrated. Some dropped their weapons, stumbling backward with wide, unblinking eyes. Others stood rooted to the spot, their hands shaking as they clutched their spears.
At the center of the camp, Lord Mooton shouted orders, his voice cracking as he tried to rally his men. “Hold the line! Form ranks!” he bellowed, his face pale despite his bravado.
But it was no use. The dragon’s fire had sown terror among the ranks, and the once-organized army had devolved into chaos.
On the ground, Orys Baratheon led the Targaryen forces with brutal efficiency. His greatsword, already slick with blood, gleamed in the firelight as he charged into the disoriented enemy. The clash of steel on steel rang out as the Targaryen soldiers smashed into the crumbling lines of Duskendale and Maidenpool.
Orys fought like a force of nature, his strikes precise and devastating. A soldier lunged at him with a spear, but Orys sidestepped with practiced ease, bringing his greatsword down in a deadly arc. The blade cleaved through the man’s arm, severing it cleanly, before biting deep into his chest. Blood sprayed across the battlefield as the man crumpled, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky.
All around, the battlefield was a scene of unrelenting carnage. Heads were severed, limbs hacked away, and bodies trampled underfoot as the Targaryen forces pressed their advantage. The cries of the wounded mingled with the roar of flames and the shouts of soldiers, creating a symphony of destruction.
Lord Darklyn, at the center of the chaos, shouted orders with increasing desperation. His sword flashed as he tried to rally his men, his voice rising above the din. But even he could not ignore the shadow that descended upon him.
Balerion landed with a thunderous crash, the impact shaking the ground and sending nearby soldiers sprawling. Darklyn turned, his face a mask of terror as he faced the massive dragon.
The Black Dread loomed over him, his eyes glowing like embers, his massive maw dripping with saliva. Darklyn swung his sword in a desperate attempt to fend off the beast, but the blade barely scratched the dragon’s impenetrable scales.
With a deafening growl, Balerion lunged. His jaws closed around Darklyn with a sickening crunch, the sound of bone and metal shattering echoing across the battlefield. When the dragon tossed the lord’s mangled corpse aside, what remained was barely recognizable as human.
Nearby, Lord Mooton faced Orys Baratheon in a desperate bid to turn the tide. Their swords clashed in a flurry of sparks, Mooton’s strikes wild and desperate while Orys’s were calm and methodical.
“You should have bent the knee,” Orys growled as he parried another strike.
With a roar, Orys knocked Mooton’s blade aside and drove his greatsword into the lord’s chest. The blade punched through armor and flesh, and Mooton gasped, blood bubbling from his lips as he crumpled to the ground.
The battlefield was unrecognizable. The once-green plain was blackened and scorched, littered with the charred remains of men and horses. Smoke rose in thick columns, obscuring the horizon, while the acrid stench of burnt flesh and blood hung heavy in the air.
Survivors staggered away from the carnage, their faces pale and their eyes hollow. Some fell to their knees, retching as they gazed upon the destruction. Others fled, their weapons abandoned, their spirits broken.
Aegon dismounted Balerion, his boots crunching against the scorched earth as he surveyed the ruin. His violet eyes reflected the flames that still smoldered across the plain, his expression one of cold satisfaction.
Orys Baratheon approached, his sword dripping with blood, his armor dented and stained. “They’re broken,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Darklyn and Mooton are dead. The rest have scattered.”
Aegon nodded. “This is what defiance brings,” he said. “Let it serve as a lesson to all who stand against us.”
The sun had long dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky awash with purples and grays as the faint glow of stars began to appear. The once-quiet walls of Aegonfort hummed with anxious energy. The sisters, Rhaenys and Visenya, waited near the gate, their eyes scanning the distance for any sign of the returning army.
The faint sound of marching echoed in the stillness, a steady rhythm of boots striking the ground. Then, out of the shadows, the first figure emerged: Orys Baratheon.
He was a sight to behold, his armor battered and splattered with blood, both his own and his enemies'. His greatsword rested heavily on his shoulder, the blade chipped but still deadly. His face was smeared with dirt and crimson streaks, but his eyes burned with triumph.
Visenya was the first to step forward, her violet eyes narrowing as she studied him. “You look like death warmed over,” she said dryly, though there was a flicker of approval in her tone.
Orys chuckled hoarsely, shaking his head. “You should see the other men,” he replied, his voice rough from shouting commands during the chaos of battle.
Rhaenys, dressed in a flowing crimson gown with gold accents, approached him next. Her delicate hands reached out to steady him as he stumbled slightly. “Orys,” she said softly, her voice filled with concern. “You fought well?”
“As well as needed,” Orys replied with a faint grin. “But the true story lies with your brother.”
Both sisters turned their gaze upward at his words, scanning the sky. Then they heard it—a distant roar that shook the very air around them.
Balerion, the Black Dread, descended like a shadow of death, his massive wings beating against the air with a force that sent dirt and loose leaves swirling. The sheer size of the beast was enough to silence the growing crowd of soldiers who had gathered to watch their king return. His scales glinted faintly in the firelight from the fort, and his fiery red eyes seemed to glow in the dimness.
As the dragon landed in the courtyard, the ground trembled beneath its weight. Dust kicked up around him as he folded his immense wings, his deep growl reverberating like thunder. On his back sat Aegon Targaryen, his armor blackened with soot and streaked with blood, his expression grim but victorious.
Before the dragon had fully stilled, Rhaenys broke into a run. Her crimson cloak billowed behind her as her silver-gold hair shimmered in the faint light. She reached him just as he slid down from Balerion’s back, her hands clutching his face as she searched his violet eyes.
“Aegon,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You’re safe.”
His lips twitched into a faint smile as his hands covered hers. “I told you I’d return,” he murmured.
Her gaze flicked over him, taking in the blood and soot that marred his armor and skin. “Are you hurt?” she asked, her voice rising slightly.
“No,” he assured her, pulling her into a brief but firm embrace. “It’s not my blood.”
As Aegon released Rhaenys, Visenya approached, her stride purposeful, her expression unreadable. She stopped before him, her violet eyes scanning him critically.
“You look worse than Orys,” she said, though her tone lacked its usual sharpness. “But you’ve won.”
Aegon smirked faintly, his exhaustion briefly hidden by the fire that still burned in his gaze. “They’re dead,” he said simply. “Darklyn and Mooton won’t trouble us again.”
Visenya nodded, her lips curling into a small, satisfied smile. “Good,” she said. “They underestimated you.”
“And paid for it,” Aegon replied.
Orys stepped forward, his greatsword now resting in a scabbard at his side. “The men are tired but in good spirits,” he reported. “They know this victory was just the beginning.”
Aegon placed a hand on his shoulder. “You did well, Orys,” he said. “The men followed you because they trust you. I trust you.”
Orys inclined his head, his expression softening. “Thank you, my king.”
The courtyard buzzed with activity as soldiers returned, some still clutching their weapons, others leaning on comrades for support. The wounded were taken to makeshift infirmaries, their groans and cries mingling with the murmur of victory among the uninjured.
Aegon, flanked by his sisters, made his way through the crowd. Men stopped to bow or kneel as he passed, their faces lighting up at the sight of their king. Despite the blood and grime that clung to him, he moved with the authority of a conqueror, his presence commanding and unshakable.
Inside the walls of Aegonfort, torches burned brightly, their warm light casting long shadows as the triumphant leaders gathered. Rhaenys helped Aegon remove his armor, her fingers lingering on the clasps as she whispered, “I was so afraid.”
Aegon caught her hand, bringing it to his lips. “Don’t be,” he said softly. “We’re one step closer to uniting this land.”
Visenya watched them silently for a moment before stepping forward. “And the next steps?” she asked, her voice cool and steady.
“We push on,” Aegon said, his exhaustion briefly forgotten as his gaze turned resolute. “The world must know: House Targaryen is fire, blood, and unyielding strength.”
As the three of them stood together, their bond unbroken, the sound of the dragons echoed above, a reminder of the power that would soon sweep across Westeros. The conquest was far from over, but tonight, they celebrated the fires they had ignited.
The wooden tub sat in the center of his chamber, the flickering light of a dozen candles casting long shadows against the rough-hewn walls. The room was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft ripples of water as Aegon Targaryen scrubbed at his skin.
The water, once clear, had turned a murky gray, swirling with ash, blood, and grime. Steam rose in gentle wisps, filling the air with a damp heat that clung to his skin. His silver-gold hair, damp and clinging to his face, was streaked with soot. His face, once obscured by the blackened remnants of battle, was slowly revealed as he scrubbed.
Aegon paused, his hands gripping the edge of the tub as he stared down at his reflection in the rippling water. His violet eyes were sharp but weary, the weight of the day etched into every line of his face. The victory was his—another step toward the unification of Westeros—but the toll of fire and blood was evident.
He leaned back, letting the warmth of the water soothe his aching muscles. Scars from past battles marred his chest and arms, pale against the flushed redness of his skin. The heat seeped into him, loosening the tension that had gripped his body since the moment Balerion had taken to the skies that morning.
A soft knock broke the silence, pulling Aegon from his thoughts. He turned his head toward the door, his expression unreadable. “Enter,” he called, his voice steady despite the exhaustion that weighed on him.
The door creaked open, and Rhaenys stepped inside. She wore a simple gown of crimson silk, her hair braided loosely over one shoulder. The flickering candlelight played across her features, highlighting the concern in her violet eyes as they took in the sight of him.
“You should be resting,” she said softly, closing the door behind her.
“And yet here you are,” Aegon replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
She moved closer, her bare feet silent against the wooden floor. “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “Not while you’re still here, trying to scrub away the battle on your own.”
Aegon chuckled softly, leaning his head back against the edge of the tub. “There’s more to scrub away than dirt and blood, my love.”
Without another word, Rhaenys knelt beside the tub, her hands dipping into the warm water. She reached for a clean cloth, soaking it before gently wiping at the soot that clung stubbornly to his neck and shoulders. Her touch was tender, deliberate, as if each stroke was meant to ease not just his physical weariness but the unseen burden he carried.
“You frightened me today,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “When you didn’t return right away, I feared...”
“I told you I’d come back,” Aegon interrupted, his tone soft but firm. “And I meant it. Nothing will keep me from you, Rhaenys.”
Her hands paused for a moment, the cloth resting against his chest. “But it’s not just me, is it?” she said, her gaze lifting to meet his. “It’s this. All of it. Fire and blood. The crown. The war. You carry it all.”
Aegon’s hand covered hers, stilling her movements. “Because I must,” he said simply. “For us. For what we’re building.”
For a long moment, they stayed like that, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the soft lapping of water. Rhaenys resumed her task, her movements slower now, more thoughtful. She leaned closer, pressing a kiss to his damp temple.
“Let me carry some of it with you,” she whispered.
“You already do,” Aegon replied, his voice low. “Every time you fly, every time you stand by me, every time you remind me why this matters.”
A faint smile graced her lips, and she dipped the cloth into the water again, wringing it out before running it over his back. The muscles beneath her touch were tense, scarred from years of battle, but as she worked, she felt them begin to relax.
When she had finished, Rhaenys set the cloth aside and rose to her feet. She extended a hand to him, her expression soft but resolute. “Come to bed, Aegon,” she said. “The war will still be there tomorrow.”
Aegon hesitated for only a moment before taking her hand. As he stepped out of the tub, the water streaming down his body, Rhaenys wrapped a warm towel around his shoulders, guiding him toward the bed.
The battle was over, but the war continued. For tonight, however, there was only this—a quiet moment of respite in the arms of the woman who was both his strength and his solace.
The courtyard of Aegonfort was quiet, lit by the faint glow of torches and the silvery light of the moon. The soldiers, weary from the recent battle, had retired for the night, leaving the open space empty except for two figures.
Daemon Velaryon and Orys Baratheon stood by the training yard, their postures relaxed yet purposeful. Daemon leaned against the hilt of his longsword, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering flames of a nearby torch. His long silver hair shimmered in the moonlight, a subtle reminder of his Valyrian blood.
Orys, taller and broader, rested his hands on the pommel of his greatsword, which was planted firmly in the dirt. His armor still bore scratches and faint smears of blood from the battle earlier that day. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes.
“You fought well today,” Daemon said, breaking the silence. His voice was smooth, almost nonchalant, but there was an edge to it—a tone that carried respect veiled in casualness.
Orys smirked faintly, shifting his weight as he glanced toward Daemon. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise,” he replied, his deep voice tinged with humor. “Though I imagine the dragonfire did most of the work.”
Daemon chuckled, shaking his head. “Aegon’s fire may have turned the tide, but it takes men like you to hold the line. Dragons can’t win a war alone. You proved that today.”
The two men fell into a companionable silence, their gazes drifting toward the distant hills. The faint glow of embers still smoldered on the horizon, a lingering reminder of the devastation wrought by Balerion the Black Dread.
“Do you ever think about it?” Orys asked suddenly, his tone quieter now. “What it all means? What we’re building here?”
Daemon turned to him, one silver eyebrow arched. “You mean Aegon’s dream of uniting the Seven Kingdoms? Or the price we’ll pay to see it done?”
Orys nodded slowly, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Both. The men we’ve killed, the castles we’ve burned… I believe in Aegon, but some nights, I wonder how long this will last. How long before the fire we’ve unleashed consumes us all.”
Daemon’s expression grew thoughtful, his gaze flicking to the stars above. “Fire consumes, yes. But it also forges. Aegon isn’t just building a kingdom, Orys. He’s forging a legacy. One that will outlast all of us.”
“And you’re fine with that? Burning everything in our path for a legacy?”
Daemon tilted his head, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “I’ve lived long enough to know that peace is a fleeting thing. If we don’t seize this moment, someone else will. Better it be us.”
Orys studied Daemon for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You speak like a man with nothing to lose. But for me? This isn’t just about conquest. It’s about Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys. They’re my family.”
Daemon’s smirk softened into something more genuine. “And that’s why Aegon trusts you. You’re not just his sword; you’re his shield. He knows you’ll protect what he’s building, even if it costs you everything.”
Orys nodded, his jaw tightening. “It’s not just loyalty. It’s duty. I owe him everything. Without him, I’m just the bastard of Storm’s End. With him, I’m something more.”
“You’re not just something more,” Daemon said, his tone firm. “You’re the cornerstone of his dream. Don’t forget that.”
The weight of their words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. But then Daemon’s smirk returned, his eyes glinting with mischief.
“Besides,” he added, his tone lighter, “if you ever grow tired of all this duty and loyalty, there’s always the sea. The ships of House Velaryon are faster than any dragon, you know.”
Orys laughed, the sound deep and genuine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me running off to sail the Narrow Sea while you take all the glory.”
“Glory?” Daemon grinned. “You can keep it. I just want to keep my head on my shoulders and my ships on the water.”
Orys shook his head, still chuckling. “You’re a rogue, Daemon. A damn clever one, but a rogue all the same.”
“And you’re a knight,” Daemon replied, his grin fading into a knowing smile. “We’ll need both before this war is done.”
The two men stood in silence once more, the distant sounds of the fort settling around them. The torches burned low, their light flickering as the wind whispered through the courtyard.
“Rest, Orys,” Daemon said finally, his voice quieter now. “The war’s far from over, and Aegon will need us both in the days to come.”
Orys nodded, hefting his greatsword onto his shoulder. “You’re right. But tonight, let’s take a moment to remember what we’ve won.”
Daemon inclined his head, watching as Orys turned and walked toward the barracks. The Velaryon lord remained behind, his gaze drifting once more to the stars.
Fire and blood had claimed the day, but Daemon knew the real battles were yet to come.
The night was cool and quiet, the kind of stillness that seemed to make the air heavier. The moon hung high over Aegonfort, its pale glow washing the stone walls in silver and casting long shadows through the narrow windows of Visenya Targaryen’s chamber.
She stood at the window, one hand resting on the stone ledge, the other clutching the hilt of Dark Sister, her Valyrian steel sword. The blade glinted faintly in the moonlight, its sharp edge catching the light like a whisper of death. Her violet eyes, piercing and unyielding, gazed out over the distant horizon. Smoke from the day’s battles still lingered faintly in the air, curling upward like ghostly tendrils.
Her hair, usually bound tightly in braids during the day, now hung loose, cascading over her shoulders like molten silver. The wind swept through the open window, lifting stray strands and cooling the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead. She had not slept. Sleep, she thought, was a luxury for the safe, for the weak, and Visenya was neither.
The events of the day replayed in her mind, each detail sharp and vivid. The screams of the dying, the clash of swords, the searing roar of dragonfire. They had won, as she knew they would, but there was no satisfaction in it. Victory was simply another step forward, another rung on the ladder they were climbing.
Visenya’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword. She thought of her brother-husband, Aegon, and the crown that now rested on his brow. King of All Westeros. A title they were carving from blood and fire, one conquest at a time. She thought of her sister, Rhaenys, with her songs and smiles, always a beacon of light amid the darkness.
And then she thought of herself.
Where Rhaenys inspired love, Visenya commanded fear. It was a role she embraced, a necessity in a world where power was everything. Let them call her cold, let them whisper of her ruthlessness. Fear was a weapon, and Visenya wielded it as expertly as Dark Sister.
The sound of the wind filled the room, rustling the sparse furnishings. Unlike Rhaenys’s chambers, adorned with silks and jewels, Visenya’s room was stark and functional. A small bed, a simple table scattered with maps and scrolls, and walls lined with weapons: spears, axes, and daggers, each one carefully chosen and meticulously maintained.
A faint chill crept in through the open window, but she did not move to close it. She welcomed the cold, the bite of the air against her skin. It kept her sharp, focused. Her mind drifted to the battles yet to come, the lords who still resisted, clinging stubbornly to their independence.
Her grip on Dark Sister tightened. They would learn, as the others had. They would bend the knee, or they would burn.
For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder. Was this what they had been born for? To conquer, to rule, to burn away the old and forge something new? Aegon’s dream of uniting Westeros had become their purpose, their singular goal, but at what cost?
Visenya shook her head, banishing the thought. Doubt was a weakness, and she could not afford weakness.
The faint cry of a dragon echoed in the distance, and her gaze shifted to the dark shapes perched on the hill beyond the fort. Vhagar, her dragon, was awake, her massive form outlined faintly in the moonlight. The bond between them was strong, unbreakable. Visenya felt a flicker of reassurance as she watched the beast, a living embodiment of power and destruction.
The hours stretched on, the night deepening around her. Visenya remained at the window, her posture unyielding, her mind sharp. She thought of the war to come, the strategies they would employ, the enemies they would crush.
When the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, she finally moved. She placed Dark Sister back on its stand with deliberate care, her fingers lingering on the hilt for a moment before releasing it.
Visenya turned from the window, her expression calm but resolute. The night had given her clarity, and as the first rays of sunlight pierced the sky, she was ready for whatever came next. She was Visenya Targaryen, a queen, a warrior, and a force that even the gods themselves would think twice to challenge.
Chapter 6: Ashes of the Sea
Chapter Text
The soft glow of dawn filtered through the narrow windows of Aegon’s chamber, casting a warm light over the scene within. Aegon Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, lay tangled in the sheets, his body bare and his breathing steady. Beside him, his queen, Rhaenys, slept soundly, her silver-gold hair cascading over the pillows, her face serene and beautiful.
The peace of the morning was shattered by a sudden knock on the heavy wooden door. It was loud and insistent, echoing through the room with an urgency that could not be ignored.
Aegon stirred first, his violet eyes snapping open. He groaned softly, his hand instinctively reaching for Rhaenys, who shifted beside him. Her lashes fluttered as she woke, her gaze meeting his with a sleepy smile.
The knocking continued, more insistent this time. Aegon muttered a curse under his breath and quickly swung his legs over the side of the bed. His muscles, honed from years of battle, flexed as he moved with purpose. He grabbed his breaches from the floor, pulling them on hastily before glancing back at Rhaenys.
She lay there, unbothered by the commotion, her expression teasing as she propped herself up on one elbow. “Who dares to interrupt the king and his queen?” she asked playfully, her voice husky from sleep.
Aegon smirked faintly, reaching for the sheet. He pulled it up to cover her, tucking it around her form protectively. “No one sees what is mine,” he said, his tone possessive yet gentle.
Rhaenys laughed softly, leaning forward to press a kiss to his arm. “You’re so dramatic in the mornings,” she teased, though her eyes sparkled with affection.
“Enter,” Aegon called, his voice carrying a commanding edge despite the early hour.
The door creaked open, and a young boy stepped inside, his face pale and his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. He wore simple servant’s clothes, the fabric slightly too large for his slight frame. The boy’s gaze flickered nervously to Aegon, who stood like a god in the faint morning light, his silver-gold hair tousled and his chest bare save for the faint scars of battle.
“What is it?” Aegon asked, his voice firm but not unkind.
The boy swallowed hard, his hands fidgeting as he spoke. “M-my king,” he stammered, “Lord Daemon and Queen Visenya request your presence in the throne room. They said it’s urgent.”
From the bed, Rhaenys sat up slightly, the sheet still draped over her shoulders. “Thank you, child,” she said, her voice soft and warm, a stark contrast to Aegon’s commanding tone. “You’ve done well.”
The boy blushed under her gaze, nodding quickly before retreating from the room, closing the door behind him.
Aegon exhaled, his jaw tightening as he rubbed a hand over his face. “What could they possibly want at this hour?” he muttered, his irritation clear.
“Perhaps Visenya has decided the gods need reminding of her wrath,” Rhaenys joked lightly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She stood, letting the sheet fall as she moved to the corner of the room where her robe was draped.
Aegon watched her for a moment, his expression softening as she tied the crimson silk around her waist. “You’re coming with me,” he said simply.
“Of course,” she replied, her tone teasing. “If I don’t, who will keep you from setting the throne room ablaze with your temper?”
Aegon chuckled, stepping toward the small table where his crown rested. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands for a moment before placing it atop his head. The black-and-crimson metal gleamed in the morning light, its sharp edges casting faint shadows over his brow.
Rhaenys joined him, reaching up to smooth his hair beneath the crown. “There,” she said with a satisfied smile. “Now you look like a king again.”
“And you, my queen,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “look like the light of the morning.”
The halls of Aegonfort were quiet as they made their way toward the throne room. Torches still burned in their sconces, their flames flickering softly as the faint sounds of the waking fort began to stir in the distance.
Aegon walked with his usual commanding stride, his bare feet silent against the cold stone. Rhaenys followed beside him, her robe flowing behind her like a crimson tide. They moved in companionable silence, though Aegon’s brow furrowed slightly as they approached the great doors of the throne room.
The guards stationed outside straightened at their arrival, their armor clinking softly as they saluted. Aegon nodded to them, his expression unreadable as he placed a hand on the heavy wooden door.
“Let’s see what our Queen has deemed so urgent,” he said, pushing the door open.
The throne room was dimly lit, the torches casting long shadows over the stone floor. At the far end, Daemon Velaryon and Visenya Targaryen stood waiting. Daemon leaned casually against the edge of the table that served as their council’s focal point, while Visenya paced, her sharp features set in a mask of impatience.
The tension in the room was palpable, and Aegon’s jaw tightened as he stepped inside, the doors closing behind him with a low thud. Rhaenys moved to his side, her hand brushing against his briefly in a silent show of solidarity.
“Let’s hear it,” Aegon said, his voice steady and commanding as his violet eyes fixed on his sibling and friend. “What is so urgent that it couldn’t wait for the sun to fully rise?”
The throne room was heavy with the weight of expectation as Daemon Velaryon laid the portrait of Sharra Arryn on the table. The Queen Regent of the Vale was undeniably beautiful, her dark hair framing striking features and her intelligent eyes seeming to challenge any who dared meet her gaze.
“This comes with a proposal,” Daemon began, his voice smooth but serious. “Sharra Arryn offers you her hand in marriage, Aegon. In return, her son, Ronnel Arryn, will be named your heir and King of the Mountain and Vale under your rule.”
A tense silence followed his words, broken only by the faint crackle of the torches lining the room. Aegon Targaryen, seated at the head of the table, stared at the portrait without expression. Beside him, Rhaenys tilted her head, studying the image with a faint furrow of her brow, while Visenya, standing tall with arms crossed, looked at the painting with thinly veiled disdain.
Aegon’s violet eyes finally lifted from the portrait, his gaze hardening. “No,” he said simply, his voice cold and final.
Daemon arched an eyebrow, his mouth curving into a faint smirk. “I thought as much, but it is my duty to present her terms.”
“There was no decision to make,” Aegon said, his tone steely. “I have my queens. Sharra Arryn’s beauty does not sway me, nor does her offer. No one outside my blood will ever sit the Iron Throne as my heir. She seeks to manipulate me, not to serve me.”
Visenya’s lips twitched into a small, approving smile. “Well said, brother,” she remarked, stepping closer to the table. “The Vale does not bend with portraits and empty promises. If she will not kneel willingly, we will remind her why the dragons rule.”
Aegon turned to Daemon, his demeanor commanding. “Sharra Arryn seeks to protect her son’s crown, not serve mine. She will learn, as others have, that House Targaryen does not bend. We break, and we conquer.”
Daemon’s smirk widened. “And how shall we teach the Vale this lesson?”
Aegon rose from his seat, the faint clink of his crown breaking the silence. “You will take our fleet and sail to Gulltown, the heart of the Vale’s commerce and power. Show them what happens when they defy House Targaryen. Visenya will accompany you—her dragon will do more to inspire fear than any words or blades.”
Visenya’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she straightened, her hand drifting to the hilt of Dark Sister. “It will be done, my king,” she said, her voice carrying an edge of excitement. “Gulltown will kneel, and the Vale will follow.”
“And Rhaenys?” Daemon asked, his tone light but curious.
“Rhaenys will remain with me,” Aegon said, his gaze softening slightly as he glanced at his other queen. “There is work to be done here, preparing for the battles yet to come. The Vale is but one piece of this puzzle.”
Rhaenys smiled faintly, her crimson robe catching the firelight as she leaned closer to him. “Be careful, Visenya,” she said, her tone warm but teasing. “Don’t burn it all to ash before we can claim it.”
Visenya smirked. “I’ll leave just enough standing for you to admire.”
The docks of Aegonfort were alive with the sounds of preparation. Sailors shouted orders, the groan of wood and the clang of iron filling the salty air as the fleet readied for its departure. Amid the chaos, Daemon Velaryon, loyal friend and one of the most trusted allies of House Targaryen, stood with Aegon and Orys Baratheon, the three men sharing a quiet moment beneath the soft morning light.
Daemon, dressed in his sea-green coat trimmed with silver, leaned casually against a stack of barrels. His long silver hair, tinged with gold in the sunlight, was tied back loosely, and his sharp violet eyes sparkled with his characteristic charm. “You know,” he began, his tone light, “when I first pledged myself to your family, I never thought I’d be sailing into battles for the fate of kingdoms. I was just a boy trying to impress his father and not get eaten by a dragon.”
Aegon smirked faintly, his arms crossed over his chest. “You’ve come a long way from that boy, Daemon.”
“Have I?” Daemon asked, feigning surprise. “Because if memory serves, that boy was still dragging you two out of trouble back on Dragonstone.”
Orys chuckled, his broad frame relaxed as he rested his hands on the pommel of his sword. “Dragging us out of trouble? I seem to remember you being the one who started most of it.”
Daemon placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Me? A troublemaker? Never. I was the voice of reason in our little band.”
Aegon shook his head, his rare smile deepening. “The voice of reason who convinced us to steal Visenya’s practice sword to slay a ‘sea monster’ that turned out to be a fishing net.”
“That net was a menace,” Daemon countered, grinning. “I still say I saved lives that day.”
Orys laughed, his deep voice carrying over the noise of the docks. “And nearly lost ours when Visenya found out what we’d done.”
As the laughter faded, a more solemn tone settled over the group. Aegon stepped closer to Daemon, his expression softening. “You’ve been with us through everything,” he said quietly. “From the days of climbing cliffs on Dragonstone to this—building a kingdom. You’ve been more than a friend, Daemon. You’re one of us.”
Daemon’s grin softened, his usual cheer giving way to genuine warmth. “And I always will be,” he said, his voice steady. “You know I’d follow you into any fire, Aegon. This isn’t just your dream. It’s ours.”
Orys nodded, his gaze serious as he placed a hand on Daemon’s shoulder. “But just because you’d follow doesn’t mean you should throw yourself in recklessly. Gulltown won’t be easy. You’re commanding the fleet, and you’ve got Visenya and her dragon with you, but don’t let their strength make you careless.”
Daemon’s smirk returned, though there was a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “Careless? Me? I’m as careful as a sailor navigating a storm.”
“Exactly my point,” Orys said, shaking his head.
The three men stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the impending mission pressing down on them. Daemon broke the quiet with a playful grin, clapping Aegon on the shoulder. “I’ll bring back Gulltown for you, and maybe a cask of their finest wine. We’ll toast to your growing kingdom.”
Aegon nodded, his gaze steady. “And to your safe return. You’re more than a trusted friend, Daemon. You’re family.”
Daemon’s expression softened once more, and he inclined his head. “That means more to me than you know. But don’t get too sentimental, my king. You’ll make me blush.”
As Daemon turned toward the waiting ships, Orys called after him. “And Daemon?”
He paused, glancing back with a raised eyebrow.
“Try not to charm the entire Vale while you’re there,” Orys added with a grin.
Daemon laughed, his voice full of mischief. “No promises.”
Aegon and Orys stood in silence as Daemon boarded the lead ship, his confident stride and infectious energy unmistakable even at a distance. The sails of House Velaryon unfurled, catching the wind as the fleet began to move, heading out into the open sea.
“Do you think he knows how much we rely on him?” Orys asked quietly.
Aegon’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon. “He knows,” he said simply. “And that’s why I worry. Men like Daemon burn bright, but they burn fast.”
The two watched until the ships disappeared from view, the sound of waves crashing against the hulls fading into the distance. Though neither spoke it aloud, both felt the weight of what lay ahead—not just for Daemon, but for all of them.
The courtyard of Aegonfort was alive with activity as Visenya Targaryen prepared to set off on Vhagar. The massive dragon loomed in the background, her scales shimmering like burnished bronze in the morning sun. Soldiers moved briskly, tending to equipment and securing supplies, their movements purposeful yet muted in the presence of the queen and her dragon.
Near the edge of the courtyard, Rhaenys Targaryen stood watching her sister. Her crimson gown fluttered in the breeze, and her silver-gold hair, braided with delicate strands of gold, glinted in the sunlight. Visenya, dressed in her dark, scale-like armor, was adjusting her gauntlets with practiced precision, her movements sharp and efficient.
Rhaenys stepped forward, a soft smile playing on her lips. “You always look so fierce when you’re about to fly,” she said, her voice warm.
Visenya glanced up, her violet eyes meeting Rhaenys’s. “And you always look like you’d rather be dancing than watching me leave,” she replied dryly, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at her lips.
Rhaenys laughed, the sound light and musical, a stark contrast to the tension in the air. “Perhaps, but I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Someone has to remind you not to burn everything to ash.”
Visenya smirked, turning back to tighten the straps on her vambrace. “You’ve always been the softer one, Rhaenys. It suits you.”
Rhaenys moved closer, her smile fading into something more thoughtful. “Be careful, Visenya,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with concern. “The Vale isn’t a soft target. You’ll need more than fire to win them over.”
Visenya straightened, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. “I don’t rely on fire alone,” she said firmly. “But it helps.”
Rhaenys reached out, placing a hand on her sister’s arm. “I know you can handle yourself,” she said, her gaze steady. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t worry.”
Visenya looked at her for a long moment, her expression softening in a way few ever saw. “I’ll come back,” she said simply. “You’ll have me here to scowl at the next time you insist on singing in the hall.”
Rhaenys smiled, her fingers tightening briefly on Visenya’s arm. “Good. I’d hate to lose my best audience.”
The moment hung between them, unspoken but understood. Despite their differences—Rhaenys’s warmth and light, Visenya’s strength and sharp edges—they shared a bond deeper than words.
“Fly safe,” Rhaenys said, stepping back and folding her arms. “And try not to terrify every poor soul in the Vale.”
Visenya chuckled softly, the sound rare but genuine. “I make no promises.”
With that, she turned toward Vhagar, the dragon lowering her massive head as Visenya approached. As she climbed onto the saddle, she cast one last glance at her sister.
Rhaenys raised a hand in farewell, her smile bright and unwavering. Visenya nodded, a faint smirk still lingering on her lips, before commanding Vhagar to take to the skies.
The great beast rose with a powerful beat of her wings, the wind whipping through the courtyard as she ascended. Rhaenys stood there, watching until the dragon and her sister became specks against the horizon, her heart a little heavier but her smile never fading.
The Velaryon fleet left the shores of Aegonfort with an air of anticipation that mingled with the salty sea breeze. Each ship, crafted with both beauty and strength, moved with purpose across the glimmering waters of the Narrow Sea. The banners of House Velaryon flew proudly, their sea-green and silver hues vibrant against the clear blue sky. Sailors busied themselves on deck, their movements swift and coordinated, though the air was thick with the weight of the mission ahead.
Daemon Velaryon stood at the helm of his flagship, his long silver-gold hair tied back loosely, catching the sunlight as the wind played with the strands. His coat, a rich sea-green edged with silver waves, reflected his house’s maritime heritage. His violet eyes scanned the horizon, sharp and unyielding, yet there was a trace of mischief in his expression.
The sailors, loyal to their lord, sang hearty sea shanties, their voices booming over the waves. Some verses spoke of dragons, fire, and conquest, while others recounted bawdy tales of ports long past. Daemon joined in the singing, his voice deep and resonant, though his gaze remained focused on the waters ahead.
Above them, Visenya Targaryen soared on Vhagar, her dragon a shadow that seemed to stretch endlessly over the fleet. Her armor, black and gleaming, fit her like a second skin, and her silver hair, intricately braided, shone in the sunlight. She circled the fleet, her violet eyes scanning the distant horizon with sharp vigilance.
Daemon glanced up, his grin widening as he called out, “Enjoying the view, Visenya?”
From her perch, Visenya looked down, her smirk faint but unmistakable. “It’s you I’m watching, Velaryon. Someone needs to keep you from doing anything stupid.”
Laughter erupted from the crew at her words, and even Daemon chuckled. “If I get into trouble, I trust you to burn my enemies before they know what hit them!” he shouted back.
The banter was lighthearted, but as the fleet moved closer to their destination, the songs faded, replaced by the creak of wood and the crash of waves. Sailors sharpened blades and checked weapons, their quiet prayers to the Seven mingling with the rhythm of the sea.
That evening, as the ships anchored in the calm waters before Gulltown, Daemon found Visenya seated near a small brazier on the deck of her ship. The faint glow of the fire illuminated her sharp features as she methodically sharpened Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel blade that had seen countless battles.
“Daemon,” she said without looking up, her tone clipped but not unkind. “Shouldn’t you be with your men?”
“I’ve spent the day barking orders,” he replied, lowering himself onto a nearby crate. “Now I want to spend a moment with you.”
Visenya arched an eyebrow but said nothing, continuing her work. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the rhythmic scrape of steel on stone and the distant murmur of the sea.
“Do you ever think about the risk we take every time we step into battle?” Daemon asked eventually, his voice quieter than usual.
Visenya glanced at him, her violet eyes sharp. “If I thought about the risk, I’d never leave the ground.”
Daemon chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re not one for second-guessing, are you?”
“No,” she replied simply, turning her attention back to her blade.
He watched her for a moment, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You’re the strongest person I know,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically serious.
Visenya’s hands stilled, and she looked at him again. For a moment, her expression softened, the sharp edges giving way to something more vulnerable. “You’re stronger than you think, Daemon,” she said quietly. “But strength doesn’t make you invincible. Don’t forget that.”
The next morning, the horizon was marred by the sight of the Arryn fleet. Warships, their hulls reinforced and their sails emblazoned with the Moon and Falcon, stretched across the water in an unbroken line. Alongside them sailed the Braavosi reinforcements, their black sails ominous against the pale sky.
Daemon stood at the helm of his flagship, his jaw tightening as he assessed the enemy. “So, they brought half the Vale and a dozen sellswords,” he muttered.
Above him, Visenya called down, her voice cutting through the tension. “They’re prepared for a siege, Daemon. Don’t underestimate them.”
His grin was sharp, almost reckless. “They’ve never faced a dragon,” he replied.
The Velaryon fleet surged forward, cannons loaded and ready. The air grew still for a heartbeat before the first volley of fire erupted.
Cannonballs tore through the air, their impact shattering wood and sending men screaming into the sea. The Velaryon fleet retaliated, their own cannons roaring as they struck the enemy line.
Daemon’s ship charged into the heart of the fray, its cannons firing in relentless succession. The men around him fought with grim determination, their loyalty to their lord unshakable.
Above, Visenya and Vhagar rained fire upon the enemy. The dragon’s flames engulfed ships, turning them into blazing wrecks in moments. Sailors leapt overboard, their screams drowned by the roar of the inferno.
For a brief moment, it seemed the Velaryon fleet had the upper hand. Daemon’s flagship pushed through the enemy line, its cannons blasting enemy vessels into splinters.
But then, reinforcements arrived. A second wave of Braavosi warships appeared on the horizon, their cannons already aimed and firing.
Daemon’s ship shuddered as a cannonball struck its side, flames licking at the deck. Still, he stood firm, rallying his men as Braavosi sailors boarded the ship.
The deck of Daemon’s ship was a maelstrom of chaos and destruction. Smoke billowed in thick, choking plumes, curling around the shattered masts and debris scattered across the blood-soaked boards. The air was a cacophony of sounds—men shouting, swords clashing, the deafening roar of cannons, and the sharp screams of the dying.
Daemon Velaryon stood at the center of it all, his silver-gold hair matted with sweat and blood, his once-pristine coat torn and smeared with grime. He was a beacon of determination amidst the storm, his sword an extension of his arm as it moved with deadly precision. Every strike was deliberate, every swing aimed to cut down the enemy sailors who swarmed the deck.
The blade was heavy with gore, but Daemon wielded it as though it weighed nothing. A Braavosi soldier lunged at him, his curved sword glinting in the firelight, but Daemon sidestepped with practiced ease, bringing his blade up in a clean arc that caught the man under his chin. Blood sprayed, and the soldier crumpled to the deck.
More came, their faces masks of fear and determination, but Daemon met them head-on. A blade found his shoulder, the sharp steel slicing deep into the muscle. He staggered for a moment, the pain flaring white-hot, but he didn’t fall. With a guttural roar, he drove his sword into his attacker’s chest, his strength unyielding even as blood dripped from his wound.
Another blow struck him, this time along his ribs. He stumbled, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but his grip on his weapon never faltered. He swung again, cutting down another sailor who dared to come too close. The deck was slippery beneath his boots, a mix of seawater and blood pooling in the grooves of the wood.
Above, Visenya urged Vhagar closer, the great dragon circling the burning fleet with slow, menacing grace. Her heart pounded in her chest as she screamed his name, her voice cracking with desperation. “Daemon!”
Her violet eyes locked onto him, her lips moving in a silent plea as Vhagar roared overhead. Their gazes met, and in that moment, a terrible understanding passed between them.
They both knew.
Time slowed. The battle, the flames, the screams—they all fell away, leaving Daemon suspended in a haze of memory.
He saw Orys Baratheon, their boyhood sparring matches back on Dragonstone. Orys, larger but clumsier, laughed as they circled each other. “You’ll never beat me, Velaryon!” he teased, swinging his wooden sword. Daemon had ducked, quick as a shadow, and struck back with a grin, knocking Orys flat on his back. The memory shimmered with warmth, the laughter of two boys who had yet to taste the bitter edge of war.
Next, he saw Rhaenys, her silver-gold hair catching the light as she dragged him onto the dance floor at one of her lively feasts. “You’re hopeless, Daemon!” she’d laughed, twirling him with an ease that belied her grace. Her laughter echoed in his ears, a sound that spoke of joy and freedom, untouched by the weight of the crown.
He saw Aegon, their quiet conversations held late at night. They sat beneath the stars, the cool breeze carrying the salty tang of the sea. “You’re not just a captain, Daemon,” Aegon had said, his tone solemn. “You’re family.” The weight of those words settled over him like a cloak, their bond unspoken but undeniable.
Then, he saw Visenya, her sharp smile flashing as she bested him in the training yard. “Yield!” she commanded, her sword pressed to his throat. Her tone was firm, but her eyes held a glimmer of affection. He’d laughed, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “You’re relentless,” he’d said, and she’d replied, “And you’re reckless. A dangerous combination, Velaryon.”
Finally, he saw his youngest son, his small hands clutching at Daemon’s coat as he asked, “Father, can the sea beat a dragon?”
“Not today, my boy,” Daemon whispered in the memory, his voice soft with love.
The memory faded as reality rushed back in. Smoke and fire consumed the deck of his ship, the screams of his men cutting through the haze. Daemon fought to his last breath, his body battered but his spirit unbroken.
A cannonball struck the side of the ship, the impact sending a violent shockwave through the wood. The ship groaned, its timbers splintering as fire licked at the edges. Daemon felt the deck shudder beneath him, and he knew the end was near.
Another explosion ripped through the ship, and he was thrown to the ground. Pain radiated through his body, but he forced himself up, his sword still clutched tightly in his hand. Blood dripped from his wounds, pooling at his feet as the flames closed in.
He looked up one last time, his gaze finding Visenya. Her face was a mask of anguish, her violet eyes wide and filled with unshed tears. She screamed his name, her voice raw and desperate, but the distance between them was unbridgeable.
Daemon raised his bloodied hand, a faint smile touching his lips as their eyes locked. His final thought was of peace, of love, and of loyalty.
The final explosion engulfed the ship, the flames consuming everything in their path. Daemon Velaryon disappeared into the inferno, his body claimed by the sea.
Visenya’s scream echoed across the battlefield, a sound of pure, unbridled rage. “Daemon!” she roared, her voice cracking with grief.
Vhagar unleashed her fury, the dragon’s flames turning the sea into a fiery hellscape. The Braavosi fleet stood no chance against her wrath. Ships crumbled beneath the onslaught, their masts toppling as men screamed and leapt into the water.
An arrow grazed her cheek, drawing blood, but she didn’t flinch. Her focus was singular, her grief fueling the fire that rained from above. Ship after ship fell to Vhagar’s flames, the waters of Gulltown churning with debris and the bodies of the dead.
When the last Braavosi ship sank beneath the waves, the battlefield fell silent. Visenya circled the wreckage, her heart pounding as she searched for any sign of Daemon. But the sea was quiet, save for the crackle of flames and the hiss of steam rising from the water.
Daemon Velaryon was gone, his life claimed by fire and blood.
Visenya hovered above the smoldering remains, her violet eyes scanning the horizon one last time. Then, with a roar of grief and defiance, she guided Vhagar away from the battlefield, the weight of her loss pressing heavy on her heart.
Daemon’s sacrifice became legend, his courage and loyalty immortalized in the hearts of those who loved him. His death was a story of fire, blood, and an unyielding bond that would never fade.
The sea was unnaturally still, the waves lapping against the hulls of the remaining ships with a muted rhythm that felt more like a dirge than a comforting melody. Visenya Targaryen stood on the deck of her ship, her black armor streaked with soot and blood, her silver hair clinging to her face in damp strands. The bronze dragon Vhagar hovered above, her mighty wings creating a whisper of wind as she followed the fleet, her roars from the battle now replaced with a low, mournful rumble.
The ships that survived the battle moved sluggishly, their masts splintered and sails torn, bearing the scars of the confrontation at Gulltown. The crew worked silently, their faces pale and eyes hollow, avoiding each other’s gazes. The songs and camaraderie that had filled the air on the journey out were gone, replaced by the oppressive weight of loss.
Visenya leaned on the railing, her violet eyes fixed on the horizon as the faint traces of smoke from the battlefield still lingered in the distance. Her hand rested lightly on the hilt of Dark Sister, its once-polished blade now dulled by the blood of battle. She tightened her grip as a wave of rage coursed through her, but it was quickly replaced by a crushing wave of grief.
The deck beneath her boots groaned as one of the surviving crew cautiously approached. “Your Grace,” he said softly, his voice hesitant, as though afraid to disturb the heavy silence. “We’ve taken stock of the survivors. Four ships made it back. Half of our men are gone.”
Visenya didn’t look at him. She gave a curt nod, her jaw tightening as she absorbed the news. “And Vhagar?” she asked, her voice steady but cold.
“She is unhurt,” the sailor replied. “She—she drove them all back, Your Grace. The enemy ships…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
“Leave me,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. The man bowed quickly and retreated, grateful to escape the suffocating presence of the dragon queen.
The journey stretched on, each mile of water feeling heavier than the last.
Visenya found herself staring into the expanse of the sea, the churning waters reflecting her stormy emotions. Daemon’s face haunted her thoughts—his sharp grin, his confident swagger, his mischievous remarks. She could still hear his voice teasing her, challenging her, grounding her in ways no one else could.
Memories surfaced unbidden, like ghosts.
The time they had sparred on the shores of Dragonstone, their blades flashing in the sunlight as he dodged her strikes with infuriating ease. “You’re slowing, Visenya,” he had taunted, his grin wide. “Perhaps you’re losing your touch.” She’d disarmed him moments later, her own smirk sharp as she pressed the tip of her blade to his throat. “Or perhaps you underestimated me,” she’d replied, her tone cool.
Nights spent around the fire, where Daemon would regale the others with wild stories, his laughter infectious as he spun tales of impossible feats. Even she, with her steely demeanor, had been unable to resist his charm on those nights.
The way he had always stood beside her in battle, unshakable and unwavering. “We’re fire and water,” he’d said once, grinning at her. “But together, we make steam.”
The silence aboard the ship was unbearable. Even Vhagar, her massive form gliding above them, seemed subdued. The dragon let out occasional low rumbles, the sound vibrating through the air like a dirge.
The crew avoided speaking unless absolutely necessary. When they passed Visenya on the deck, they kept their heads bowed, their grief for Daemon evident in their eyes. To them, Daemon had been a legend, a symbol of House Velaryon’s unyielding strength. To Visenya, he had been more—a comrade, a friend, and a piece of her history she now felt ripped from her.
The horizon stretched endlessly, the waters of the Narrow Sea dark and foreboding. The sun, once a source of warmth and light, now seemed muted, its rays unable to pierce the heavy cloud of sorrow that clung to the fleet.
Visenya turned her gaze upward, her eyes locking onto Vhagar as the dragon let out a deep, resonant cry that echoed over the waves. She felt the weight of her failure pressing down on her chest, each breath heavier than the last. She had been so close. She had seen Daemon fighting, defiant even in his last moments. She had seen the fire consume him.
Her fists clenched at her sides as she whispered under her breath, her voice raw, “I should have saved him.”
As the fleet limped homeward, Visenya found herself staring into the water below, her reflection distorted by the ripples. She reached up, her fingers brushing against the faint scar left by the arrow that had grazed her during the battle. The wound was insignificant compared to the gaping loss in her chest.
The sea stretched endlessly before them, dark and infinite, mirroring the emptiness she felt inside. Daemon Velaryon was gone, and the world felt irrevocably diminished in his absence.
The fleet pressed on, the sails fluttering weakly in the wind. Visenya didn’t speak, her silence a testament to the storm brewing within her. The journey home was not one of victory but of survival, every league a reminder of what they had lost.
The waters, once their ally, now felt like a graveyard—a place where laughter and life had been swallowed by fire and blood. Daemon’s absence was a wound that the sea carried with them, each wave a whisper of grief.
And yet, the ships sailed on, carrying the broken remains of a fleet and a queen who would never be the same.
The throne room of Aegonfort, though humble in comparison to the grand halls of other lords, was no less commanding. The rough wooden walls were draped with crimson and black banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. A large, crudely carved table stood at the center, its surface covered with maps of Westeros, scattered pieces of parchment, and goblets of watered wine. The scent of burning torches and fresh parchment filled the air, mixing with the faint tang of salt carried in through the cracks of the wooden walls.
Aegon Targaryen leaned forward over the table, one hand braced on its edge as his other traced the coastline of the Vale. His violet eyes were sharp with concentration, his silver-gold hair tied back to keep it from his face. He wore a black tunic trimmed with crimson, the simple yet regal attire emphasizing his commanding presence.
To his right stood Orys Baratheon, his closest ally, whose dark eyes flicked between Aegon and the maps. Orys, broad-shouldered and calm, was dressed in his usual muted colors—a leather jerkin over a grey tunic, the faint emblem of the Baratheon stag etched into the buckle of his belt. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword as he spoke with measured authority.
On Aegon’s left sat Rhaenys Targaryen, her presence a stark contrast to the somber tones of the room. She perched gracefully on the edge of the table, one leg tucked beneath her crimson gown, the fabric flowing like molten fire. Gold clasps shimmered on the belt at her waist, and her silver-gold hair was intricately braided with tiny rubies glinting in the torchlight. She twirled a goblet in her hands, her lips curved in a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“We can’t wait much longer,” Orys said, his tone steady but firm. “The castles surrounding us are beginning to stir. They may be small, but if they unite, they’ll test our defenses.”
Aegon nodded, his gaze lingering on the map. “Rosby and Stokeworth bend easily. But if the Arryns send aid through Gulltown…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “Visenya and Daemon should have returned by now. We need to know what we’re up against.”
Rhaenys, always the voice of optimism, leaned forward, her crimson sleeve brushing against the map. “They’re coming back. Visenya wouldn’t fail. And Daemon…” She laughed softly. “Daemon would charm the sea itself if it dared to defy him.”
Orys chuckled faintly but didn’t look entirely convinced. “Charm won’t stop Braavosi steel if the Vale’s fleet has allied with them.”
Before anyone could reply, a knock echoed through the chamber, sharp and insistent. The three turned toward the door, tension tightening the air.
“Enter,” Aegon commanded, his voice steady.
The heavy door creaked open, and a young soldier stepped inside, his helmet tucked under one arm. His face was pale, his eyes wide with urgency. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing low. “A fleet has been spotted on the horizon. A dragon flies above it.”
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them like a storm cloud.
Rhaenys was the first to react, the goblet slipping from her fingers and clattering onto the table. She stood quickly, her face lighting up with relief. “Visenya,” she whispered, the name a breath of hope.
Orys straightened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “How many ships?” he asked the soldier, his tone sharp.
“Four, my lord,” the soldier replied. “They’re battered, but they fly Velaryon sails. They’ll reach the docks within the hour.”
Rhaenys’s relief was palpable as she turned to Aegon, her crimson gown swirling around her. “They’ve returned,” she said, her voice trembling with a mix of joy and worry.
Aegon’s expression softened for the briefest of moments before his focus returned. “Prepare the docks,” he instructed the soldier. “And light the signal fires. Let them know they’re welcome home.”
The soldier bowed deeply before retreating, leaving the door ajar.
The docks of Aegonfort were alive with the quiet murmur of anticipation. The salty sea breeze mingled with the sharp scent of burning torches, their flames flickering against the early evening sky. Soldiers, attendants, and even a few curious onlookers lined the wooden piers, their faces a mixture of hope and worry. The banners of House Targaryen and House Velaryon flapped softly in the breeze, the crimson and black colors stark against the pale horizon.
At the forefront of the gathered party stood Aegon Targaryen, his violet eyes fixed on the horizon where the faint outlines of the returning fleet approached. He wore his dark tunic trimmed with crimson, a leather belt holding his sword at his side. His shoulders were squared, his expression composed, but there was a subtle tension in his jaw that betrayed his concern.
Beside him, Rhaenys stood wrapped in a heavy cloak of crimson and gold, the wind tugging at the edges as her silver-gold hair gleamed in the fading light. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, her usual cheer replaced by a quiet intensity. She hadn’t said much since the news had arrived, her heart torn between relief and dread.
Orys Baratheon stood to Aegon’s left, his imposing figure a steady presence. Dressed in his usual muted tones, his hand rested heavily on the pommel of his sword as he gazed out to sea. His brow furrowed as the ships grew closer, the battle-worn state of the fleet becoming clearer.
“There are only four,” Aegon murmured, his voice low but carrying a weight that cut through the air.
Rhaenys glanced at him sharply, her breath catching. “Four?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.
“They started with more,” Orys said grimly, his gaze unyielding. “They’ve faced more than we thought.”
As the fleet finally approached the docks, the damage to the ships was unmistakable. Their sails were torn, the once-pristine Velaryon banners now singed and frayed. The hulls bore scorch marks and deep gouges, evidence of cannon fire and the fury of battle. The sailors aboard moved with grim efficiency, their faces pale and drawn, their movements weighted with exhaustion.
High above, Vhagar circled once before descending gracefully toward the shoreline. Her massive bronze wings stirred the water below as she landed, the ground trembling beneath her weight. The mighty dragon let out a low, mournful rumble before lifting her head to the sky, her eyes scanning the horizon for a moment before settling.
From the largest of the remaining ships, Visenya Targaryen disembarked. The first sight of her silenced the murmurs along the docks. She was clad in her black scale-like armor, but it was battered and stained, her gauntlets smeared with blood and soot. A faint graze marred her cheek, a thin line of dried blood trailing down to her jaw. Her silver hair, usually immaculately braided, had come loose in places, framing her face in wild, tangled strands.
Her violet eyes, sharp and unrelenting, scanned the crowd with a piercing gaze that brooked no questions. Despite the visible signs of battle, she held herself with unyielding composure. She paused briefly, tilting her head toward Vhagar. The dragon released a low growl before spreading her wings and taking to the sky, heading toward the dragon pit to rest with the other beasts.
Visenya’s boots echoed hollowly on the wooden planks as she strode forward. The crowd parted for her, their expressions a mixture of awe and unease.
As Visenya approached the gathered party, Rhaenys broke away first. The queen moved quickly, her crimson cloak billowing behind her as she ran to her sister. Tears welled in her violet eyes as she threw her arms around Visenya, pulling her into a tight embrace.
At first, Visenya stood rigid, her arms at her sides, but then something in her seemed to crack. Slowly, she raised her arms, returning the hug with an uncharacteristic softness.
“You’re alive,” Rhaenys whispered, her voice trembling as she clung to her sister.
Visenya said nothing, her jaw clenched as her gaze fixed on the horizon.
Rhaenys pulled back slightly, her hands gripping Visenya’s shoulders as she searched her sister’s face. “Where is Daemon?” she asked, her voice quiet but insistent.
Visenya didn’t answer. Her silence was louder than words. Her eyes, shadowed with rage and sorrow, shifted downward, unable to meet Rhaenys’s.
The realization dawned like a storm cloud over the group. Rhaenys’s hands dropped to her sides, her breath hitching. Orys, his normally composed demeanor shattering, took a step forward. “No,” he said firmly, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Daemon doesn’t fall. Not him.”
Visenya’s gaze snapped to him, her anger finally breaking through. “He’s gone,” she said, her voice low and strained. “I saw him. I was there.”
The words hung in the air like a blade, cutting through the fragile hope that had lingered. Rhaenys let out a soft sob, turning away to compose herself, while Orys clenched his fists at his sides, his face a mask of barely contained grief.
Aegon, who had remained silent, stepped forward. His eyes searched Visenya’s face, his own expression unreadable. “What happened?” he asked quietly.
Visenya drew in a sharp breath, her lips tightening. “Later,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the emotion she so tightly held in check. Without another word, she turned away from the crowd, her steps deliberate as she moved toward the gates of Aegonfort, leaving her siblings and allies to process the loss.
The air around the docks remained heavy, the sounds of the sea muted by the weight of the news. Daemon Velaryon, the bright and loyal heart of their fleet, was gone. The returning fleet was a shell of its former strength, and the grief left in its wake would be felt for many battles to come.
The chambers of Visenya Targaryen were unlike any other in Aegonfort. Stark yet powerful, they exuded an aura of mysticism and authority. The walls were adorned with dark tapestries depicting ancient Valyrian runes and dragons in flight. Shelves lined with potions in glass vials, each glowing faintly with an otherworldly light, stood against one wall. Strange artifacts—an obsidian dagger, a polished dragon scale, and a crystalline orb that shimmered in the torchlight—were scattered across a heavy, carved wooden desk.
A suit of scale-like armor, battered and streaked with blood from the battle, rested against a stand near the door. The dark metal gleamed faintly, and the hilt of Dark Sister was propped beside it, its blade still stained.
A small altar stood in one corner of the room, draped in black silk and surrounded by unlit candles. At its center sat a rune-carved stone bowl filled with ash and remnants of burned herbs. The faint scent of smoke and lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of armor.
The chamber was dimly lit, the only light coming from a flickering brazier and the occasional glimmer from the potions. It was a room that spoke of both power and solitude.
Visenya stood in the center of the room, her movements slow and deliberate as though the weight of the day still clung to her. Her violet eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, were shadowed with exhaustion and grief.
Rhaenys moved behind her, gently helping her unfasten the clasps of her armor. The silence between them was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the silence of shared sorrow, too deep for words.
Piece by piece, Rhaenys removed the battered armor, her fingers deft and careful. The breastplate came away first, revealing the bruises beneath. Visenya winced slightly, but didn’t protest. Next, the gauntlets, their edges dented and smeared with soot. Finally, the boots, streaked with blood and mud, were set aside.
A servant entered quietly, their eyes downcast as they filled a wooden tub with steaming water. The faint scent of herbs rose from the bath, the steam curling around the room like a ghostly veil. Once the tub was ready, the servant bowed and left without a word, closing the door softly behind them.
Rhaenys guided her sister to the tub, her touch gentle but firm. Visenya hesitated for a moment, her pride warring with her exhaustion, but finally allowed herself to sink into the water. The heat enveloped her, drawing a shuddering breath from her lips.
Rhaenys knelt beside the tub, dipping a cloth into the water before gently washing away the blood and grime. Her movements were methodical, almost reverent, as though tending to a sacred relic. Visenya’s gaze remained distant, her expression unreadable, but she didn’t resist.
For a long while, the only sounds in the room were the soft splash of water and the crackle of the brazier.
Meanwhile, the throne room was cloaked in an oppressive silence. Aegon sat at the head of the large wooden table, his elbows resting on its edge as his hands steepled beneath his chin. The faint light from the torches cast shadows across his face, deepening the lines of worry and grief.
Orys Baratheon sat across from him, his broad frame slouched slightly as he stared at the surface of the table. His sword lay beside him, the blade clean but the leather of its hilt worn from his grip. Neither man spoke, their shared loss hanging between them like a weight too heavy to lift.
Occasionally, Aegon’s gaze would flicker to the door, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Orys, ever the steady presence, didn’t press him, understanding that some wounds took time to reveal themselves.
The door creaked open softly, and Visenya and Rhaenys entered the throne room. Their presence broke the stillness, though the atmosphere remained heavy.
Visenya looked transformed but not softened. She wore a simple dark grey nightgown and a robe tied loosely at her waist. Her hair, now clean and pulled back, revealed the faint scar on her cheek from the arrow that had grazed her. Her posture was upright, her face pale and drawn, her eyes colder than they had ever been. She walked with purpose but carried an aura of exhaustion.
Rhaenys followed behind her, dressed in a crimson gown. Her expression was gentler, but her red-rimmed eyes betrayed her grief. She had taken care to ensure her sister looked composed, but her own sorrow was barely concealed.
Orys stood as they entered, his hand instinctively reaching for the back of his chair as if to steady himself. Aegon rose as well, his gaze immediately locking onto Visenya.
“Sit,” Visenya said, her voice steady but flat as she gestured for them to remain seated. She moved to the table and stood at its head, her hands resting on the worn wood.
“What happened?” Aegon asked after a moment, his tone low and measured.
Visenya’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table. She didn’t look at them as she began to speak. Her words were deliberate, each one heavy with the weight of her memories.
She described the battle in vivid detail—the clash of the fleets, the roaring of cannons, and the flames that consumed the sea. Her voice only faltered when she spoke of Daemon, her jaw tightening as she recounted his final moments.
“I saw him fight,” she said, her tone raw. “Even as the ship burned around him, he stood. He looked at me… and he knew.”
Rhaenys covered her mouth with her hand, a soft sob escaping despite her effort to stay composed. Orys stared at the table, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge.
“I tried,” Visenya continued, her voice breaking for the first time. “I tried to reach him. But there were too many. The fire… the ship… it was gone before I could do anything.”
The room fell silent again, the weight of her words pressing down on them all.
Finally, Aegon spoke, his voice quiet but resolute. “He died as he lived—fighting for what he believed in.”
Visenya nodded, her gaze distant. “But he shouldn’t have. I should have brought him back.”
“You did what you could,” Orys said, his voice hoarse. “Daemon would have wanted you to live, not to join him in death.”
Rhaenys reached across the table, placing her hand over her sister’s. “We’ll honor him,” she said softly. “We’ll make sure his sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”
Visenya’s fingers tightened briefly around Rhaenys’s before she withdrew, standing tall once more. “There is no honor in what happened,” she said coldly. “Only vengeance.”
The words hung in the air, a promise of fire and blood yet to come.
Chapter 7: A Legacy of Fire and Waves
Chapter Text
The beach at the foot of Aegonfort was shrouded in a heavy stillness, the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the shore punctuated only by the occasional cry of gulls overhead. A towering pyre of driftwood and seasoned oak dominated the sands, adorned with the symbols of Daemon Velaryon’s life—a sea-green and silver banner of House Velaryon, a weathered sword, a coiled rope intricately knotted in his favored style, and a small carved wooden ship he had carried since childhood.
There was no body to burn, but the pyre stood as a monument to the man who had been lost to the sea.
The mourners gathered in somber silence, dressed in unrelenting black that matched the overcast sky.
Aegon Targaryen stood at the forefront, his tall, commanding figure cloaked in a heavy black mantle fastened with a silver dragon clasp. Beneath it, his tunic was simple but well-made, its deep ebony fabric trimmed with crimson accents. His silver-gold hair, usually tied back in battle, fell loose over his shoulders, the wind tugging at its edges. His violet eyes, filled with a grief he refused to show, were fixed on the pyre.
Beside him stood Rhaenys Targaryen, a vision of quiet heartbreak. Her black gown flowed like water, its silk catching the faint, dull light of the torches lining the beach. A sheer black veil covered her silver-gold hair, her face partially obscured but not enough to hide the sorrow in her violet eyes. Her hands, trembling slightly, clutched a sprig of sea lavender—Daemon’s favorite flower.
Visenya Targaryen, always a pillar of strength, wore a high-collared black gown with silver Valyrian runes embroidered along its edges. Her dark mantle bore a faint shimmer of dragon scales, its edges lined with subtle patterns of fire and wings. Her hair was tightly braided, her sharp features set in a mask of control. In her hands, she held Daemon’s cherished wooden ship, her fingers brushing its smooth surface with a tenderness she rarely displayed.
Orys Baratheon, broad and imposing even in mourning, wore a plain black doublet and breeches, his usually vibrant energy subdued. His sword hung at his side, its hilt wrapped in dark cloth as a sign of respect. He stood slightly apart, his head bowed, his grief carved into the hard lines of his face.
Standing beside Aegon were Daemon’s sons, Aethan and Corlys Velaryon.
Aethan, the eldest at seventeen, stood tall, his sharp features and sea-green eyes a striking reflection of his father. His jaw was clenched, his expression stoic, though his fists were tightly balled at his sides. Beside him, Corlys, only twelve, was a smaller mirror of his brother. His silver hair was slightly disheveled, and his tear-streaked face was turned down toward the sand. The boy clutched the edge of Aethan’s tunic as though grounding himself.
Aegon stepped forward, the sound of his boots crunching softly against the sand breaking the heavy silence. The wind carried his words as he began to speak, his voice steady but low, laced with a solemnity that demanded attention.
“Daemon Velaryon was more than a lord, more than a commander. He was a brother—not by blood, but by choice. He stood at my side through fire and blood, through triumph and defeat. And though the sea has claimed him, his memory remains with us. He will never truly be lost.”
His gaze shifted to Aethan and Corlys, his violet eyes softening. “To his sons, know this: your father’s sacrifice will echo through the ages. His name will be sung in every hall, his deeds remembered long after we are gone. He fought not for himself, but for a dream—for a future in which you would thrive.”
Turning to the gathered soldiers and sailors, Aegon’s voice grew stronger. “Daemon’s loss reminds us of the cost of this conquest, of the price we pay to unite this land. But it is also a reminder of why we fight. We fight to ensure that no sacrifice like his will ever be forgotten, that his name will stand as a beacon of courage and loyalty.”
Aegon’s hand briefly brushed the hilt of his sword, a silent promise. “Daemon Velaryon was not just a man of the sea. He was its master. And though the waves have taken him, they will never extinguish the fire of his legacy.”
Rhaenys stepped forward, her movements slow and deliberate, as though each step carried the weight of her grief. She stopped at the base of the pyre, her trembling hands lifting the sprig of sea lavender. Her voice, usually bright and musical, was soft and steady as she spoke.
“He loved the sea,” she began, her gaze fixed on the banner fluttering above. “He said it was freedom, the one place where the winds and waves answered only to themselves. And though the sea has claimed him, I believe he’s found peace in its embrace. A place where he can sail forever.”
She placed the lavender gently atop the pyre before stepping back, her veil catching the breeze as she returned to Aegon’s side.
Visenya moved next, her presence sharp and commanding despite the grief shadowing her face. She stopped before the pyre, holding the small wooden ship tightly in her hands. For a moment, she stood in silence, her violet eyes fixed on the items laid before her.
“Daemon fought until the end,” she said, her voice cold but steady. “He was relentless. He stood where others would have fallen, fought where others would have fled. That was who he was—a man who defied the odds, who refused to yield.”
She placed the ship atop the pyre, her fingers lingering on it briefly. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost a whisper. “You said the sea couldn’t beat a dragon. I believed you, Daemon. I still do.”
Orys stepped forward last, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the pyre. His dark eyes glistened as he placed a small token—a simple dagger Daemon had once gifted him—atop the wood.
“Daemon was my brother,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “Not by blood, but in every way that mattered. We grew up together, fought together, laughed together. He was a man who lived boldly, loved fiercely, and fought without fear. There was no one like him.”
His voice broke slightly as he added, “And there never will be again.”
Vhagar, perched on a distant cliff, let out a mournful rumble. At Visenya’s silent command, the dragon unleashed a torrent of flame. The fire roared to life, consuming the wood and its offerings in a blaze that climbed high into the sky.
The mourners watched in silence, their faces illuminated by the flickering light. Aethan, his expression hard, placed a hand on Corlys’s shoulder, steadying the boy as he buried his face in his hands. Rhaenys leaned against Aegon, her tears falling silently. Visenya, standing slightly apart, stared unblinking at the flames, her jaw tight with unspoken emotion.
The pyre burned long into the night, its embers rising into the darkened sky like stars scattered by the wind. Daemon Velaryon, though claimed by the sea, would never be forgotten. His name, his courage, and his sacrifice were etched into the hearts of those who loved him, carried forward through fire and blood.
The hall of Aegonfort was dimly lit, the usual brightness of feasts replaced by the flickering glow of torches and a few scattered candles. The air was heavy, filled with the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of cups. The mood was somber—there were no toasts, no laughter, only the muted sounds of mourning.
The long tables were sparsely filled with bread, salted meats, and pitchers of wine, but few partook with any vigor. Most sat in silence, their gazes distant, their hands wrapped tightly around cups of dark Dornish red or spiced mead.
At one corner of the hall, a group of sailors began to hum a soft, mournful tune. The song, an old ballad of Valyria and the sea, wove its way through the heavy atmosphere, its haunting melody striking a chord in every heart. The words, sung quietly, told of great ships and lost captains, of fire and waves that claimed them.
Near the far end of the hall, Orys Baratheon and Rhaenys Targaryen sat with Aethan and Corlys Velaryon, the two boys huddled close.
Orys, his massive frame a reassuring presence, leaned down to speak softly to Aethan, his voice low and steady. “Your father was a good man, Aethan. Brave and true. And he loved you more than anything. Remember that.”
Aethan nodded stiffly, his jaw tight as he tried to maintain his composure. His sea-green eyes, so much like his father’s, flicked briefly to Orys before returning to the table, his hand resting protectively on Corlys’s shoulder.
Corlys, the younger of the two, leaned heavily against Rhaenys, his tear-streaked face buried in her crimson sleeve. She stroked his silver hair gently, whispering words of comfort that only he could hear.
“Your father sails with the waves now,” she murmured, her voice soft and soothing. “The sea has taken him home, but he will always be with you.”
Corlys sniffled, his small fingers gripping her gown tightly. “Will we ever see him again?”
Rhaenys hesitated, her gaze flickering to Orys for support. The burly man placed a hand on Corlys’s other shoulder. “In a way, lad,” he said, his voice rough but kind. “You’ll see him in every wave, feel him in every gust of wind that fills a sail. He’s with you, always.”
While the mourners remained in the hall, Visenya Targaryen stood alone on the beach. The sea was dark and endless before her, the waves crashing softly against the shore as the wind tugged at her black cloak.
Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her silver hair whipping around her face. The faint scar on her cheek was a stark reminder of the battle, but it was her eyes—cold and unyielding—that spoke of the fire burning within her. She stared out at the horizon as though searching for something, though whether it was solace or vengeance, even she could not say.
Behind her, the soft crunch of boots on sand broke the stillness. She didn’t turn as Aegon approached, his figure tall and commanding even in mourning. He stopped a few paces away, his hands clasped behind his back as he followed her gaze.
“Visenya,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the sound of the waves.
She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Finally, she spoke, her tone sharp and laced with bitterness. “I should have burned them all. Every last one of them.”
Aegon stepped closer, his expression calm but wary. “You did what you could. The fleet was lost, but you brought back those who survived. You brought back yourself.”
Visenya turned to him then, her violet eyes burning with a cold fury. “And what good is that? Daemon is gone. The Braavosi scum and the cowards of the Vale still stand. We did not teach them the lesson we should have.”
Aegon’s jaw tightened. “We will teach them, Visenya. But not in anger.”
Her laugh was sharp and humorless, a sound that cut through the crashing waves. “Not in anger? And what would you call what I feel? Daemon is dead, and they live.” She gestured toward the sea. “That water should still boil from Vhagar’s flames. The ashes of their fleet should choke their harbors.”
Aegon studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “What you feel is just,” he said finally. “But Daemon wouldn’t want you consumed by it. He fought for something greater than vengeance. You know that.”
Visenya’s gaze dropped to the sand, her fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides. “He was a fool,” she whispered. “Brave, loyal, but still a fool. And now he’s gone, and the rest of us are left to carry the weight of his dreams.”
Aegon placed a hand gently on her shoulder, his touch steady but not imposing. “He trusted you, Visenya. He trusted all of us. And we will not let his sacrifice be in vain.”
For a moment, Visenya didn’t move. Then she straightened, the cold fury in her eyes hardening into something sharper, more controlled. “Then we will burn them,” she said quietly, her voice like steel. “But this time, we will leave nothing standing.”
Aegon nodded, his hand falling away as they both turned back to the sea. The waves crashed endlessly before them, their shared silence heavy with unspoken resolve. Visenya’s anger still simmered, but beneath it lay a determination that would not waver.
Together, they stood on the beach, the wind whipping around them, the sea stretching out into the darkness as they prepared for what would come next.
The cool breeze swept across the balcony outside the throne room, carrying with it the faint scent of salt from the nearby sea. The stars above glittered faintly, but the moon hung low, casting a silver sheen over Aegon Targaryen as he leaned against the stone balustrade. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the waves glimmered faintly under the pale light.
The door behind him creaked softly, and the familiar sound of heavy boots announced Orys Baratheon’s arrival. Aegon didn’t turn but straightened slightly as Orys stepped beside him, the tall, broad-shouldered man crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the railing.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them filled with the soft whisper of the wind and the distant crash of waves.
“Have you seen her?” Orys asked finally, his voice low but edged with concern.
Aegon sighed, his breath visible in the chill night air. “Visenya wanted to be alone,” he said. “She said she needed to spend time with the gods.”
Orys frowned, his dark brows drawing together. “The gods won’t give her what she wants,” he said. “Daemon isn’t coming back.”
Aegon turned his head slightly, his violet eyes meeting Orys’s. “She knows that,” he said quietly. “But grief doesn’t care about reason. She’s searching for something—peace, strength, I don’t know. She needs time.”
Orys grunted, his gaze shifting to the dark horizon. “She’s strong. Always has been. But losing Daemon...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “He wasn’t just a friend to her. He was her anchor, the one who knew how to pull her back when she went too far.”
Aegon nodded, his jaw tightening. “And now we have to be that for her,” he said. “All of us.”
The two men stood in silence again, their shared grief heavy in the air. Finally, Orys broke it with a sigh. “You think she’ll be ready when the time comes? When we strike again?”
Aegon’s gaze hardened. “She’ll be ready,” he said firmly. “If anything, this has made her more determined. The Vale will pay for what they’ve done.”
The sound of soft footsteps broke the quiet, and both men turned as Rhaenys Targaryen stepped onto the balcony. She was wrapped in a dark cloak, the hood pulled back to reveal her silver-gold hair, which shimmered in the moonlight. Her violet eyes were warm but tinged with exhaustion as she approached them.
“I’ve ensured the boys are in bed,” she said, her voice soft but carrying a note of reassurance. “Aethan is stubborn, like his father, but Corlys was asleep before his head hit the pillow.”
Orys smiled faintly, the mention of Daemon’s sons bringing a flicker of warmth to his otherwise somber expression. “They’re good boys,” he said. “Daemon would be proud.”
Rhaenys stepped closer, resting a gentle hand on Orys’s arm. “He is proud,” she said. “Through them, his legacy lives on.”
Aegon watched the exchange silently, his gaze flickering between them before returning to the sea. “They’re stronger than they know,” he said. “But they’ve lost more than any boy should at their age.”
Rhaenys moved to Aegon’s side, her cloak billowing slightly in the breeze as she leaned against the railing. “We’ll protect them,” she said, her tone resolute. “All of us. They’re part of this now, part of what we’re building.”
Aegon nodded, his expression softening as he glanced at her. “You always find the light, even in the darkest moments.”
Rhaenys smiled faintly, her hand brushing against his. “Someone has to,” she said. “We can’t let the darkness win.”
The three of them stood together on the balcony, their silence a shared understanding. Below, the waves continued their endless rhythm, a reminder of both loss and resilience. Above, the stars watched over them, distant but constant, as they prepared for the battles yet to come.
The morning sun streamed through the narrow windows of Aegon’s study in Aegonfort, its warm light falling across the dark wooden table that dominated the room. Maps, battle plans, and scrolls were scattered across the surface, a controlled chaos that mirrored the thoughts racing through Aegon Targaryen’s mind.
The once crude fortress had undergone notable improvements in the weeks since Daemon’s funeral. Aegonfort now looked more fitting for a king; its rough edges had been smoothed, its halls adorned with banners of House Targaryen, black and red dragons stretching across the fabric like shadows in flame. The hum of activity filled the air outside—smiths working on weapons, soldiers training, and emissaries arriving to pledge their loyalty.
But within the study, there was only silence, save for the faint scratch of quill on parchment as Aegon made notations on the map spread before him.
At the center of the table lay a detailed depiction of Harrenhal, its towering spires and sprawling courtyards marked with intricate lines and labels. Aegon’s violet eyes moved over the map with sharp precision, studying every potential weakness.
The castle was said to be impregnable, a monstrosity of stone and ambition built by Harren Hoare, King of the Isles and Rivers. Aegon knew the stories well: Harren had emptied his coffers and enslaved thousands to build the fortress, all to secure his legacy. But Aegon also knew that stone, no matter how thick, could not withstand fire.
His finger traced the line of the Gods Eye, the great lake that bordered the castle. A natural barrier, but one that could be overcome with the right strategy. His other hand hovered over the fleet placement noted by Aethan Velaryon, his newly appointed Lord Admiral and Master of Ships. The young man had stepped into his father’s shoes with a quiet determination that both impressed and pained Aegon.
Aegon leaned back in his chair, his quill resting between his fingers as he gazed out of the window. From his vantage point, he could see the activity of the camp below. His soldiers, his people, were working tirelessly for his dream. And yet, the cost weighed heavily on him.
Daemon’s loss lingered like a shadow over Aegonfort. Though the fleet had recovered and the plans for conquest advanced, the absence of his closest friend was a wound that refused to heal. Aegon had seen the way it had hardened Visenya, how it had softened Rhaenys, and how it had shaped Aethan and Corlys into men far too soon.
His thoughts drifted to Aethan. The boy—no, the man—had taken his father’s place with a dignity beyond his years. Aegon had watched him rise to the challenge, commanding the fleet with a confidence that mirrored Daemon’s. Corlys, though younger and quieter, had shown promise as well, shadowing his brother and soaking in the lessons of leadership.
“They carry him with them,” Aegon murmured to himself, his voice low. “Through them, he lives.”
A soft knock broke the silence, drawing Aegon’s attention from the map. “Enter,” he called, his voice low but steady.
The door creaked open, and Rhaenys Targaryen stepped inside, her presence a stark contrast to the room’s somber air. She wore a flowing gown of deep crimson, the color of blood and fire, with golden accents glinting in the morning light. Her silver-gold hair was intricately braided, framing her soft features. Despite the weariness that lingered in her violet eyes, her smile was warm as she approached.
“You’ve been in here all morning,” she said gently, moving closer to the table. Her voice carried a note of concern, though her tone was light.
“There’s much to do,” Aegon replied, gesturing to the mess of maps and scrolls before him. “Harrenhal will not fall easily, and we’ve enemies to the south and east who won’t wait for us to finish with the Black.”
Rhaenys moved to stand beside him, her gaze falling to the map. “You’ve always been the master planner,” she teased softly. “Do you even leave room for surprises anymore?”
“Surprises are for fools,” Aegon muttered, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “And we’ve no room for foolishness.”
Rhaenys reached out, placing a light hand on his arm. “You carry too much,” she said softly. “We’ve lost so much already—Daemon, his fleet, his men. And yet, you’ve not stopped.”
Aegon sighed, his hand resting over hers briefly. “There’s no time to stop,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Daemon believed in this dream, as we all do. To pause now would dishonor his sacrifice.”
Rhaenys’s smile faded, her expression turning thoughtful. “The boys are grieving too,” she said. “Aethan is trying to step into his father’s role, and Corlys... he’s too young to understand fully, but he feels the loss just as deeply.”
“You’ve been good with them,” Aegon said, his voice softening as he turned to look at her. “You’ve held them together when the rest of us couldn’t. They look to you.”
Her cheeks flushed faintly, and she laughed softly, a light and musical sound. “They’ve been a comfort to me as much as I’ve been to them. But,” she hesitated, her voice turning wistful, “I can’t help but think how much I want that for myself—for us.”
Aegon blinked, caught off guard by her admission. “A babe,” he repeated quietly, the word carrying both weight and wonder. “Rhaenys, you would make a mother any child would be lucky to have.”
She smiled, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Do you think so? I’ve wondered if... with all this fire and blood, there’s a place for something as innocent as a child.”
Aegon stepped closer, his fingers brushing against her cheek. “You’ve shown it, with Aethan and Corlys. You’ve been their light, their anchor. If the gods are kind, we’ll have a babe of our own, and they’ll know nothing but love and strength.”
Her hand covered his, her gaze filled with warmth. “Let’s hope the gods smile on us soon,” she said softly.
Rhaenys stepped back, her focus shifting to the map on the table. “And what of Harrenhal?” she asked, her voice steady now. “Do you still intend to take Balerion there?”
“I must,” Aegon replied. “Harrenhal is the key to the Riverlands, and Harren Hoare will not yield easily. The castle may be stone, but even stone cannot stand against dragonfire.”
“And the rest?” Rhaenys prompted, her tone thoughtful.
“You’ll ride with Orys to the Stormlands,” Aegon said. “Take the larger part of our host and confront Argilac Durrandon. Storm’s End is too valuable to leave standing against us.”
Rhaenys nodded, but Aegon hesitated, his jaw tightening. “After what happened to Daemon... are you sure? It’s not an easy thing to ask, especially of you.”
She stepped closer, her hand resting on his. “I’m not Daemon, Aegon,” she said gently. “But I understand the risk. I’ll be careful.”
“You’re more than careful,” he said, his violet eyes meeting hers. “You’re my heart, Rhaenys. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”
“And you won’t,” she replied, her voice filled with quiet conviction. “I’ll come back to you. I always do.”
Aegon exhaled, his hand tightening around hers. “Then let’s ensure this next move is one they’ll never forget.”
His violet eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unyielding, but beneath the surface was something softer—an ache, a longing. She stepped closer, her breath catching as she searched his gaze. There was no mistaking the intensity between them, the unspoken pull that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks.
Neither moved at first, the silence growing heavier with every second. Then, without warning, Aegon reached for her, his hand cupping her cheek. She tilted her head slightly into his touch, her silver-gold hair brushing against his fingers. They stared at each other, the world around them fading away until it was just them, the king and his queen, bound by love, fire, and blood.
He leaned down, and their lips met in a kiss that was soft at first but quickly deepened, the intensity of their emotions breaking through. Rhaenys’s hands slid up to his shoulders, pulling him closer as the kiss grew more fervent. It was as if all the time they had spent apart, consumed by war and grief, spilled into this single moment.
Aegon pulled back briefly, his breathing heavy as his forehead rested against hers. “Rhaenys,” he murmured, his voice thick with hesitation. “We shouldn’t—”
But she wouldn’t let him go, her hands tightening around him. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered, her voice trembling with both need and affection. “I need you, Aegon.”
Her words broke whatever restraint he had left. He kissed her again, harder this time, his hands slipping to her waist. The edge of the table pressed against her back as he guided her toward it, his movements deliberate yet filled with urgency. She didn’t protest, her fingers tangling in his silver-gold hair as she pulled him closer, their kisses growing hotter and more desperate.
Aegon’s hands slid down her hips, gathering the fabric of her crimson gown and pushing it up with purpose. Rhaenys gasped softly against his lips, her legs parting instinctively as he lifted her onto the edge of the table. Her breath hitched as his hands roamed, his touch firm yet reverent, like a man who had been starving for her.
Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as she whispered his name, her voice a mix of longing and surrender. He responded with a low growl, his lips trailing down her neck as his hands slid beneath the folds of her gown. The smoothness of her thighs beneath his calloused hands sent a jolt through him, and he pressed against her, their bodies fitting together as though they were made for this moment.
Rhaenys tilted her head back, her silver-gold hair cascading over her shoulders as she clung to him. “Aegon,” she breathed, her voice filled with both need and love. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he replied, his voice rough as he kissed her deeply once more. His hands gripped her hips, steadying her as he moved against her, their shared urgency consuming them both.
The room was filled with the sound of their shared breaths, soft moans, and the rustle of fabric. Aegon’s crown, forgotten, sat on the table beside them, the symbol of his kingship momentarily abandoned in favor of the woman who was his equal in every way.
Rhaenys clung to him as their movements grew more frantic, her nails digging into his shoulders as she whispered his name like a prayer. He answered her with every touch, every kiss, his devotion to her clear in the way he held her, cherished her.
As the intensity of their passion reached its peak, the world seemed to hold its breath around them. In that moment, there were no wars, no dragons, no weight of a kingdom—only Aegon and Rhaenys, together in a love that burned brighter than any fire.
When it was over, they remained entwined, their breathing heavy as they clung to each other. Aegon rested his forehead against hers, his hands still cradling her hips as he whispered, “I love you.”
Rhaenys smiled, her fingers brushing against his jaw. “And I you,” she replied softly, her voice steady despite the rush of emotions coursing through her.
They stayed like that for a moment longer, the warmth of their connection lingering as the world slowly returned around them. Finally, Aegon pulled back just enough to look at her, his gaze filled with a rare tenderness.
“Stay with me,” he said quietly, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Always,” she replied, her smile widening as she leaned in to kiss him once more.
Chapter 8: Shadows Over Harrenhal
Chapter Text
The morning air at Aegonfort was crisp, tinged with the scent of salt and smoke that always seemed to linger in the air. The courtyard was alive with activity as soldiers and servants moved with purpose, loading wagons, tightening straps on saddles, and tending to dragons. The banners of House Targaryen rippled in the breeze, their black and crimson stark against the pale light of dawn.
At the center of it all stood the three Targaryens and Orys Baratheon, their presence commanding and regal as the final preparations for the next phase of the conquest unfolded.
Aegon Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, was dressed in his black-and-crimson armor, polished to a gleaming finish. His breastplate bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its wings outstretched in an eternal show of dominance. His silver-gold hair was tied back, leaving his sharp violet eyes unobstructed. Over his armor, a heavy crimson cloak lined with black hung from his shoulders, clasped with a dragon-shaped pin. He exuded quiet authority, though his gaze lingered on Rhaenys, a flicker of emotion betraying his composed exterior.
Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen of the Skies, was clad in sleek, fitted armor in shades of red and black, designed to allow her the freedom to move as she commanded Meraxes. Her breastplate, adorned with flame motifs, caught the morning light, and her silver-gold hair was tightly braided, a practical style for a warrior queen. A crimson cloak billowed behind her, fastened with clasps shaped like miniature dragon heads.
Visenya Targaryen, ever the warrior, was dressed in her dark, scale-like armor, the black metal etched with Valyrian glyphs that seemed to shimmer faintly as she moved. Her hair, tightly braided, framed her sharp, imposing features, and her eyes, colder than usual since Daemon's death, held an edge of steel. She wore no cloak, preferring the practicality of movement, and the hilt of Dark Sister was visible at her hip.
Orys Baratheon, steadfast and unyielding, wore the black-and-gold armor of House Baratheon. His broad shoulders carried the weight of leadership easily, his dark hair tied back, and his expression focused. His crowned stag sigil gleamed on his chest plate, and his massive greatsword rested across his back.
Aegon turned to Rhaenys, his gaze softening as he studied her face. “This is the first time we’ve been parted,” he said quietly, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of sadness.
Rhaenys smiled faintly, her hand brushing against his armored chest. “We won’t be apart for long,” she assured him. “You have your battles to fight, and I have mine. We’ll both return victorious.”
“I know,” Aegon replied, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed his unease. He reached out, cupping her face briefly. “Be careful.”
“You know me,” Rhaenys teased lightly, though her eyes glimmered with emotion. “I’ll burn only what I must.”
They shared a moment of silence, their foreheads touching briefly before Rhaenys stepped back, her hand lingering in his for a heartbeat before she turned toward Meraxes.
Aegon then turned to Orys, his expression hardening slightly. “Keep her safe,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“With my life,” Orys replied firmly, his dark eyes meeting Aegon’s. “She’ll return to you.”
The massive silver dragon Meraxes shifted her weight, her golden eyes gleaming as Rhaenys approached. With practiced ease, she climbed into the saddle, her crimson cloak trailing behind her. Orys mounted his warhorse, his armor gleaming in the sunlight, and gave a curt nod to Aegon and Visenya.
The sound of hooves and the fluttering of banners filled the air as the host began to move. Meraxes took flight, her wings spreading wide as she soared into the sky, casting a shadow over the departing army. Rhaenys looked back once, her gaze meeting Aegon’s as she disappeared into the horizon.
Aegon stood rooted in place, watching until the last of the banners and the dragon’s shadow were out of sight. Only then did he let out a quiet sigh, his expression unreadable as he turned back to Visenya.
The two siblings walked side by side through the courtyard, their steps slow and deliberate. The activity around them seemed muted, distant, as if the weight of their shared history and the uncertain future pressed down upon them.
“What will you do after Harrenhal?” Aegon asked, breaking the silence.
Visenya’s gaze was fixed ahead, her expression cold and calculating. “I’ll take Vhagar to Crackclaw Point,” she replied. “They’ll submit, one way or another.”
Aegon studied her for a moment, his brows knitting together. “Visenya...” he began, his tone softer now. “Since Daemon... you’ve been different.”
She stopped, turning to face him. Her violet eyes were sharp, but there was a flicker of something deeper—something she refused to let surface. “I don’t have time to grieve, Aegon,” she said curtly. “There’s a kingdom to conquer, and sentiment doesn’t win wars.”
Aegon sighed, his hand brushing against her arm. “You’re more than just wrath and steel, Visenya. Don’t forget that.”
Her lips twitched into something that might have been a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Let me worry about Crackclaw Point,” she said. “You focus on burning Harrenhal.”
He nodded, though his gaze lingered on her. “Take care of yourself.”
Visenya inclined her head, her expression softening just slightly. “I always do.”
As they approached the dragon pens, Vhagar raised her massive head, her bronze scales catching the light. Visenya placed a hand on the dragon’s flank, murmuring something in Valyrian that Aegon couldn’t hear. The great beast rumbled low in response, her wings shifting restlessly.
Aegon looked up at Balerion, who loomed nearby, his shadow stretching over them both. The Black Dread seemed almost eager, his golden eyes locked on the horizon.
“This is just the beginning,” Aegon said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of prophecy.
Visenya glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Then let’s make sure it ends with us.”
With that, they parted ways, their shared burden heavy but their resolve unshaken. The conquest awaited, and there was no turning back.
The army of Aegon Targaryen marched under a sky painted in hues of orange and gold as the dawn broke over the horizon. The rhythmic clatter of boots, the steady creak of wagons, and the clang of armor filled the air. Thousands of men moved in disciplined ranks, their black-and-crimson banners snapping sharply in the brisk morning wind. The sigil of House Targaryen—the three-headed dragon—loomed high, a symbol of power that struck awe and fear into all who beheld it.
The land stretched wide and open as they moved northwest toward the Gods Eye. The rolling plains were punctuated by the occasional copse of trees, their bare branches reaching skyward like skeletal fingers. The chill of the morning began to give way to the warmth of the sun, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air.
Ahead of the marching column, Aegon Targaryen rode atop his black destrier, his presence commanding. His black-and-crimson armor gleamed under the sunlight, the three-headed dragon on his breastplate catching the light with every movement. His cloak, lined with fur against the morning chill, billowed behind him. Blackfyre, his legendary sword, rested against his hip, a constant reminder of the weight he carried as both warrior and king.
The soldiers behind him were a diverse group—some hardened by years of battle, others fresh-faced and untested. Their expressions ranged from grim determination to quiet nerves as they whispered among themselves about the coming confrontation with Harren the Black and his forces.
The supply wagons rattled over uneven ground, carrying barrels of water, food, and weapons. Smiths walked alongside, ready to mend armor and sharpen swords when the time came. Aegon occasionally glanced back over his shoulder, his keen violet eyes scanning the ranks. He noted the resolve in their faces, the steady rhythm of their steps. They were ready.
As the day wore on, the column halted to rest near a shallow stream. Soldiers knelt by the water, filling their flasks and splashing their faces. Aegon dismounted, walking among his men, exchanging a word here and there to bolster their spirits. He was not a king who kept himself apart; his men needed to see him, to feel his presence among them.
By mid-afternoon, as the sun hung high overhead, the sound of wings beating against the wind filled the air. Aegon turned his gaze upward, and there, soaring against the vast blue sky, was Balerion the Black Dread. The dragon's shadow fell over the column, eliciting a mix of cheers and nervous glances from the soldiers below.
Aegon gave a faint smile, the sight of the massive beast filling him with both pride and purpose. He raised a gloved hand, signaling his dragon to descend. With a deafening roar, Balerion spiraled downward, his massive form blotting out the sun as he landed on the plains ahead of the column. The ground trembled beneath his weight, and his golden eyes locked on Aegon, awaiting his command.
Aegon mounted the dragon with practiced ease, the saddle fitted perfectly to Balerion’s ridged back. The beast rumbled low, a sound that vibrated through the earth as Aegon secured himself. He glanced back at his men, their upturned faces a mixture of awe and devotion.
“Continue the march,” he commanded to his captains. “Follow the path to the Gods Eye. I will scout ahead.”
The captains saluted, their voices carrying orders down the line as Aegon signaled Balerion to rise. The dragon’s wings unfurled, each massive membrane catching the light as they stretched wide. With a powerful leap, Balerion launched into the sky, his roar echoing across the plains.
From the air, the world below looked small and insignificant. Aegon’s sharp eyes scanned the terrain, the vast expanse of the Gods Eye coming into view. The lake shimmered in the distance, a mirror of silver that seemed calm and tranquil. But Aegon knew better. Harrenhal, the seat of Harren the Black, loomed beyond it—a fortress of stone and shadow that had never fallen.
Balerion’s flight was smooth, his massive wings slicing through the air with ease. Aegon tightened his grip on the reins, guiding the dragon in a wide arc over the lake. From this vantage, he could see the southern shore where they would camp that evening. He could also see the faint movements in the distance—House Hoare’s forces, likely preparing for the inevitable clash.
As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows over the plains, Aegon returned to his army. Balerion’s landing was thunderous, the dragon’s claws digging into the earth as soldiers scrambled to make way. Aegon dismounted, his boots crunching against the dirt as he strode toward the command tent.
Inside, the map of Harrenhal and the Gods Eye was spread across a wooden table. Aegon stood over it, his brow furrowed as he studied the terrain. His captains entered behind him, their faces a mix of excitement and concern.
“The Hoares are waiting for us,” Aegon said without preamble. “They’ll attack before we reach Harrenhal. We need to be ready.”
The captains nodded, their focus unwavering as they absorbed his words. Aegon’s hand rested on the hilt of Blackfyre, the weight of the sword grounding him. He knew the days ahead would test them all, but he also knew the strength of his men—and the power of his dragons.
As night fell, the camp settled into a tense quiet. Fires dotted the landscape, their flickering light casting eerie shadows over the gathered forces. Aegon sat alone outside his tent, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon where Harrenhal awaited. Above him, Balerion rested, his golden eyes half-lidded as he kept watch over the camp.
The march to the Gods Eye was nearly complete, but Aegon knew the true battle was only just beginning.
The stillness of the morning air over the Gods Eye was heavy, as though the land itself braced for the storm to come. Mounted atop Balerion the Black Dread, Aegon Targaryen surveyed the horizon, his sharp violet eyes narrowed with focus. The dawn’s golden light reflected off his black-and-crimson armor, forged in the likeness of dragon scales. The sigil of House Targaryen—a three-headed dragon—gleamed on his breastplate, a symbol of power and conquest. His silver-gold hair, bound back with a black leather tie, shimmered faintly in the rising sun.
The scouts returned with grim news. “House Hoare moves, my king,” one reported, his voice low and urgent. Aegon nodded silently, his face betraying no emotion as he turned his gaze to the southern shore of the Gods Eye. The battle to come would be bloody.
As the Targaryen forces reached the edge of the Reeds, the swampy terrain stretched out before them, its thick vegetation providing the perfect cover for ambushes. House Hoare’s soldiers emerged like wraiths from the mist, their movements swift and deadly. Arrows, fired from hidden positions, rained down on the advancing army. The cries of the wounded and dying pierced the air as the Targaryens scrambled to form defensive lines.
Aegon, astride Balerion, soared above the battlefield, his dragon’s shadow passing over both friend and foe. Below, his captains shouted orders, their voices drowned out by the clash of steel and the cacophony of battle. The swamp’s mud slowed their movements, dragging at boots and wheels alike, as the enemy spearmen surged forward.
With a commanding roar, Balerion descended, his black scales glinting ominously. Aegon guided him with precision, unleashing a torrent of flame that engulfed the reeds. The enemy’s formation dissolved into chaos as men screamed, their flesh melting under the dragon’s fiery breath. Horses reared in terror, their manes alight, before collapsing into smoldering heaps.
Though victorious, the battle left its scars. The swamp was littered with the charred remains of enemy and ally alike. Soldiers trudged through the mud, their armor streaked with soot, as they gathered the wounded and counted the dead. Aegon dismounted from Balerion, his boots sinking into the scorched earth. His face was unreadable as he surveyed the devastation.
“Count the dead,” he ordered, his voice steady but heavy. “Prepare for the march.”
The Targaryen army pressed onward, their spirits subdued by the losses at the Reeds. They made camp on the southern shore of the Gods Eye, the lake’s calm surface reflecting the stars above. The soldiers, weary from the day’s battle, huddled around campfires, their laughter muted and their songs half-hearted.
But the night brought no peace. Under the eerie cries of the wailing willows, Harren the Black’s sons launched a daring ambush. Longboats, their oars muffled, glided silently across the lake, their dark forms blending with the shadows. The first sign of attack came with a cry of alarm as the enemy fell upon the rear guard with ruthless efficiency.
Flames sprang to life as supply wagons were set ablaze, the glow casting sinister shadows across the camp. The clash of steel and the screams of the dying shattered the stillness of the night.
Aegon burst from his tent, Blackfyre already in hand. Clad in his battle-worn armor, he wasted no time mounting Balerion, the dragon’s roar splitting the night. The Black Dread ascended into the sky, his golden eyes scanning the chaos below.
From above, Aegon spotted the longboats retreating, their oars slicing through the dark waters as they fled with their spoils. “Burn them,” Aegon commanded, his voice a cold whisper.
Balerion’s flames lit up the lake, turning the water into a boiling cauldron of fire. Longboats erupted into infernos, their crews screaming as they were consumed by the dragon’s wrath. Harren’s eldest son, defiant to the last, raised his sword in a futile gesture before being engulfed in flame. The younger son’s cries were lost in the roar of the inferno as his boat was reduced to ash.
The victory was hollow. The ambush had left the Targaryens reeling, their rear guard decimated and their supplies gutted. Aegon landed Balerion amidst the smoldering wreckage, his expression grim as he dismounted. The night’s silence was broken only by the crackle of flames and the occasional groan of the wounded.
The morning brought new allies. Word spread quickly: Harren the Black, desperate to bolster his defenses, had summoned the river lords. But instead of answering his call, they rose in rebellion. Decades of Ironborn rule had left the Riverlands ripe for revolt, and under the leadership of Lord Edmyn Tully of Riverrun, they turned to Aegon.
One by one, banners appeared on the horizon—House Mallister, House Blackwood, House Frey, and more. They marched into Aegon’s camp, their leaders kneeling before him in full view of the army.
“The Trident bends the knee,” declared Lord Edmyn, his voice firm and resolute. “We will stand with House Targaryen.”
Aegon placed a hand on Edmyn’s shoulder, his violet gaze steady. “Rise, Lord Tully,” he said. “You shall have your freedom, and your loyalty shall not be forgotten.”
The swelling of his ranks turned the tide. With the riverlords at his back, Aegon’s army now outnumbered Harren’s forces. The banners of rebellion flew proudly beside the three-headed dragon, a symbol of unity against the tyranny of House Hoare.
The march toward Harrenhal was solemn, the weight of the campaign pressing down on the soldiers’ shoulders. The fortress loomed in the distance, its massive black walls a stark reminder of the power and arrogance of Harren the Black. Built to withstand any siege, Harrenhal seemed unassailable, its towers reaching defiantly toward the heavens.
As the Targaryen forces surrounded the castle, Aegon raised a banner of peace. Mounted atop Balerion, he rode to the gates, his armor gleaming in the sunlight. Harren met him there, his expression one of hardened resolve.
“Yield now,” Aegon called, his voice carrying across the courtyard. “Yield now, and you may remain as Lord of the Iron Islands. Yield now, and your sons will live to rule after you. I have eight thousand men outside your walls.”
Harren sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “What is outside my walls is of no concern to me. Those walls are strong and thick.”
Aegon’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “But not so high as to keep out dragons. Dragons fly.”
“I built in stone,” Harren retorted, his tone defiant. “Stone does not burn.”
Aegon’s gaze hardened, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “When the sun sets, your line shall end.”
As he rode back to his army, the tension was palpable. Soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons, their eyes fixed on the imposing fortress. Above, Balerion circled, his massive form a shadow of judgment over the land.
The siege of Harrenhal had begun. Stone may not burn, but dragons do not yield.
The sun hovered low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the Gods Eye and bathing the blackened towers of Harrenhal in hues of deep orange and crimson. Aegon Targaryen, mounted on Balerion the Black Dread, returned to his forces from the parley with Harren the Black. The weight of inevitability hung heavy in the air. Around him, soldiers murmured anxiously, their eyes darting between their king and the looming fortress ahead.
Aegon dismounted gracefully, his polished black-and-crimson armor glinting faintly in the fading light. His violet eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over his men. The sigil of House Targaryen—a three-headed dragon—seemed almost alive on his breastplate, its wings stretched in eternal flight.
He strode through the camp, his long black cloak trailing behind him, brushing against the churned earth. His commanders waited in a tight circle near a large wooden table that displayed a map of Harrenhal and the surrounding lands. They saluted as Aegon approached.
“He will not yield,” Aegon announced, his voice steady, carrying a weight that left no room for doubt. “Harren trusts in his walls, in his stone. He promises riches to any man who can slay Balerion.”
The gathered commanders exchanged uneasy glances, but none spoke. The murmurs of soldiers preparing for battle filled the air—the sharpening of swords, the tightening of armor straps, the whispered prayers to gods both old and new.
Aegon turned to his men, his voice rising to address them. “Harren has defied the dragon. He believes his fortress unbreakable, his stone impregnable. But tonight, he will learn that dragons do not kneel. And stone, no matter how strong, can melt.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, darkness enveloped the land. Fires burned low in the Targaryen camp, their embers casting eerie shadows that danced over the soldiers’ faces. All eyes turned to the massive silhouette of Balerion, whose golden eyes glowed faintly in the night. The dragon rumbled low, sensing the tension in the air.
With a single command, Aegon ascended into the saddle. His figure, regal and commanding, merged seamlessly with the black scales of his dragon. The beast’s wings unfurled, each membrane catching the flickering firelight, creating the illusion of an enormous shadow swallowing the camp.
The flight to Harrenhal was swift. High above, the world seemed almost silent, save for the rhythmic beating of Balerion’s wings. Below, the great black walls of Harrenhal stretched endlessly, the largest castle in Westeros defiant against the darkness.
The first strike came from Harren’s archers. Flaming arrows arced through the air, aimed at the dragon circling above. But the missiles bounced harmlessly off Balerion’s thick, impenetrable scales, falling back to the earth like dying stars.
From the skies, Aegon watched as Harren’s men scrambled below, preparing for what they could not possibly defend against. He whispered a single word in Valyrian, and Balerion roared, the sound shattering the stillness and shaking the earth.
With a dive so swift it was almost invisible, Balerion descended upon Harrenhal. The first blast of flame erupted from his jaws, a torrent of searing heat that turned the wooden structures within the walls to ash in moments. Supplies, siege weapons, and men alike vanished in the inferno.
The black stone of Harrenhal, thought to be impervious, began to glow red under the relentless onslaught of dragonfire. The air shimmered with heat, and cracks began to form in the mighty walls. Rivermen watching from the safety of the treeline gasped as they saw the great towers of Harrenhal begin to melt, their stone flowing like wax.
Within the fortress, panic reigned. Harren’s men screamed and scattered, their attempts to extinguish the flames futile. The heat was unbearable, even at a distance, and the acrid stench of burning flesh filled the air.
Harren himself stood defiant in the Kingspyre Tower, the largest of Harrenhal’s towers. Surrounded by his sons, he watched the destruction with a mix of fury and despair. “This castle was built to last for a thousand years!” he roared, his voice shaking the very walls.
But even as he spoke, the tower began to groan and crack under the relentless heat. Stones fell, shattering on the ground below, and the once-mighty fortress trembled as if alive and in pain.
Balerion unleashed another stream of fire, this time directly at the Kingspyre Tower. The structure glowed white-hot, its stone exterior blistering and buckling before it finally collapsed with a deafening roar. Harren and his sons were consumed in an instant, their defiant cries swallowed by the flames. The Hoare line ended in fire and ruin.
The following morning, the battlefield was eerily silent. The once-imposing fortress of Harrenhal was a smoking ruin, its towers reduced to stumps and its walls scarred with cracks and blackened by fire. The air was thick with the acrid stench of ash and death.
Aegon dismounted Balerion, his armor streaked with soot but otherwise pristine. The Black Dread settled behind him, his massive form coiled like a resting predator, his golden eyes watchful.
The riverlords, who had witnessed the destruction from a distance, approached hesitantly. At their head was Lord Edmyn Tully of Riverrun. The banners of House Tully, House Blackwood, House Frey, and others fluttered weakly in the morning breeze.
Edmyn knelt before Aegon, his voice steady as he spoke. “The Trident bends the knee. We swear loyalty to House Targaryen, now and always.”
Aegon nodded solemnly. “Rise, Lord Tully,” he said, extending a hand. “You shall be the first Lord Paramount of the Trident. Your house will govern the Riverlands in my name.”
One by one, the other riverlords followed suit, their banners joining the black-and-crimson of House Targaryen. Aegon’s forces swelled with each oath of fealty, the rebellion of the Riverlands now firmly under his control.
Among the ruins of Harrenhal, the melted swords of Harren’s ironborn were gathered. Once wielded with arrogance and cruelty, these twisted remnants were now trophies of Aegon’s conquest. They were loaded onto wagons bound for Aegonfort, where they would be reforged into the Iron Throne, a seat of power to remind all of the price of defiance.
As the riverlords dispersed, Aegon stood alone amidst the wreckage. The faint morning breeze carried with it the promise of further battles to come. He looked to the horizon, his expression stoic yet resolute. Balerion rumbled low, sensing his master’s determination.
The conquest of Westeros was far from over, but this victory had cemented Aegon’s place as a force to be reckoned with. The Seven Kingdoms would soon know the full power of the three-headed dragon, and the name of Aegon the Conqueror would be etched into history.
Chapter 9: Storm's End
Chapter Text
The wind howled across the open skies, carrying the scent of brine and pine as Rhaenys Targaryen soared above the Stormlands atop the great silver dragon, Meraxes. From her vantage point high above the rugged terrain, she could see the vastness of the land below—jagged cliffs plunging into frothing seas, sprawling forests dark and dense, and rivers winding like veins through the rolling hills.
Rhaenys adjusted her grip on the saddle, her silver-gold hair braided tightly against the relentless wind. Her crimson-and-black armor, polished to a gleaming finish, hugged her form, designed for agility in battle. The light glinted off her dragon, Meraxes, whose scales shimmered like molten silver, her wings beating rhythmically as she glided effortlessly through the sky.
Below, the Targaryen army, led by Orys Baratheon, carved a path through the Kingswood. The sound of marching boots, creaking wagons, and the low murmur of voices formed a steady rhythm as they advanced. Black-and-crimson banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snapped in the wind, mingling with the black-and-gold stag of House Baratheon.
Orys, astride his warhorse, cut an imposing figure at the head of the column. His golden armor was scuffed from travel, but his presence exuded confidence. His dark hair was tied back, and his sharp gaze swept the dense woods, alert for any sign of ambush.
Every so often, Rhaenys dipped lower, Meraxes’s shadow casting an ominous silhouette over the army. Soldiers craned their necks to look skyward, some crossing themselves in reverence while others whispered prayers to the gods, their fear and awe palpable.
But Rhaenys’s heart was elsewhere. As the winds roared around her, she sent silent prayers of her own—to her siblings, Aegon and Visenya, far away now. Her thoughts lingered on the moments they had shared before parting: Visenya’s stoic strength, Aegon’s steady gaze. She felt their absence keenly, a sharp ache she pushed aside as she refocused on the task at hand.
The Wendwater was calm and inviting, its surface sparkling under the dappled sunlight that filtered through the canopy of the Kingswood. The soldiers had begun to relax, their movements slowing as they filled their flasks, splashed their faces, and watered their horses.
Then, without warning, the woods erupted with movement. The stillness shattered as arrows, black and silent, rained down from the treetops, striking soldiers where they stood. Cries of pain and panic filled the air as men scrambled for cover, shields hastily raised against the unseen attackers.
Spearmen charged from the shadows, their movements swift and deadly. The Kingswood seemed to come alive with enemies, their war cries echoing as they clashed with the unprepared vanguard.
Orys Baratheon was quick to act. “Form ranks! Shields up!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. Drawing his massive greatsword, he spurred his horse forward, cutting down a spearman with a single, brutal swing. Around him, the soldiers rallied, forming a shield wall to repel the ambushers.
High above, Rhaenys watched the ambush unfold. Her heart pounded as she urged Meraxes downward, the dragon’s powerful wings stirring the air like a tempest. As they neared the treetops, she issued the command: “Dracarys.”
Meraxes unleashed a torrent of fire, the inferno consuming the dense forest. Trees erupted into flames, their branches crackling as the fire spread. Men screamed as the blaze engulfed them, their forms reduced to ash amidst the roaring flames.
The enemy ranks faltered, their ambush unraveling under the onslaught. Those who survived the dragonfire fled into the depths of the forest, their cries of terror fading into the distance.
When the smoke cleared, the Targaryen army regrouped. The blackened ground was littered with the charred remains of enemy soldiers, the air heavy with the acrid stench of burned wood and flesh.
Orys dismounted, his face grim as he surveyed the aftermath. “We move forward,” he said, his voice steady despite the weight of their losses. “There’s no turning back now.”
The journey to Bronzegate was grueling, the terrain growing harsher with each mile. The forest gave way to rocky hills and windswept plains, the landscape as unforgiving as the storm brewing above. The air grew heavy with moisture, the first drops of rain splattering against armor and helmets as the army pressed onward.
Rhaenys flew ahead, Meraxes’s wings cutting through the stormy skies. The dragon’s sharp cries pierced the wind as Rhaenys scanned the horizon, her keen eyes searching for signs of movement. Below, the soldiers trudged on, their spirits dampened by the relentless rain and the memory of the ambush.
Orys rode at the head of the column, his armor streaked with mud but his resolve unshaken. He exchanged few words with his captains, his focus entirely on the task ahead. He knew the Storm King would not wait for them to reach Storm’s End. Argilac Durrandon would bring the fight to them, and they had to be ready.
The storm broke as the Durrandon host appeared on the horizon, their banners whipping in the gale. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the battlefield in brief flashes of light. Argilac the Arrogant, mounted on a massive warhorse, led his knights forward, their golden armor gleaming despite the torrential rain.
The Targaryen forces braced themselves as the cavalry charged. The ground shook with the thunder of hooves, but the muddy terrain slowed the horses, their legs sinking into the slick earth. The knights crashed into the Targaryen lines, but the spearmen held firm, their shields locked together in a formidable wall.
Rhaenys, grounded by the storm, fought alongside her men. Her armor was streaked with mud and rain, but her violet eyes burned with determination. With a single command, Meraxes unleashed bursts of flame, cutting through the storm to incinerate the enemy ranks.
Argilac, undeterred, led charge after charge, his sword flashing as he carved a path through the Targaryen lines. His fury was unmatched, but the weight of the dragonfire began to take its toll.
The storm reached its peak as the final moments of the battle unfolded. Argilac, his horse slain and his armor scorched, stood defiantly amidst the chaos. His knights had fallen, his banners torn, but the Storm King refused to yield.
Orys Baratheon dismounted, his greatsword glinting in the dim light. Rain poured down his face as he approached Argilac, his steps slow but deliberate. “Yield,” Orys commanded, his voice cutting through the storm. “This is over.”
Argilac spat blood, his eyes blazing with defiance. “I will not kneel to a bastard.”
The two men clashed, their swords ringing out over the battlefield. Argilac fought with the desperation of a man who knew his end was near, his strikes wild but powerful. Orys countered with precision, each swing of his greatsword measured and deliberate.
With a final, brutal strike, Orys drove his blade through Argilac’s chest. The Storm King fell to his knees, the rain washing the blood from his armor as he drew his last breath.
The Durrandon forces, leaderless and broken, surrendered or fled into the storm.
Rhaenys climbed onto Meraxes once more, her gaze sweeping over the battlefield. The Stormlands were hers, but the cost of victory weighed heavily on her heart.
The battlefield stretched out like a grim painting of chaos and death. Smoke curled in the damp air, rising from the charred remains of trees and wagons. Rain dripped steadily, mingling with blood to form rivulets of crimson that soaked the muddied ground. The banners of House Durrandon, once proud emblems of the Stormlands, lay discarded and trampled in the filth, their golden stags barely discernible through the grime.
Orys Baratheon, his massive frame clad in black-and-gold armor, surveyed the scene with a heavy heart. His armor bore the scars of the day’s ferocity—dents in the breastplate, scratches across the crowned stag sigil, and streaks of dried blood that marred its polished surface. His greatsword rested point-down in the muck, the blade caked with the remains of the countless foes it had cleaved through.
To his left, Rhaenys Targaryen, Queen of the Skies, stood near the hulking form of Meraxes. The silver-scaled dragon shifted restlessly, her golden eyes glowing faintly in the misty light. Rhaenys’s armor, a masterpiece of crimson and black etched with dragon motifs, was battered but unbroken. Her silver-gold hair, braided tightly for battle, was damp with rain, and streaks of soot and blood marred her otherwise regal face. She exuded an aura of calm command, though her violet eyes glimmered with exhaustion.
Rhaenys stepped forward, her boots sinking into the mud with every step. She approached Orys, her slender frame dwarfed by his towering presence. “We did it,” she said softly, her voice carrying both relief and sorrow.
Orys nodded, his dark eyes scanning the remnants of the battle. “At a cost,” he murmured, his voice rough. He gestured to the scattered bodies of fallen soldiers, their once-proud armor now dulled by rain and dirt. “Every victory comes with a price.”
Rhaenys reached out, her gauntleted hand brushing against his armored arm. The gesture was brief but comforting. “You fought well today,” she said, her tone warm despite the somber atmosphere.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Orys’s lips. “And you brought fire and fury,” he replied, his gaze flicking to Meraxes, who let out a low rumble of approval.
For a moment, the two stood in silence, their shared triumph mingling with the weight of their losses. The rain continued to fall, pattering against their armor and washing away the blood that stained their boots.
Within the massive stone walls of Storm’s End, Princess Argella Durrandon paced the dimly lit war room like a caged lioness. Her dark hair hung loose, damp from the storm, and her golden eyes burned with defiance. Her once-elegant gown was torn and stained, a reflection of the turmoil that had engulfed her world.
Her voice rang out sharply as she addressed her garrison, her tone commanding but edged with desperation. “We are Durrandons!” she declared, slamming her fist onto the oaken table. “We do not kneel to dragons. We do not yield to fire.”
The men before her shifted uncomfortably, their expressions a mixture of loyalty and fear. They had seen what dragonfire could do—had heard the screams of their comrades as Meraxes rained destruction upon the battlefield. Their resolve wavered, and the weight of Argella’s words could not tip the scales.
For three days, Argella held Storm’s End against the inevitable. But fear is a powerful weapon, and it wielded her men against her. On the third night, under the cover of darkness, her garrison turned. They seized their princess, stripping her of her noble garments and chaining her wrists and ankles. Their betrayal was swift and brutal, their loyalty surrendered in exchange for their lives.
When the gates of Storm’s End groaned open, the traitorous soldiers emerged, their heads bowed in submission. Argella, now reduced to a prisoner, was dragged before the Targaryens. She was barefoot and bound, her skin pale and bruised. Rainwater mixed with the dirt on her exposed flesh, and her dark hair clung to her face. Though her body trembled, her golden eyes still burned with fury.
Orys Baratheon stood at the gates, his massive frame a silhouette against the gray sky. When Argella was thrown to the ground before him, his expression darkened. His hand tightened instinctively around the hilt of his greatsword, though he made no move to draw it.
“Enough,” Orys barked, his deep voice cutting through the murmurs of the onlookers. The soldiers fell silent, their nervous glances betraying their unease.
Orys stepped forward, his heavy boots splashing in the mud. He knelt before Argella, his black-and-gold cloak billowing slightly in the rain. Gently, he unclasped the cloak and draped it over her trembling shoulders. The rich fabric, lined with fur, enveloped her, shielding her from the cold and the prying eyes of the crowd.
Argella’s head snapped up, her golden eyes meeting Orys’s dark gaze. Her lip curled in defiance, and her voice, hoarse but unyielding, broke the silence. “Why show me kindness, dragonspawn?” she spat.
Orys’s expression softened, though his voice remained steady. “Because no one deserves this,” he said simply, his tone free of judgment. “Not even the daughter of my enemy.”
He reached for the chains that bound her wrists, his calloused fingers working quickly to remove them. When the shackles fell away, Argella stared at him, her defiance wavering for the first time.
“Come,” Orys said, rising to his full height. He extended a hand to her, his gesture both gentle and commanding. “You’re under my protection now.”
Argella hesitated, her gaze flickering between his face and his outstretched hand. Finally, she placed her hand in his, her grip trembling but firm.
From a short distance away, Rhaenys Targaryen watched the scene unfold with quiet intensity. Her violet eyes, sharp and discerning, missed nothing as she stood near Meraxes. The dragon shifted her massive body, her tail curling and uncurling as she observed the interaction with a faint rumble of approval.
Rhaenys’s crimson cloak fluttered in the breeze, the fabric damp but still vibrant against the muted gray of the stormy sky. Her expression was thoughtful, her lips curving into a faint smile as she watched Orys handle the situation with a surprising gentleness.
“You’re a good man, Orys,” she murmured to herself, her voice barely audible over the rain. “A better man than most.”
Meraxes rumbled again, her golden eyes gleaming as if in agreement.
The command tent was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The air inside was heavy with the scent of damp canvas and wet earth, and the flickering light of lanterns cast long shadows across the space. A wooden table stood in the center, its surface littered with maps, goblets, and scattered pieces of parchment.
Argella, now dressed in a simple woolen cloak, sat on a stool near the far corner. Her once-fierce expression was subdued, though her golden eyes still burned with quiet defiance. A goblet of wine sat untouched in her lap, her fingers tracing the rim absentmindedly.
Orys Baratheon sat across from her, his massive frame hunched slightly as he leaned on his forearms. His dark hair was damp and disheveled, and the lines of his face were etched deeper by the day’s events.
Rhaenys entered quietly, her crimson cloak trailing behind her. She cast a glance at Argella, her expression unreadable, before turning to Orys.
“How is she?” Rhaenys asked, her voice low.
Orys glanced at Argella before meeting Rhaenys’s gaze. “Proud,” he said, his tone tinged with admiration. “But strong. She’ll endure.”
Rhaenys nodded, her gaze lingering on Argella. “Good,” she said softly. “She’ll need that strength for what’s to come.”
The three sat in silence, the weight of the day pressing down on them like a tangible force. Outside, the rain continued to fall, a somber melody for the aftermath of conquest.
The camp was quiet now, the distant sounds of the sea and the occasional rustling of canvas the only interruptions to the stillness. The rain had lessened to a faint drizzle, a misty veil that hung over the battered remnants of the battlefield. Most of the camp had sought rest after the long day of blood and fire, but not everyone.
Inside the dimly lit command tent, Orys Baratheon sat at the wooden table, his broad shoulders hunched as he stared at the maps spread before him. A lone candle burned at the center of the table, its soft light flickering over the rough parchment and the scars etched into Orys’s weathered face.
Argella Durrandon, wrapped in the simple woolen cloak Orys had given her, sat a few feet away. She had discarded the chains that once bound her, but the weight of the day’s events still seemed to hang heavily around her shoulders. Her dark hair framed her face, damp and untamed, and her golden eyes were focused on the goblet of wine she held in her hands. She hadn’t taken a sip since Orys poured it for her.
The silence stretched between them, neither quite sure how to break it. Finally, it was Argella who spoke, her voice sharp but quieter than usual. “Is this what you Targaryen dogs call victory?” she asked, her tone laced with bitterness. “Slaughter and ashes?”
Orys didn’t flinch at her words. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, studying her with an expression that was more weary than offended. “I am no Targaryen,” he said simply, his deep voice steady. “And this isn’t a victory I would have chosen.”
Argella’s eyes flicked up to meet his, her golden gaze fierce. “But you chose to follow them,” she retorted. “To burn my lands, kill my people, and throw me in chains. Tell me, Baratheon, does that not make you one of them?”
Orys sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table as he fixed her with a steady gaze. “I chose to follow a king who could unite this broken land,” he said. “I chose to stand by Aegon because I believe in what he’s building. This war isn’t about burning or killing—it’s about ending centuries of bloodshed, about creating something stronger than any one kingdom.”
Argella scoffed, though her gaze wavered. “Spare me your justifications. You speak of unity, but all I see is destruction.”
Orys was silent for a moment, his dark eyes searching hers. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, tinged with something like regret. “I won’t deny what’s been done,” he said. “Your father fought bravely, and so did your people. But he made his choice. He could have bent the knee and spared them all. Instead, he chose to die fighting.”
Argella stiffened at the mention of her father, her fingers tightening around the goblet. “Do not speak of him,” she said coldly. “You know nothing of what he stood for.”
Orys nodded slowly, respecting the rawness of her grief. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I didn’t know him. But I know you, Argella. I see the fire in your eyes, the strength in the way you carry yourself even now. That same strength can be used to rebuild, to protect your people in ways your father couldn’t.”
Argella’s lips parted, as though she wanted to respond, but no words came. She looked down at the goblet in her hands, her expression torn. After a long silence, she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “What do you want from me, Baratheon? Mercy? Forgiveness?”
Orys shook his head. “I don’t need either,” he said firmly. “What I want is for you to live. To survive this war and be the leader your people will need when it’s over.”
Argella looked up at him, her golden eyes glistening with unshed tears. For the first time, her defiance seemed to falter, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. “You speak as if you care,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Why?”
Orys hesitated, his gaze steady as he met hers. “Because I do,” he said simply. “I’ve seen enough war, enough death. If there’s a chance to save something, to protect someone, I’ll take it.”
Argella’s breath hitched, and she looked away, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. It was the silence of two people who had seen too much, who carried the weight of their choices and their losses.
Finally, Argella stood, the cloak Orys had given her falling more snugly around her form. She set the goblet down on the table, untouched. “I’m going to rest,” she said, her voice steadier now.
Orys nodded, rising to his feet as she moved toward the tent’s entrance. “If you need anything—” he began.
“I’ll manage,” she interrupted, though her tone was less harsh than before. She paused at the tent’s flap, turning back to look at him. “Thank you,” she said quietly, her golden eyes meeting his for a fleeting moment before she stepped out into the night.
Orys stood there for a long time after she left, the faint sound of the rain pattering against the canvas. He let out a slow breath, his thoughts heavy as he sat back down and stared at the maps before him. War was never simple, and neither were the people caught in its wake.
Chapter 10: Winds of Duty
Chapter Text
The chamber was dimly lit, the only light coming from the flickering candles scattered across Visenya Targaryen’s quarters. The air carried the faint scent of burning incense, mingling with the metallic tang of the Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister, which lay unsheathed across her table. The room bore an austere elegance: shelves lined with ancient scrolls, a small altar to the gods of Old Valyria, and racks of polished armor glinting faintly in the soft light.
Visenya sat at the edge of her chair, her hands deftly working to clean her gauntlets, the rhythmic sound of the cloth brushing against steel filling the silence. Her violet eyes flicked occasionally to the fire roaring in the hearth, her thoughts heavier than the silence that engulfed the room. Since Daemon’s death, solitude had become her constant companion, her grief carefully hidden beneath a mask of cold resolve.
A sudden knock broke through the stillness. Her head snapped toward the door, her brows knitting in annoyance. “Enter,” she commanded, her voice sharp but measured.
A young soldier stepped inside, his armor dusty from the road. He bowed low, his face pale with trepidation. “My queen,” he began, his voice shaking slightly. “Word has arrived from Harrenhal.”
Visenya set the gauntlets aside and rose from her chair, her movements deliberate and filled with authority. She stood tall, dressed in her dark, scale-like leather armor that hugged her frame like a second skin, each piece etched with faint Valyrian glyphs that shimmered in the firelight. Her silver hair was braided tightly, no strand out of place, a testament to her meticulous nature.
“Speak,” she said, her gaze fixed on the messenger.
“The castle has fallen,” the soldier reported, his voice firmer now. “King Aegon has burned Harrenhal to the ground. Harren the Black and his sons are dead. The riverlords have bent the knee, and Lord Edmyn Tully has been named Paramount of the Trident.”
Visenya’s expression didn’t change, though her hand gripped the hilt of Dark Sister, her knuckles whitening. “And my brother?” she asked, her voice low but dangerous.
“He is victorious, my queen,” the messenger replied quickly. “But... he has commanded you to take flight immediately. Crackclaw Point has yet to submit.”
Visenya tilted her head slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “He commands me,” she said softly, more to herself than the soldier. Her tone carried a mix of annoyance and approval, as if she relished the idea of fulfilling her brother’s vision even as she bristled at being told to act.
The soldier remained silent, his head bowed as he waited for her response.
“Leave,” she ordered. “Prepare my dragon.”
The soldier hesitated for only a moment before bowing again and retreating swiftly, the door closing behind him with a muted thud.
Visenya crossed the room to where her armor was neatly displayed. Piece by piece, she donned the dark metal, her movements precise. The vambraces, the greaves, the breastplate—all were secured with a practiced efficiency. When she was finished, she reached for Dark Sister, its blade catching the firelight as she slid it into its sheath at her hip.
Before leaving, she paused at the small altar, her fingers brushing against the smooth surface. She murmured a quiet prayer in High Valyrian, her voice steady but tinged with something deeper, something personal.
When she stepped out into the courtyard, the cool night air bit against her skin, though she barely noticed. Soldiers moved about, their eyes widening as they caught sight of her. She paid them no mind, her gaze fixed on the massive form of Vhagar, who loomed at the edge of the encampment. The bronze-scaled dragon was restless, her golden eyes glowing like embers in the darkness.
Visenya approached with purposeful strides, her boots crunching against the gravel. Vhagar lowered her head as her rider neared, a low rumble vibrating through the ground. Visenya placed a hand on the dragon’s flank, her fingers brushing over the warm, ridged scales.
“Time to remind them who we are,” she murmured in Valyrian, her voice carrying both command and affection.
With a practiced leap, she mounted the dragon, securing herself in the saddle. The straps were tightened, her grip firm on the reins. Vhagar stretched her massive wings, the wind from the movement scattering dust and ash across the courtyard.
Visenya’s gaze swept over the camp one last time before she signaled Vhagar to take flight. With a deafening roar, the dragon launched into the air, her wings beating powerfully as they ascended into the night sky.
The world below quickly fell away, the torches and fires of the camp shrinking into pinpricks of light. Visenya’s eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where the lands of Crackclaw Point lay waiting. Her thoughts drifted briefly to Aegon, Rhaenys, and Orys—each carrying out their part of the conquest. The weight of their shared purpose was heavy, but it was one she bore willingly.
As Vhagar soared higher, the cold wind whipped against her face, but she welcomed it. It was a reminder of her purpose, of the legacy they were building. The stars above seemed to shine brighter, as if the gods themselves were watching.
“Fire and blood,” she whispered to the night, her voice carried away by the wind.
The camp at the Gods Eye was quiet, its usual hum of activity muted by the stillness of the late afternoon. Aegon Targaryen sat outside his tent, perched on a smooth stone, his violet eyes fixed on the vast lake shimmering before him. The reflection of the fading sun danced across the waters, painting the ripples with hues of orange and gold. Balerion, the Black Dread, rested nearby, his immense shadow blending into the dimming light, his golden eyes half-lidded but ever-watchful.
It had been a year and a half since their first landing, though it felt both longer and shorter. Time had stretched and blurred amidst the fire, blood, and endless battles that marked the Targaryen Conquest. In some moments, Aegon could still feel the salt spray from Dragonstone, hear the laughter of his sisters as they discussed plans with Orys, and recall the fiery determination that drove them all to claim Westeros. Now, that determination remained, tempered by the weight of loss and the reality of war.
Aegon ran a gloved hand over the hilt of Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel sword resting at his side. His armor, though meticulously polished earlier, bore subtle marks from the recent battles—a faint scorch here, a scratch there. The conquest had taken its toll on them all. Harrenhal's melted towers stood as a monument to their power, but victory was never without cost.
The crunch of boots on gravel pulled him from his thoughts. A soldier, young and wide-eyed, approached, his expression betraying both reverence and nerves. He stopped a respectful distance away, bowing low before addressing his king.
"My lord," the soldier began, his voice steady despite his obvious awe. "I bring word from the scouts and messengers."
Aegon straightened, his gaze sharp as he motioned for the soldier to continue.
"Queen Visenya has departed Aegonfort," the soldier said. "She took to the skies atop Vhagar, heading toward Crackclaw Point to fulfill her orders."
Aegon's jaw tightened slightly, though he nodded. He had known this moment would come, yet the thought of Visenya flying alone into the unknown brought a flicker of unease. He trusted his sister implicitly, but the memory of Daemon Velaryon’s death still lingered, a sharp wound that refused to heal.
"And what of the south?" Aegon asked, his tone measured but probing.
The soldier hesitated briefly. "Word has reached us from Storm's End, my lord. Orys Baratheon and Queen Rhaenys have been victorious. The Storm King is dead, and the stormlands are yours."
At that, Aegon allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. "Orys," he murmured, a note of pride in his voice. "And Rhaenys?"
"Safe and triumphant, my lord," the soldier replied. "The Princess Argella Durrandon has yielded. She was delivered to Lord Orys in chains, but he treated her with kindness. The garrison has declared their loyalty to you."
Aegon exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. The stormlands, with their defiant people and formidable warriors, had been a critical piece in the conquest. Now, with Orys and Rhaenys victorious, they had secured yet another stronghold.
"Thank you," Aegon said, his voice firm yet carrying a trace of warmth. He gestured for the soldier to leave, which he did with another deep bow.
As the soldier’s footsteps receded, Aegon returned his gaze to the lake, the news settling over him like a weighted cloak. The victories were significant, but they carried their own burdens. He thought of Rhaenys, her crimson cloak trailing behind her as she ascended Meraxes, her teasing smile the last image he had before she departed. He thought of Orys, steadfast and loyal, standing as the brother he’d never had by blood but had found in purpose.
And then there was Visenya. Cold and unyielding, but a constant force beside him. Her departure to Crackclaw Point filled him with conflicting emotions—pride in her strength and an unfamiliar thread of fear for her safety. He knew she would not welcome that sentiment, so he tucked it away, a private burden he alone would carry.
The firelight from nearby campfires flickered against Aegon’s armor as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the camp. The crackling of flames and the murmur of soldiers’ voices filled the air, a reminder that even amidst the quiet moments, the weight of war loomed heavy.
He rose, his cape flowing behind him as he strode toward the command tent. The map of Westeros awaited, as did the plans for the next step in their campaign. There was no time to dwell on what had passed. The Targaryens were on the cusp of something greater, and Aegon would ensure that their fire and blood would forge a legacy that could not be undone.
The weeks following the fall of Harrenhal were not idle ones for Aegon Targaryen. His army remained camped near the Gods Eye, the blackened ruins of Harrenhal visible on the horizon, a silent reminder of the devastating power of dragons and the cost of defiance. But the task of ruling was as demanding as war itself.
Edmyn Tully, the newly named Lord Paramount of the Trident, had become Aegon’s closest ally among the Riverlords. Aegon knew that a kingdom could not be held by fire and blood alone; loyalty had to be earned, and bonds forged beyond fear.
The two men spent hours together, walking the camp, discussing the future of the Riverlands.
One afternoon, Aegon and Edmyn stood by the edge of the Gods Eye, their cloaks fluttering in the cool breeze. Aegon, dressed in his polished black-and-crimson armor, appeared every inch the conquering king. Yet his expression was softer than usual as he listened to Edmyn recount the struggles of the riverfolk under Harren’s oppressive rule.
“The people of the Riverlands have known little but hardship for generations,” Edmyn said, his tone thoughtful. “First, we endured the Ironborn raids, and then Harren’s iron grip. They fear every lord who comes with a sword, wondering only what will be taken from them next.”
Aegon’s gaze drifted across the calm waters of the lake. “And what do they say now?” he asked. “Of me?”
Edmyn hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “They are wary, my king. But they see hope in you. In the dragons. The lords will kneel because they must, but the smallfolk—they look to the skies and see the future written in fire. What kind of future depends on you.”
Aegon nodded, his face unreadable. “Then let them see a king who keeps his word,” he said after a moment. “Tell them they will be safe under my rule. Their grain will not be taken without payment, and their fields will not burn unless rebellion forces my hand.”
Edmyn inclined his head, his respect for Aegon growing. “Words like that will spread faster than fire, my king. And they’ll remember them.”
Later that evening, Aegon sat by the main fire of the camp, watching as soldiers and smallfolk alike gathered to listen to a minstrel sing songs of old Valyria. Balerion rested nearby, his immense form coiled like a shadow against the dying light of the day. The Black Dread’s golden eyes glinted as they observed the camp, ever watchful.
Aegon’s thoughts turned to his sisters. Rhaenys and Orys had been victorious in the stormlands, but word from the south had slowed as the spoils of victory were sorted. He knew Rhaenys’s heart, her love of the skies and her desire to see the world united in peace. But even she was not immune to the dangers of conquest.
And then there was Visenya. His elder sister’s cold resolve had become a cornerstone of their campaign, but Aegon worried for the fire that burned behind her sharp violet eyes. He wondered if Daemon’s death had taken a piece of her that she would never recover.
The news came at dusk. A scout rode into camp, his voice breathless as he announced the arrival of a great shadow in the sky. Aegon rose immediately, his hand resting on the hilt of Blackfyre as he looked toward the horizon.
It didn’t take long for Vhagar’s massive form to appear, her bronze scales catching the fading sunlight. The dragon circled the camp once, her roar shaking the very ground as soldiers scrambled to make way. Balerion stirred, lifting his immense head to watch his companion descend. The two dragons exchanged guttural roars, their voices filling the night air as Vhagar landed in a flurry of dust and wind.
Visenya dismounted with practiced ease, her dark scale-like armor gleaming faintly in the firelight. Her silver hair was pulled back in a tight braid, though a few strands had escaped, framing her face. She walked toward Aegon with purposeful strides, her expression unreadable but her violet eyes filled with an intensity that spoke volumes.
“Brother,” she greeted, her voice steady.
“Visenya,” Aegon replied, his tone neutral but his relief evident in the slight softening of his features.
She glanced toward Balerion, who had moved closer to Vhagar, the two dragons rumbling softly in recognition. The sight of the two great beasts together again seemed to ease some unspoken tension in the camp.
Visenya crossed her arms over her chest, her gaze flickering briefly over the gathered soldiers before returning to Aegon. “Crackclaw Point has submitted,” she announced. “Their lords bent the knee without hesitation. They are sworn to House Targaryen now, bound by both oath and necessity.”
Aegon nodded, his approval evident. “And the swords?”
“They are being transported back to Aegonfort,” she replied. “The lords of Crackclaw Point will answer directly to us, as promised.”
There was a pause, a rare flicker of hesitation crossing Visenya’s face. “And what of Rhaenys?” she asked quietly. “Have you heard from her?”
Aegon’s gaze softened slightly. “The stormlands are ours,” he said. “Orys and Rhaenys were victorious. She is well.”
Visenya’s shoulders relaxed, though only slightly. She glanced toward the horizon as if searching for some unseen sign. “Good,” she said, though her voice was subdued. “She is stronger than most give her credit for.”
“And you?” Aegon asked, his tone gentler now. “How do you fare, sister?”
Visenya met his gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I do what is necessary,” she replied simply.
Aegon studied her for a moment, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. He reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve done well,” he said softly. “Rest now. There will be more to do soon enough.”
Visenya nodded, though her eyes lingered on Balerion and Vhagar, the two dragons standing together as silent sentinels. For a moment, the firelight caught the faint gleam of tears in her eyes, though she quickly turned away, her composure unbroken.
As the camp settled into its evening routines, Aegon and Visenya stood side by side, their shared burden unspoken but deeply felt. The conquest continued, but for now, they allowed themselves this moment of quiet victory.
The tent was filled with the sound of labored breathing and the sharp creak of the table beneath them. Maps and scrolls lay crumpled on the floor, scattered from the force of their movements. The brazier's light cast flickering shadows on the tent walls, the flames mirroring the intensity of the scene unfolding within.
Visenya was astride Aegon, her movements precise and unrelenting, as if she were riding into battle. Her hands were pressed against his chest, nails biting into the bare skin beneath his open tunic. Her silver braid had come loose, strands of hair clinging to her sweat-slicked face. The dark leather of her trousers had been hastily pushed aside, her tunic half-unfastened but still clinging to her shoulders.
Aegon’s hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the curve of her armor-clad sides as he tried to wrest some semblance of control from her. But Visenya, ever the warrior, wasn’t one to yield—not here, not now. She set the pace, her violet eyes locked onto his with a mix of challenge and hunger.
“You think you command me?” she hissed, her voice low and breathless, her lips curving into a sharp smirk as she leaned closer. “You may wear the crown, brother, but here, I rule.”
Aegon growled in response, his hands moving to her thighs as he pushed upward, meeting her movements with equal force. “You forget yourself,” he said, his voice rough and edged with desire.
“Do I?” Visenya retorted, her teeth grazing along his jaw before biting down, not enough to break skin but enough to leave a mark. She reveled in his reaction—the way his body tensed beneath hers, the way his hands tightened their hold as if he could force her to submit.
The table groaned under their weight, the sturdy wood protesting against the raw force of their union. Visenya shifted, her back arching as her hands moved to his shoulders, pushing him further back into the chair he’d been seated on before she’d decided to assert her dominance.
Aegon’s head tilted back, his silver-gold hair falling loose from its tie, and his violet eyes burned with a mix of defiance and surrender. This was how it always was with Visenya—no softness, no tenderness. She was fire and steel, and their coupling was a reflection of that.
When the crescendo came, it was fierce and unrelenting, leaving them both breathless and spent. Visenya was the first to move, rising from him with a grace that belied the rawness of the moment. She reached for the tie at her waist, fastening her tunic with deft fingers, her expression cool and unreadable.
Aegon remained seated, his chest rising and falling as he watched her. There was no affection in his gaze, but there was respect, and perhaps even a hint of admiration for the woman who had just bested him in their private battle.
“Does victory taste as sweet as you imagined?” he asked, his voice rough but steady.
Visenya smirked faintly, her fingers brushing over the hilt of Dark Sister, which rested on the edge of the table. “Victory is never sweet, Aegon. It’s necessary. Much like this.”
She stepped away, her boots crunching over the discarded maps as she moved toward the tent’s entrance. Pausing at the threshold, she glanced back over her shoulder, her violet eyes gleaming in the dim light.
“Clean yourself up, brother,” she said, her tone laced with dry amusement. “The lords will expect you to look like a king, not a conquered man.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving Aegon alone in the aftermath. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair before rising to his feet. His gaze fell to the crumpled maps on the floor, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite himself.
Visenya was right, as she so often was. Victory wasn’t sweet—but it was theirs. And that was all that mattered.
The night was quiet save for the crackle of the campfires and the occasional murmurs of soldiers standing watch. The Gods Eye reflected the pale glow of the moon, the serene waters a stark contrast to the chaos of war looming on the horizon. Within Aegon’s command tent, the air was thick with the scent of parchment, leather, and faint traces of incense.
Aegon lay half-awake, his arm draped lazily over his brow, the remnants of his day still etched on his features. Beside him, Visenya stretched in the faint glow of the brazier’s dying light. She was dressed in one of Aegon’s tunics that barely reached mid-thigh, her long legs crossed as she sharpened a dagger absentmindedly. The scrape of steel against stone was rhythmic, a counterpoint to the quiet outside.
Suddenly, the stillness was shattered as the flap of the tent was thrown open with force. A group of armed men burst in, led by Lord Edmyn Tully, his expression urgent and his movements hurried. Before anyone could process what had happened, Visenya was on her feet, her dagger at Edmyn’s throat.
Edmyn’s startled gasp echoed in the tent as he found himself pinned against the ground, her knee pressing into his chest. His men moved to draw their weapons, but before they could advance, Balerion’s deep growl rumbled outside, stopping them in their tracks.
“Who dares to intrude so rudely?” Visenya’s voice was cold and sharp, her violet eyes burning with annoyance as she pressed the blade closer to Edmyn’s neck. “You barge in like a drunken squire, and now your life depends on whether I find your excuse worthy.”
“Hold!” Edmyn’s men shouted, their weapons raised but hesitant.
From behind Visenya, Aegon rose, dressed only in his breaches, his expression hard. “Visenya,” he called, his voice calm but commanding. “Let him up.”
Visenya didn’t move at first, her blade still poised, her glare unyielding. “This one doesn’t understand respect,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “Shall I teach him, brother?”
“Now,” Aegon ordered, his tone firm but measured.
With a small scoff, Visenya stood, removing the blade from Edmyn’s throat and tossing her silver braid over her shoulder. She stepped back, her gaze never leaving the lord as he gasped for air and scrambled to his knees.
Edmyn’s men began to move toward him, but Aegon raised a hand, stopping them. “Enough,” he said. “No blood will be spilled tonight.” He extended a hand to Edmyn, who hesitated before taking it and rising unsteadily to his feet.
“My king,” Edmyn said, bowing deeply, his voice strained. “I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion. I would not disturb your rest if it weren’t urgent.”
Aegon gestured for him to continue, his violet eyes sharp and focused. “Speak.”
Edmyn took a deep breath, steadying himself before speaking. “Word has come from the west. The two great kings—Mern Gardener of the Reach and Loren Lannister of the Rock—have joined forces. Their armies march as we speak. From Highgarden, King Mern leads a mighty host from the Reach. He has met King Loren beneath the walls of Goldengrove. Together, they command an army of fifty-five thousand strong, with over five thousand knights. The mightiest host Westeros has ever seen.”
The weight of the news settled heavily over the tent. Visenya, still standing, narrowed her eyes, her grip tightening on her dagger.
“They march north,” Edmyn continued, his tone grave. “They mean to challenge your conquest.”
Aegon nodded, his expression unreadable. He moved toward the table where maps of Westeros were laid out, the flickering brazier casting shadows over the parchment. “So, they think to test us,” he murmured, his voice calm but edged with steel.
Visenya stepped forward, standing beside him, her eyes scanning the maps. “We must meet them head-on,” she said. “We cannot let them unite their strength against us unchallenged.”
Aegon traced a finger over the map, his gaze calculating. “We’ll march west to meet them,” he said, his voice steady. “We have the advantage of speed. They command a vast host, but it will move slowly. We can gather our forces and strike before they expect it.”
“We need more than speed,” Visenya countered, her tone sharp. “Send for Rhaenys and Orys. We’ll need the dragons and the additional forces from the stormlands.”
Aegon paused, his hand hovering over the map. He glanced at her, his expression firm. “I’ll send for Rhaenys,” he said. “But Orys stays in the stormlands. We can’t risk losing control there.”
Visenya’s gaze was piercing, but she nodded slowly, her fingers brushing against the hilt of Dark Sister. “Then you’d best pray Rhaenys arrives swiftly,” she said. “The kings of the west won’t wait.”
Edmyn, who had been silent during their exchange, stepped closer. “My lords,” he said, his voice earnest. “The riverlords stand ready. We will fight for you.”
Aegon looked at him, a faint smile touching his lips. “You’ve done well, Lord Tully. Send riders to rally our forces. We’ll need every man willing to stand with us.”
Edmyn bowed deeply, then retreated with his men, the tent flap falling shut behind them. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the brazier.
“You’re too soft with them,” Visenya said, her voice low as she turned back to the map. “A lord who bursts into your tent without permission deserves punishment.”
“And yet, he brought vital news,” Aegon replied, his tone calm. He met her gaze, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Not every problem is solved with steel, sister.”
Visenya didn’t respond immediately, her gaze lingering on the map. Finally, she straightened, her expression hard. “Fifty-five thousand men,” she murmured. “Let them come. They’ll see what fire and blood truly mean.”
Aegon nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of Blackfyre. “They will,” he said quietly. “And we’ll remind them why the dragon always wins.”
The tent was dark when Visenya returned. The only light came from the faint embers in the brazier, casting weak shadows on the canvas walls. Aegon lay on his side on the large fur-covered cot, one arm draped loosely across the pillow where Visenya had been hours before. His breathing was steady but shallow, as though sleep had only lightly taken hold of him.
The tent flap rustled softly as Visenya entered, her boots soundless on the woven rugs that lined the ground. She had left after their earlier tryst, her restlessness driving her out into the cold night air to inspect the camp. Her presence had been felt wherever she walked—her cold, sharp gaze enough to silence even the most hardened soldiers.
The camp had been in order, its lines well-formed, its sentries vigilant. The fires burned low, and the men had been either asleep or murmuring softly to one another. Satisfied that the Targaryen camp was as it should be, Visenya had returned, her face as unreadable as the stars.
Without a word, she removed her boots, her leather tunic, and her weapons. Her armor and Dark Sister rested neatly by the entryway of the tent, as precise as the woman who wielded them. Left in a simple shift, she moved to the bed where Aegon lay.
As she slipped under the heavy fur covering, Aegon stirred, his violet eyes flickering open briefly. He didn’t speak, nor did she. Her presence beside him seemed to reassure him, and his arm instinctively draped over her waist, pulling her closer.
Visenya lay on her back, staring at the ceiling of the tent for a moment before turning slightly to face him. She studied his face—the king of Westeros, her brother and lover, who carried the weight of their conquest on his broad shoulders.
“You’re restless,” Aegon murmured, his voice low and slightly hoarse.
“I’m always restless,” she replied, her tone as sharp as ever but carrying an edge of something softer in the quiet darkness.
Aegon didn’t press her further. Instead, he closed his eyes again, his grip on her firm but comforting. They lay in silence, the sounds of the camp faint in the distance. Together, they were the storm before the fire, a bond forged in ambition and blood.
The quiet night was shattered by a sudden commotion outside the tent. Heavy boots on gravel, raised voices, and the unmistakable clang of metal reached Aegon’s ears first. His eyes snapped open, and Visenya, already alert, sat up, her hand instinctively reaching for Dark Sister.
Before either could fully rise, the tent flap was thrown open, and Lord Edmyn Tully stormed inside, flanked by two men-at-arms. His face was flushed, his hair disheveled, and his expression grave. Behind him, more of his men clustered near the entrance.
“Your Grace, I—” Edmyn began, but his words were cut short as Visenya moved with the speed of a striking snake.
Dark Sister was in her hand, its blade glinting in the low light, and the next moment Edmyn was on his knees, the edge of the Valyrian steel pressed against his throat. His men shouted in alarm, drawing their swords, but Aegon’s voice rang out before blood could be spilled.
“Hold!” Aegon’s command was sharp and unyielding, freezing the room in place. The soldiers at the entrance hesitated, their hands gripping their weapons as they glanced between their lord and the king.
Edmyn’s face was pale, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender as he stared up at Visenya. She loomed over him, dressed only in one of Aegon’s tunics, her hair loose and wild from sleep, but her violet eyes burned with an intensity that made him falter.
“Do you know how close you came to losing your head?” she hissed, her voice low and venomous. “Who barges into the king’s chambers unannounced, like a common thief?”
“My queen,” Edmyn stammered, his voice strained. “Forgive me, but this could not wait.”
Aegon rose from the cot, his bare chest gleaming faintly in the candlelight. He pulled on his breaches swiftly and crossed the room with measured steps. “Visenya, release him,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of command.
For a moment, Visenya didn’t move, her blade still pressed against Edmyn’s throat. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she withdrew Dark Sister and stepped back, though her gaze remained fixed on him. “You’re fortunate I did not gut you where you stood,” she said coldly.
Edmyn’s men moved as if to advance, but Aegon raised a hand, stopping them. “Your lord is unharmed,” he said evenly. “And this intrusion will not be repeated.”
Edmyn staggered to his feet, his pride clearly wounded but his urgency undiminished. “Your Grace, I would not have interrupted if it weren’t urgent.”
“Speak,” Aegon said, his tone as sharp as the blade that had just been at Edmyn’s throat.
The Lord of Riverrun straightened, his composure returning. “Word has reached us from the west,” he began. “The Kings of the Rock and the Reach have united their forces. They march with an army fifty-five thousand strong—five thousand knights among them. They head north as we speak.”
The weight of the news settled over the tent like a storm cloud. Visenya’s expression hardened, her fingers tightening on the hilt of Dark Sister. Aegon’s jaw clenched, though he betrayed no other sign of unease.
“Fifty-five thousand,” Aegon repeated, his voice calm but laced with steel. He turned toward the map sprawled across the table in the corner of the tent, gesturing for Edmyn to join him. “Where are they now?”
“They were last seen near Goldengrove, Your Grace,” Edmyn said, moving to stand beside the king. “They do not linger—they march with purpose.”
Visenya stepped forward, her presence commanding. “We must send for Rhaenys and Orys,” she said, her tone leaving little room for argument. “We need every dragon and every sword if we’re to face this host.”
Aegon placed his hands on the edge of the table, leaning over the map as he studied the terrain. His mind worked quickly, weighing options and consequences. “No,” he said finally, his voice firm. “Rhaenys will be summoned, but Orys must remain in the stormlands. The conquest is not yet complete there.”
Visenya’s eyes flashed with frustration. “You would send her alone?”
“She will not be alone,” Aegon said, meeting her gaze. “She has Meraxes, and she will join us soon enough. Orys’s presence is needed where he is.”
Edmyn, sensing the tension between the siblings, remained silent, his eyes flicking between them.
“We’ll gather our forces and move to meet them,” Aegon continued, his focus returning to the map. “Their numbers are greater, but they are slow. We will strike swiftly and decisively.”
Visenya folded her arms, her expression cold but calculating. “Very well,” she said finally, though her tone carried a warning. “But you’d best pray Rhaenys arrives in time.”
Aegon straightened, his gaze steady as he looked at her. “She will,” he said simply. “And so will we.”
The tent fell into a tense silence, the weight of the coming battle pressing down on them all. Aegon glanced at Edmyn, his expression softening slightly. “You’ve done well to bring this news, Lord Tully. Go, rest now. You’ll need your strength.”
Edmyn nodded, bowing deeply before retreating from the tent. His men followed, casting wary glances at Visenya as they exited.
When they were alone again, Aegon turned to his sister. “Get some rest,” he said quietly. “The days ahead will be long.”
Visenya didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the map as her mind raced with strategy and the fire of vengeance.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting hues of gold and crimson across the stormlands. The air was thick with humidity, and the distant rumble of waves crashing against the cliffs created a rhythmic melody. Near the edge of the sprawling camp, Rhaenys Targaryen stood beside her dragon, Meraxes, her hand resting lightly on the beast’s smooth, silver-scaled neck.
Meraxes rumbled softly, a sound that resonated through the ground. Rhaenys’s silver-gold hair was pulled back into a loose braid, strands catching the fading light. She wore a fitted crimson and black leather jerkin, the sigil of House Targaryen embroidered in gold thread over her heart. Her gaze was distant as she stroked Meraxes, her fingers tracing the ridges of her dragon’s powerful neck.
“You’ve been restless,” she murmured to the dragon, her voice soft but carrying a note of longing. “I know. I feel it too.”
The dragon turned her massive head, golden eyes locking with her rider’s. There was an intelligence in Meraxes’s gaze, a silent understanding that passed between them. Rhaenys sighed, her thoughts drifting to her siblings—Aegon at the Gods Eye and Visenya, wherever her path had taken her. It had been weeks since she had seen them, and the ache of their absence lingered in her heart.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled her from her reverie. She turned to see Orys Baratheon striding toward her, his imposing figure outlined against the setting sun. He wore his usual black-and-gold armor, his crowned stag sigil gleaming on his breastplate. His dark hair was tied back, his face serious but not unkind as he approached.
“Rhaenys,” he called, his deep voice carrying easily over the distance.
“Orys,” she replied, a faint smile touching her lips. “You’ve come to distract me from my thoughts?”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Not this time, my queen. Word has arrived from your brother.”
Rhaenys’s eyes lit up with curiosity as she stepped away from Meraxes, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. “From Aegon?” she asked eagerly. “What does he say?”
Orys stopped a few paces from her, his expression softening as he saw the spark of excitement in her gaze. “Harrenhal has fallen,” he said. “Harren the Black is dead. The riverlords have bent the knee, and Lord Edmyn Tully has been named Paramount of the Trident.”
A breath of relief escaped Rhaenys, and her shoulders relaxed. “He did it,” she murmured, pride and joy mingling in her voice. “I knew he would.”
“There’s more,” Orys added, his tone carrying a hint of gravity. “Visenya was victorious at Crackclaw Point. She bent the lords there to her will, and now she flies to meet him at the Gods Eye.”
Rhaenys’s smile faltered for a moment, her brow furrowing. “She’s well, then?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern.
“She is,” Orys assured her. “But she carries her own burdens. Aegon has asked for you to join him. The Kings of the Rock and the Reach march with their armies, and he plans to meet them on the field.”
Rhaenys straightened, the fire returning to her violet eyes. “Then we must leave soon,” she said firmly. “Meraxes and I can make the journey quickly. When can you be ready?”
Orys hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly before meeting hers again. “I won’t be going with you, Rhaenys.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice quieter now, laced with confusion. “You’ve been at my side through every battle. Why would you stay behind?”
Orys exhaled slowly, his hands resting on his hips. “The stormlands are not yet secure,” he said. “The pirates in Cape Wrath and the Dornish raiders in the Marches need to be dealt with. If we leave now, we risk losing all we’ve fought for here.”
Rhaenys’s jaw tightened, her frustration evident. “So I’m to leave you behind? Just like that?”
“It’s not forever,” Orys said gently, stepping closer. “Aegon needs you, Rhaenys. You and Meraxes will turn the tide in this war. But the stormlands need me—for now.”
She turned away, her arms crossing as she looked out over the camp. The distant fires flickered, their light casting shadows across her face. “I don’t like it,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t either,” Orys said, his voice soft but steady. “But this is the right choice. You’re meant to be there—with your brother, with your sister. They need you.”
Rhaenys was silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Finally, she turned back to him, her expression softening. “Promise me you’ll be safe,” she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to keep it steady.
Orys smiled faintly, his dark eyes warm. “I promise,” he said. “And I’ll hold the stormlands for you—for us.”
She stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. “Don’t make me come back to rescue you,” she said, a hint of her usual teasing tone returning.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied with a grin.
They stood in silence for a moment, the unspoken bond between them stronger than words. Finally, Rhaenys turned back to Meraxes, her hand brushing over the dragon’s scales. “Then I’ll leave at first light,” she said, her voice resolute.
Orys nodded, watching her with a mixture of pride and sadness. “Give them hell, Rhaenys,” he said quietly.
She glanced back at him, her violet eyes fierce. “Always,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the camp in twilight, Rhaenys prepared herself for the journey ahead. The fire of the Targaryens burned strong, and she would ensure it blazed across Westeros.
The morning was crisp and cool, a slight breeze rustling the banners of House Baratheon that now adorned the camp. The stormlands, once filled with the echoes of war, were quieter now, though the tension in the air remained. On the horizon, the silver dragon Meraxes soared higher into the sky, her great wings beating a steady rhythm as she carried Rhaenys Targaryen further and further away.
Orys Baratheon stood at the edge of the camp, his broad frame silhouetted against the rising sun. His black-and-gold armor glinted faintly in the light, his crowned stag sigil catching the gleam. His jaw was set, his expression grim as he watched the dragon vanish into the distance. He’d sent men into countless battles, but seeing Rhaenys fly away carried a weight he couldn’t quite shake.
“You look like a man torn between duty and regret,” came a voice from behind him, sharp and laced with bitterness.
Orys turned slowly to find Argella Durrandon standing there. She was dressed simply but elegantly in a dark green tunic, her hair braided tightly, though stray strands framed her face. Her blue eyes burned with an emotion that had become all too familiar: anger. It hadn’t faded since the day her father fell.
“She’s doing what she has to,” Orys said evenly, his tone steady but firm. “Just like all of us.”
Argella’s lips curled into a bitter smile as she crossed her arms. “Of course,” she said. “The Targaryens always do what they have to, don’t they? Burn castles, kill kings, and take whatever they want.”
Orys’s expression darkened, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. “Careful,” he warned, his voice low. “You’ve seen what happens to those who defy them.”
“I’ve lived it,” Argella snapped, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. “My father died fighting for his land, his people, and his crown. And now I stand here, watching you gaze after that dragon as if she’s taking a piece of your soul with her.”
Orys stiffened, her words striking a nerve he didn’t care to acknowledge. “Your father chose his path,” he said, his voice hard. “He refused to yield, even when he knew it meant his end. That was his choice.”
“And what about my choice?” Argella shot back, her voice rising. “Do you think I wanted this? To stand here in chains, my father’s blood on your hands?”
Orys’s gaze hardened, though there was a flicker of something softer beneath it. “You’re not in chains anymore,” he said quietly. “You’re alive because I spared you. Remember that.”
Argella’s breath hitched, her anger faltering for just a moment before she straightened, her chin lifting defiantly. “Don’t mistake your mercy for loyalty, Orys Baratheon. I didn’t bend the knee to you.”
“No,” he agreed, his voice calm but firm. “You bent the knee to her.”
At that, Argella’s glare faltered. She turned her gaze to the horizon where Meraxes had disappeared, her hands tightening into fists at her sides. “She doesn’t deserve my loyalty,” she muttered, though her voice lacked the venom it had carried moments before.
Orys stepped closer, his presence towering over her. “You don’t have to like her,” he said. “But you will respect her. And one day, you’ll see that this—what we’re building—it’s bigger than all of us. Even your father.”
Argella scoffed, shaking her head. “You’re a fool if you think I’ll ever see them as anything more than conquerors.”
“Maybe I am,” Orys admitted, his tone softening slightly. “But the world is changing, Argella. And you’re a part of it, whether you like it or not.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a blade. Finally, Argella spoke, her voice quieter now. “Do you think she’ll come back? Rhaenys?”
“She will,” Orys said without hesitation, though there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “She always does.”
Argella studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she turned away, her gaze fixed on the camp as she began to walk back. “You’d better be right,” she said over her shoulder, her tone still sharp but lacking the bitterness it had carried before.
Orys watched her go, his jaw tightening as he turned back to the horizon. The sky was empty now, the dragon and her rider long gone. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging slightly as the weight of his responsibilities pressed down on him.
The stormlands were his to rule now, and Rhaenys’s absence left a void he wasn’t sure how to fill. But he would. He had to.
As the sun climbed higher, Orys stood alone, the shadow of the dragon still lingering in his thoughts.
Chapter 11: The Field of Fire
Chapter Text
On the ground, the Targaryen forces moved with military precision. Rows of infantry, their steel glinting dully beneath a layer of dust from the road, marched in disciplined ranks. Their faces were grim but determined, the weeks of marching hardening their resolve. The knights, clad in shining plate, rode at the flanks, their capes bearing the sigils of loyal houses rippling in the wind.
The supply wagons groaned under their heavy loads, carrying weapons, provisions, and the banners of fallen lords—trophies from past conquests. Blacksmiths marched beside them, their tools at the ready for repairs.
Every so often, Aegon descended from the skies to ride among his men. Mounted on a massive black destrier when not astride Balerion, he was a king in every sense of the word. His armor, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon, seemed to drink the light, its edges etched with Valyrian runes. Blackfyre rested at his hip, its weight both a reassurance and a promise of death to any who defied him.
Visenya was a sight to behold as she rode beside Aegon when not commanding from the sky. Her dark, scale-like armor hugged her lithe form, the Valyrian glyphs etched into it glowing faintly when the sun hit just right. Dark Sister hung at her side, the blade’s hilt worn from years of use. Her silver-gold hair, braided tightly, gave her the look of a battle-hardened queen—unwavering and untouchable.
Yet even her stoic demeanor couldn’t entirely mask the absence of Rhaenys. Visenya’s sharp eyes often flicked skyward, scanning the horizon for a glimpse of Meraxes’s shadow. Though she said nothing, the corners of her mouth tightened each time she looked.
Aegon felt it too. The space between them, where Rhaenys’s laughter and warmth should have been, seemed colder. Her absence was not unexpected, but it was felt deeply. They trusted her, but weeks of waiting made even the strongest faith waver.
By the time they reached Stoney Sept, the town was brimming with tension. The banners of House Targaryen were raised over the gates, and the local lords, having submitted to the dragon months ago, had gathered to provide provisions and reinforce Aegon’s forces. The townspeople watched from a distance, their faces pale with a mix of awe and fear as the dragons circled overhead.
Aegon and Visenya entered the town at the head of their column, their presence commanding silence. Visenya dismounted first, her movements fluid as she scanned the square, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. Aegon followed, his boots striking the cobblestones with quiet authority.
The local lord approached nervously, bowing deeply before the siblings. “My king, my queen,” he said, his voice trembling. “We have done as you commanded. Food, shelter, and soldiers await you.”
Aegon nodded curtly, his gaze sweeping over the preparations. “You’ve done well,” he said, his voice steady. “Your loyalty will not be forgotten.”
That evening, as the camp was set up outside the town’s walls, the absence of Rhaenys loomed larger. Aegon stood at the edge of the camp, staring into the darkening sky as the first stars began to emerge. Behind him, the campfires flickered, casting long shadows across the soldiers who murmured among themselves, their voices tinged with unease.
Visenya joined him, her armor exchanged for a simpler black tunic and trousers, though Dark Sister was still strapped to her side. She stood beside her brother in silence for a long moment before speaking.
“She’ll come,” Visenya said, her tone unyielding but quieter than usual. “You know she will.”
Aegon exhaled, his gaze unwavering as he watched the horizon. “I know,” he said, though the tightness in his voice betrayed his concern. “But this battle... it’s unlike any we’ve faced. I need her here.”
“You’re worried about her,” Visenya observed, her tone devoid of judgment.
“I’m worried about all of us,” Aegon admitted. “We’re outnumbered. The might of the west and the south united against us. Even with our dragons, it won’t be an easy victory.”
Visenya turned her gaze skyward, as though willing Meraxes to appear. “Rhaenys is not fragile,” she said firmly. “She’s fire, just like us.”
Aegon nodded, but his jaw remained tight. He placed a hand on the hilt of Blackfyre, the familiar weight grounding him. “We’ll wait,” he said finally. “For a few days more. Then we march to meet them—whether she has arrived or not.”
Visenya didn’t reply, but the flicker of unease in her eyes mirrored his own. Together, they stood under the vast expanse of stars, two dragons waiting for the third to complete their unbreakable triad.
The rolling plains south of the Blackwater Rush stretched wide and open under a relentless sun, the vast expanse now host to one of the greatest armies ever assembled in Westeros. The banners of House Gardener and House Lannister rippled proudly in the breeze, their golden and green, red and silver emblems shimmering like jewels under the light. Fifty-five thousand men stood ready, the combined might of the Reach and the Westerlands forming an imposing wall of steel and flesh. The air hummed with tension as knights on warhorses lined the front, their lances gleaming like a forest of death.
Opposite them, the Targaryen host stood vastly outnumbered. Black-and-crimson banners bore the sigil of the three-headed dragon, fluttering defiantly. Aegon Targaryen sat astride Balerion, the Black Dread, high above his smaller force. His black-and-crimson armor, forged to resemble dragon scales, caught the light, making him seem otherworldly, a creature of fire and fury rather than a man. Beside him, Visenya rode Vhagar, her bronze-scaled dragon restless beneath her. Her dark armor, etched with Valyrian glyphs, seemed to pulse faintly, and her sharp violet eyes scanned the battlefield with cold precision.
Yet even the dragons and their riders seemed overshadowed by the sheer might of the opposition. Fifty-five thousand men stretched across the plains, a sea of swords, shields, and death. The absence of Rhaenys weighed heavily upon Aegon. Though she had answered their summons, her presence was nowhere to be seen, and her absence gnawed at him. He said nothing, but Visenya noticed the flicker of unease in his violet gaze.
The horns of House Gardener blared, deep and ominous, rolling across the plains like the roar of an oncoming storm. Moments later, the ground began to tremble as thousands of knights surged forward, their horses pounding the earth in unison. The sound was deafening—a tidal wave of steel and fury rushing toward the Targaryen lines.
The first impact was catastrophic. The knights smashed into the Targaryen vanguard with brutal force, their lances driving deep into shields and flesh. Men were thrown from their feet, horses rearing and screaming as the weight of the charge shattered the front lines. Blood sprayed in all directions as the Targaryen soldiers scrambled to hold their ground, their smaller numbers beginning to buckle under the sheer weight of the assault.
Above the chaos, Aegon and Visenya launched their counterattack. Balerion’s roar split the heavens, a sound so deafening that it froze men in their tracks. The Black Dread dove low, unleashing a torrent of fire that consumed entire lines of soldiers. The flames roared hungrily, melting steel and flesh alike, turning the once-proud banners of the Reach into charred ruins.
Vhagar joined the onslaught, her bronze scales gleaming as she rained fire upon the enemy flanks. Soldiers screamed as they burned, their bodies collapsing in heaps of ash and cinders. Visenya guided her dragon with deadly precision, cutting swathes through the enemy forces, but the allied army pressed on. Their numbers were too great, their resolve unbroken.
Amidst the inferno, a lucky shot from the allied archers found its mark. An arrow struck Vhagar near her wing joint, the sharp point embedding deep into the dragon’s flesh. With a thunderous screech, the great beast faltered, her powerful wings struggling to keep her aloft. Visenya cursed under her breath, her jaw tightening as she guided Vhagar to the ground.
The landing was hard, shaking the earth as Vhagar touched down amidst the chaos. Enemy soldiers seized the opportunity, rushing toward the grounded dragon with spears raised. Visenya dismounted in a fluid motion, drawing Dark Sister from its sheath. Her movements were swift and precise, a blur of steel and fury as she cut down anyone who dared approach her dragon.
“Hold the line!” she roared, her voice a sharp command that rallied the nearby Targaryen soldiers. They formed a shield wall around Vhagar, their determination bolstered by the presence of their queen. Visenya fought like a demon in their midst, her blade slicing through flesh and armor with brutal efficiency. Blood sprayed across her dark armor, but she pressed on, her violet eyes blazing with fury.
High above, Aegon fought to maintain control of the battle. Balerion roared and dove, his massive wings creating gusts of wind that knocked men off their feet. The dragon’s fire turned the plains into a hellscape, yet the allied army continued to push forward. Fresh reinforcements emerged from the north, their banners snapping in the wind as they advanced with grim determination.
Aegon’s frustration mounted. He drove Balerion into the thick of the enemy ranks, Blackfyre flashing as he cut down any who dared approach. The dragon’s claws tore through men and horses alike, leaving carnage in their wake. Yet for every line they destroyed, another seemed to take its place. The allied forces pressed relentlessly, their numbers threatening to overwhelm even the might of the Black Dread.
As the battle teetered on the brink of disaster, a deafening roar echoed from the north. A massive shadow fell over the field as Meraxes descended upon the reinforcements. Rhaenys had arrived.
The silver-scaled dragon was a vision of terror and beauty, her wings casting a shimmering glow as they blocked out the sun. Rhaenys, her crimson armor streaked with the grime of travel, sat tall in the saddle, her braided silver-gold hair flowing behind her. Her arrival sent a wave of hope through the Targaryen forces and panic through the allied ranks.
Meraxes unleashed a torrent of fire, engulfing the northern reinforcements in a blazing inferno. Men screamed as they burned, their formations collapsing under the sudden assault. Horses reared and bolted, their riders thrown to the ground in the chaos. The once-proud banners of House Gardener and House Lannister were consumed in the flames, their colors fading to ash.
Aegon’s relief was palpable as he watched his sister soar into the fray. “Rhaenys,” he murmured, a rare smile breaking through his grim expression. He signaled to Visenya, who had managed to remount Vhagar, and together the three dragons rose into the sky.
The three dragons descended upon the battlefield as living storms of flame and shadow, their roars shaking the very earth. Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes flew in synchronized fury, their massive wings cutting through the smoke-filled air. The battlefield below was chaos incarnate, a sea of clashing steel, broken bodies, and despair.
Balerion’s fire came first, a searing torrent of death that swept across the center of the allied forces. The flames devoured everything in their path—horses rearing as their riders screamed, the banners of House Gardener disintegrating into ash. Men shrieked in terror, their armor glowing red-hot before it fused to their flesh. Aegon’s figure atop Balerion was a vision of wrath and conquest, his black-and-crimson armor illuminated by the inferno as he commanded his dragon with deadly precision.
To the east, Vhagar struck like a lightning bolt. The bronze-scaled dragon swept low, her flames carving a path through the allied right flank. Visenya, her silver hair matted with soot, wielded Dark Sister from her saddle, cutting down any who dared to raise a weapon toward her. Her roars of defiance rivaled her dragon’s, her every movement embodying fury and power. She drove Vhagar through the chaos with a relentless ferocity, the flames consuming the Lannister banners as their knights scattered like leaves in a gale.
And then came Meraxes, her silver scales shimmering like molten steel through the haze of smoke. Rhaenys’s arrival turned the tide, her dragon unleashing a deluge of fire upon the northern reinforcements. The roar of Meraxes was deafening, a harbinger of death that sent even the bravest knights fleeing. From above, Rhaenys appeared ethereal, her crimson armor streaked with the grime of battle yet glowing with an unearthly light. She drove Meraxes straight through the heart of the enemy's reserves, the dragon’s claws ripping through siege engines and soldiers alike.
The three dragons moved as one, a trinity of destruction, their flames crisscrossing the plains in waves of devastation. The air itself seemed to burn, thick with smoke, ash, and the coppery stench of blood. Knights tried to rally, their banners rising defiantly amid the flames, but they were no match for fire made flesh. Over five thousand men perished in the flames, their bodies reduced to ash as the Field of Fire lived up to its name.
In the end, the allied army broke like a dam, the survivors scattering in all directions. The once-proud banners of House Gardener and House Lannister lay trampled and scorched. Mern Gardener and his entire line were obliterated, their house reduced to embers on the wind. Loren Lannister, his golden armor blackened and tarnished, fled with what little remained of his forces, his pride as shattered as his army.
The battlefield was unrecognizable, a charred wasteland that stretched endlessly beneath the smog-choked sky. The once-vibrant plains were now a field of blackened ash, the remains of men and beasts twisted into grotesque shapes. Smoke curled from the scorched earth, rising in ghostly tendrils that carried the acrid scent of death and destruction. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional crackle of lingering flames and the distant cries of the wounded.
Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes descended slowly, their massive wings stirring the ash into swirling eddies as they landed amidst the ruins. Their scales glistened with sweat and soot, their breaths coming in heavy, rumbling exhales. The dragons folded their wings carefully, their eyes still scanning the desolate field for any lingering threats.
Aegon dismounted first, his boots sinking into the scorched earth as he surveyed the devastation. His armor was blackened, streaked with soot and blood, yet his presence remained commanding. His silver-gold hair clung to his face, damp with sweat, and his violet eyes burned with triumph and exhaustion.
Rhaenys dismounted next, her crimson cloak trailing in the ash as she leapt from Meraxes. Before she could say a word, Aegon crossed the space between them in a few long strides and pulled her into a tight embrace. The sudden gesture startled her, but she wrapped her arms around him without hesitation, burying her face in his armor. “You’re late,” he murmured, his voice heavy with relief.
From behind them, Visenya let out a dry laugh as she slid down from Vhagar. “Rhaenys, the savior of the hour,” she quipped, though her smirk softened as she turned to check on Vhagar. The bronze dragon rumbled softly, her wounds minor but enough to give Visenya pause. She placed a hand on the dragon’s flank, murmuring soothing words in Valyrian before turning back to her siblings.
The three of them stood together amidst the ruin, their dragons looming like silent sentinels. The world around them was unrecognizable, a testament to the sheer power they wielded. Yet in that moment, there was no boasting, no triumph—only a shared understanding of the cost of their victory.
Rhaenys turned to Aegon, her crimson armor battered but her expression resolute. “We’ve won,” she said softly, her voice carrying a weight of both relief and sorrow.
Aegon nodded, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder. “We have,” he replied, his tone quiet but firm. His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, as if assuring himself that she was truly there.
Visenya’s sharp eyes swept over the field, taking in the twisted remnants of the once-great allied host. “This,” she said, her voice cold, “is what it takes to forge a kingdom.”
Aegon turned to her, his expression unreadable. “This is what we were born for,” he said simply, his voice carrying a sense of finality.
The three Targaryens stood together amidst the ashes, their dragons towering behind them. The Field of Fire had cemented their dominance, a legacy forged in flame and blood. Yet even in their victory, the weight of their conquest pressed heavily upon them. The world would remember this day, not for its glory, but for the destruction that heralded the rise of a new era.
The camp sprawled across the scorched plains like a wounded beast, its edges dimly lit by the flickering glow of hastily lit fires. What remained of the Targaryen forces moved with a somber efficiency, the weight of the day’s battle pressing heavily on their shoulders. The air was thick with the mingling scents of smoke, blood, and burnt flesh, a grim reminder of the cost of their victory.
Soldiers, their faces smeared with ash and exhaustion, stumbled between makeshift tents. Some carried the wounded on stretchers cobbled together from shattered lances and torn cloaks. Others worked to bandage wounds by the faint light of the fires, their hands trembling from fatigue and the memories of the inferno they had survived.
A group of men sat in near silence around a large fire, their armor dented and smeared with grime. The occasional clink of a sharpening stone against a blade punctuated the stillness, the sound rhythmic yet hollow. One man absently fingered the charred remains of a house banner he’d taken as a keepsake, its edges frayed and blackened. His comrades said nothing, their gazes fixed on the flames as if searching for answers within the dancing embers.
Nearby, the messengers and squires moved like ghosts, their steps light as they relayed orders or tended to the horses. The animals, restless and spooked, shifted uneasily in their makeshift corral, their manes still matted with the sweat and soot of the day. One squire whispered soothing words to a trembling destrier, his voice barely audible over the low murmur of the camp.
In the center of the encampment, a crude infirmary had been set up. A bloodstained canvas stretched over a cluster of wounded soldiers, their groans and cries piercing the heavy silence. Healers and comrades knelt beside them, tearing strips of fabric to bind gashes or muttering quiet prayers to the gods. Buckets of water, stained pink with blood, were passed between them, the liquid sloshing with every hurried movement.
The few uninjured soldiers busied themselves digging shallow trenches around the perimeter of the camp, their shovels biting into the ashen ground. The trenches were both a defense and a grim necessity, ready to serve as resting places for the fallen whose names would never be spoken again.
Despite the weariness that clung to every movement, an unspoken discipline remained. The banners of House Targaryen, though torn and singed, were planted firmly in the heart of the camp, their black-and-crimson hues defiant against the desolation. Even in their exhaustion, the soldiers cast occasional glances toward those banners, a reminder of what they fought for and the power that led them.
The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint echo of the day’s screams and the acrid smell of death. The soldiers tightened their cloaks against the chill, their eyes scanning the horizon with a mixture of vigilance and dread. Though the fires kept the darkness at bay, the night felt colder, heavier—a silent testament to the cost of war and the fragile hope that morning would bring.
The battlefield was long behind them, but the remnants of the day’s chaos lingered in the camp. Smoke curled faintly into the night air, mixing with the sharp tang of sweat, iron, and the faint acrid scent of burnt flesh. Amidst the towering shadows of the three dragons resting near the edge of the camp, Visenya Targaryen lay on the ground beside Vhagar. The massive beast, her bronze-scaled hide shimmering faintly in the moonlight, dwarfed her rider. Even with her formidable presence, Visenya looked small, her soot-blackened face and wild braid a stark contrast against the dragon’s hulking form.
She knelt at Vhagar’s side, one hand resting on the warm scales, the other tracing faint glyphs in the dirt. Her lips moved in the cadence of an ancient Valyrian spell, soft and rhythmic, a prayer for strength, or perhaps a plea to the gods of Old Valyria for guidance. Her armor, still streaked with soot and ash, clung tightly to her frame. Despite its dents and scratches, the dark, scale-like design gave her an air of indomitability. Yet the flickering firelight caught faint lines of wear on her face, hinting at the toll of battle and grief.
The other dragons rested nearby, their great forms rising and falling with deep, rumbling breaths. Vhagar lay watchful, her eyes half-lidded but alert. She seemed to sense her rider’s unease, her massive tail curling protectively around her.
Not far from the dragons, the camp bustled with muted activity. Wounded soldiers groaned in makeshift infirmaries, and the able-bodied moved quietly among the fires, tending to equipment or sharing muted conversations. The victory had been decisive, but the scars of the battle were evident in every weary face.
At the center of the camp, Aegon stood in the shadowed entrance of his tent, his violet eyes scanning the scene before him. His silver-gold hair, now tinged with smoke, caught faint streaks of light from the nearby fire. His broad shoulders bore the weight of soot-streaked armor, and a cloak of black and crimson draped loosely over his form. The faint glint of Blackfyre’s hilt rested at his hip, a silent reminder of the battles they had won and those yet to come.
His gaze lingered on Rhaenys. She moved among the soldiers, her crimson cloak trailing behind her like a living ember. Her soothing words and gentle touch brought comfort to the men, her presence as much a balm as any salve. She knelt beside one man, her silver-gold braid swaying as she bound a wound with swift, practiced hands. Despite the wear of the day, her movements remained graceful, her lightness of spirit undiminished.
As if sensing his eyes on her, Rhaenys glanced up. Their gazes met across the flickering expanse of the camp, and a faint smile curved her lips. Rising to her feet, she dusted her hands on her armor and made her way toward him.
“You’ve been watching me,” she teased softly when she reached him, her voice carrying a warmth that cut through the chill of the night.
Aegon tilted his head, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you like this.”
“Like what?” she asked, arching a brow.
“Here,” he said simply, his voice carrying a weight that spoke of months spent apart. His hand gestured faintly toward her, taking in the sight of her soot-streaked armor and the determined set of her jaw. “With me.”
Rhaenys stepped closer, the firelight catching in her violet eyes. “You’ve changed,” she observed, her tone softer now. Her hand lifted to his face, fingers brushing lightly over his jawline. “This beard... I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Aegon let out a low chuckle, his hand rising to touch his beard self-consciously. “It’s been... practical,” he said, though his smile betrayed a faint embarrassment. “There hasn’t been time for such things.”
“It suits you,” Rhaenys said, her teasing tone returning. “Though I think you might be trying to outdo Visenya in looking fearsome.”
“Do you approve, my queen?” Aegon asked, the humor in his tone carrying a rare softness.
Her smile widened as she let her hand drop. “I do,” she replied, tilting her head. “But I won’t let you keep it forever. Once we’re done here, I expect you to return to your usual self.”
Aegon’s lips curved into a smirk. “We’ll see,” he said, though his gaze softened as he held hers.
Rhaenys’s expression grew serious, her hand brushing lightly against his. “It has been weeks... months, really, since we last stood together. You at Harrenhal, me at Storm’s End. And now we’re here, on this field of fire and ash.”
Aegon nodded, his voice low. “And we’ll finish this together. The three of us.”
Rhaenys glanced toward Visenya, her form small yet defiant beside Vhagar. The sight drew a faint smile from her, though her eyes shone with something deeper. “She worries more than she lets on,” she said softly. “For all her strength, she feels the weight of every loss.”
“As do we all,” Aegon replied, his tone heavy. He glanced back at Rhaenys, his hand briefly tightening around hers. “You’ve been my light, Rhaenys. My hope.”
“And you’ve been my strength,” she said, her voice unwavering. “Together, we’re unstoppable.”
They stood there for a moment longer, the silence between them filled with unspoken words. The crackle of the campfires and the distant murmurs of the soldiers faded into the background as the bond they shared, forged in fire and blood, held them steady.
The night had fully settled over the camp, the darkness pierced only by the soft glow of scattered fires. The groans of the wounded carried faintly through the still air, a reminder of the price they had paid on the Field of Fire. Despite the activity of the camp, there was a fragile quietness, broken only by the occasional murmur of soldiers or the restless shifting of dragons in the distance.
Inside their modest tent, Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen lay on a makeshift bed, little more than layered furs and blankets spread across the ground. The tent was sparsely lit by a single lantern, casting warm, flickering light over them. Aegon was stripped down to his breaches, his chest bare, revealing faint streaks of soot and scars from battles past. His silver-gold hair was damp and slightly disheveled, giving him a rugged, relaxed appearance.
Rhaenys lay beside him, her slim frame dwarfed by one of his tunics, the black-and-crimson fabric hanging loosely over her form. Her hair, usually bound with meticulous care, had been pulled into a loose bun, stray ringlets framing her dirt-streaked but still radiant face. The tunic’s oversized sleeves pooled around her wrists, and the hem barely revealed the shape of her legs beneath. She looked comfortable, her guard lowered in a way that only happened when they were alone.
Aegon propped himself up on one elbow, his sharp violet eyes fixed on her as she spoke. “The stormlands are... fierce,” Rhaenys said, her voice soft yet animated. “The people, the land, the storms themselves—it’s as though the very air fights back. But Orys handled it all so brilliantly. He’s a natural leader. Steady, commanding, but always fair.”
Aegon nodded thoughtfully, his gaze unwavering. “He always was like that. Even as a boy, he carried himself like he was already Lord of Storm’s End.”
Rhaenys smiled, her hand resting lightly on the fabric of the tunic draped over her knee. “He made it easier for me, Aegon. He carried so much of the burden without complaint. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner.”
Aegon’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Orys has always been more than my strongest sword. He’s my brother in all the ways that matter.”
Rhaenys shifted closer, her voice softening. “I missed you,” she admitted, her violet eyes meeting his. “During all those months apart, I couldn’t help but think about how much easier it would have been if you’d been there.”
Aegon reached out, his calloused hand brushing against hers. “I missed you, too,” he said simply, his voice carrying a quiet sincerity. “We’ve been apart too much lately.”
For a moment, silence fell between them, a comfortable quiet filled with unspoken words. Then, Rhaenys broke it with a mischievous smile. “Do you remember the time on Dragonstone when you tried to ride Meraxes?”
Aegon groaned, covering his face with his free hand. “I was what? Eight? Nine? And you still won’t let me forget.”
“You were eight,” Rhaenys confirmed with a giggle, her eyes lighting up with mirth. “And you were so determined. She threw you off within seconds, and you landed flat on your back in the mud.”
“You’re supposed to be my queen,” Aegon grumbled, though his own laughter began to bubble up. “Not my tormentor.”
Rhaenys leaned closer, her smile widening. “A queen can be both,” she teased. “And I’ll never forget how you marched back to your chambers covered in mud, refusing to let anyone help you.”
Aegon laughed then, a deep, rich sound that echoed through the small tent. “I was trying to impress you. I thought if I could tame Meraxes, you’d think I was the greatest dragonlord in history.”
Rhaenys’s laughter joined his, light and musical. “Oh, Aegon. You’ve always been impressive, even when you didn’t have to try so hard.”
As their laughter subsided, a peaceful silence settled over them once more. Aegon’s hand lingered on hers, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against her skin. He watched her, his gaze softening as he took in her familiar features. The flickering lantern light cast gentle shadows over her face, and for a moment, the weight of their conquest seemed to fade.
“I wish we could freeze this moment,” Aegon murmured, his voice low and tinged with something wistful.
Rhaenys tilted her head, her eyes searching his. “Why?” she asked gently.
“Because it’s quiet,” Aegon replied. “Because you’re here. Because for once, it feels like the world isn’t on fire.”
Rhaenys reached up, her fingers brushing lightly against his cheek. “You’ll always have this, Aegon. Even if the world burns around us, we’ll have each other.”
He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly as if committing the moment to memory. “And that’s what keeps me going,” he said softly.
They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the fragile stillness of the night, the world outside their tent forgotten.
The sun had barely risen, its pale light casting a dull glow over the camp as Aegon Targaryen stood at its heart, his imposing figure framed by the hulking form of Balerion resting behind him. Smoke from the previous day’s battle still hung in the air, mingling with the earthy smell of damp grass and ash. The camp was quieter than usual—no chatter or boisterous laughter, only the groans of the wounded and the muted murmurs of soldiers moving about their duties.
The clinking of chains announced the arrival of the prisoners, and Aegon turned to see his men returning with their captive: Loren Lannister, King of the Rock. The golden lion of the west had fled the Field of Fire under the cover of chaos, but his escape had been short-lived. Aegon’s riders, relentless in their pursuit, had caught him before dawn.
Loren’s once-majestic armor, gilded with the gold and crimson of his house, was battered and tarnished. His cloak hung in tatters, dragging along the dirt, and his face was streaked with sweat and grime. Despite the visible toll of the battle and flight, his head was held high, and his amber eyes met Aegon’s with quiet defiance.
Behind Loren marched his bannermen, equally disheveled and dejected. Chains clinked with every step, a sharp contrast to the proud roars of House Lannister they had bellowed only days ago.
Aegon stepped forward, his black-and-crimson armor pristine despite the previous day’s carnage. Blackfyre rested on his hip, and his violet eyes, cold and commanding, locked onto Loren. The King of the Rock was shoved to his knees by one of the guards, but he immediately straightened, refusing to show submission.
“King Loren,” Aegon began, his voice even and steady, carrying authority like a blade’s edge. “You ran from the Field of Fire. Now, here you kneel. Do you yield?”
Loren hesitated, his amber eyes narrowing. The proud King of the Rock remained silent for a moment, his jaw tightening as if he were weighing his last shred of dignity against the reality of the dragon standing before him.
“I fought for my people,” Loren said at last, his voice firm. “I fled for them, too. And now, for their sake, I yield.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with finality. Loren’s bannermen dropped to their knees behind him, their heads bowed in defeat. The might of the westerlands, once a formidable force, now lay broken before the dragon king.
Aegon studied Loren, his expression inscrutable. “Rise,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for defiance. “From this day forward, you are no longer a king but my Warden of the West. Your lands and titles are yours to keep, but your loyalty is mine to command.”
Loren stood slowly, his pride clearly wounded but his composure intact. “You have my loyalty, my king,” he said, his words formal but tinged with the bitterness of surrender.
The exchange was witnessed in silence by the soldiers of both armies. The Targaryen forces stood tall, their black-and-crimson banners fluttering in the breeze. The captured westermen kept their heads low, their spirits subdued.
Balerion rumbled low, his massive form shifting behind Aegon. Loren flinched slightly at the sound but quickly composed himself, his gaze flickering briefly to the dragon’s golden eyes. The message was clear: there was no resisting the will of House Targaryen.
From the shadows of the camp, Visenya emerged, her dark armor still streaked with soot and ash. Dark Sister rested on her hip, and her violet eyes gleamed with a mixture of cold calculation and quiet triumph. She regarded Loren with a sharp, appraising gaze.
“Wise,” she said simply, her voice cutting through the tense air. “Better to kneel than to burn.”
Loren said nothing, though his lips tightened at her words.
Moments later, Rhaenys arrived, her crimson cloak fluttering behind her as she strode toward her siblings. Her silver-gold hair, though slightly tousled from the previous day’s battle, still gleamed in the morning light. Her expression was unreadable as she joined Aegon and Visenya.
Loren’s gaze flicked between the three Targaryens, standing together as an unshakable force. “So, this is how the west falls,” he muttered under his breath.
Rhaenys tilted her head, her sharp hearing catching his words. “No,” she said softly, but firmly. “This is how the west rises—under the banner of the dragon.”
The Lannister bannermen were led away, their chains clinking as they were marched toward the makeshift holding tents. Loren, now a Warden instead of a king, was given leave to rest and prepare for his formal oath.
As the camp resumed its measured hum of activity, Aegon remained where he stood, watching as the sun broke fully over the horizon. The Field of Fire had brought the west to its knees, and the conquest pressed on, one kingdom at a time.
The march to Highgarden was swift, the Targaryen host moving like a tide of black and crimson across the fertile lands of the Reach. The devastation of the Field of Fire lingered in their wake—burned fields, scattered ashes, and the memory of thousands lost. Yet the beauty of the Reach persisted, with its golden fields of wheat and orchards heavy with fruit painting a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.
Aegon Targaryen led the march, his figure imposing atop Balerion the Black Dread, who strode lazily alongside the advancing column. The dragon’s massive shadow stretched across the land, a silent reminder of the power that had broken kings and burned castles. Aegon’s black-and-crimson armor gleamed in the sunlight, the three-headed dragon on his chestplate a symbol of conquest. His silver-gold hair, loose now, shimmered faintly in the warm breeze.
Behind him rode his sister-queen Rhaenys, her crimson armor catching the light. Meraxes flew overhead, her shadow skimming the green fields below. Rhaenys wore an expression of quiet determination, her silver-gold hair braided tightly. Beside her, Visenya remained stoic atop Vhagar, her dark armor streaked with the soot and ash of the Field of Fire. The three dragons, with their riders, were a force to rival gods, and the men of the Reach knew it.
As they approached Highgarden, its golden spires and verdant gardens came into view, a stark contrast to the scorched plains they had left behind. The castle stood as a symbol of the Reach’s prosperity, its towering walls surrounded by lush greenery and the winding waters of the Mander. Yet no banners flew above its ramparts, and no army met them at its gates. The great host that had marched under the sigil of House Gardener was no more, and with the death of Mern IX and his kin, the seat of Highgarden stood defenseless.
Aegon and his host halted outside the castle gates, the dragons circling above casting their shadows over the walls. The gates creaked open slowly, and a small party emerged. At their head was a man of middling years, clad in the green and gold livery of House Tyrell. His expression was calm, but there was a flicker of nervousness in his eyes as he approached Aegon.
Harlan Tyrell, steward of Highgarden, dropped to one knee before the dragonlord, his head bowed low. Behind him, a few servants and retainers did the same, their faces pale but resolute.
“My king,” Harlan began, his voice steady but subdued, “Highgarden yields to you. The Gardener line is ended, and the Reach is yours. I pledge myself and all that remains of this castle to your rule.”
The Targaryen host watched in silence, the tension palpable as they awaited Aegon’s response. Balerion rumbled low, the sound vibrating through the ground, but Aegon raised a gloved hand to still the beast. He dismounted, his boots crunching against the gravel as he approached Harlan.
“You could have resisted,” Aegon said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of command. “Why surrender without a fight?”
Harlan lifted his head slightly, meeting Aegon’s violet gaze. “My king, the Reach has already burned, and its armies lie scattered. To resist you would bring only more death. The people of the Reach deserve peace, even if it comes beneath the shadow of a dragon.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Aegon’s lips, though his expression remained inscrutable. “You have chosen wisely,” he said. “Rise, Harlan Tyrell.”
Harlan obeyed, standing tall as Aegon addressed him. “You surrendered without bloodshed and chose to preserve the lives of your people. For this, you shall be rewarded. From this day forward, you are Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, and Lord Paramount of the Mander. Serve me well, and you shall prosper.”
Harlan’s eyes widened slightly at the proclamation, but he bowed deeply once more. “I will serve, my king, with all the strength that remains in me.”
As the Targaryens entered the castle, the air was heavy with a mix of tension and awe. Highgarden, with its sprawling gardens and golden halls, seemed untouched by the fires of war. Roses climbed the walls, their scent wafting through the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of armor and weapons.
The soldiers of the Reach, those who remained loyal to their new lord, stood by nervously, their hands twitching near their swords as the Targaryen forces moved into their new seat of power. Yet there was no violence, only the quiet hum of transition as orders were given and arrangements made.
Rhaenys wandered through the gardens with a soft smile, her fingers brushing against the petals of the roses. The beauty of Highgarden seemed to soothe the tension in her, and for a moment, she could almost forget the bloodshed that had brought them here.
Visenya, however, remained ever-watchful. Clad in her dark armor, her hand never far from the hilt of Dark Sister, she moved through the halls with sharp eyes, ensuring that no treachery lingered within these walls.
Aegon met with Harlan Tyrell in the great hall, where they discussed the governance of the Reach and the transition of power. Harlan, though still somewhat shaken by the sudden rise in his station, proved capable and pragmatic, his loyalty unwavering in the face of Targaryen might.
As the sun set over Highgarden, the golden light bathed the castle in a warm glow. The Targaryen banners were raised over the battlements, the black-and-crimson sigil of the three-headed dragon replacing the green-and-gold sigil of the fallen Gardeners. The people of the Reach, though wary, began to emerge from their homes, watching as the symbols of a new age unfurled before them.
Aegon stood on the ramparts, his gaze sweeping over the lands below. Beside him, Rhaenys joined him, her crimson cloak trailing behind her. “The Reach is ours,” she said softly, her voice carrying a note of relief.
“And now we move forward,” Aegon replied, his tone firm. “One kingdom at a time, until all kneel.”
From the distance, the faint roar of a dragon echoed, a reminder of the fire and blood that had forged their path. Highgarden was only one piece of the puzzle, and the conquest was far from over.
Chapter 12: The King Who Knelt
Chapter Text
The winds of the North howled across the Stark stronghold of Winterfell, a chilling reminder of the ever-looming winter. Inside the Great Hall, Torrhen Stark, King in the North, stood before the hearth, its roaring fire doing little to thaw the icy resolve that gripped his soul. Torrhen was a man of quiet strength, with iron-gray eyes that seemed to see beyond the present and a thick, dark beard streaked with silver. His face was lined with the marks of both age and wisdom, though his broad shoulders and straight posture betrayed a man still in his prime.
The hall was dim, lit only by the flickering flames of torches and the great hearth. Thick furs lined the stone walls, their muted colors adding to the somber atmosphere. Around Torrhen stood his bannermen, the lords of the North, their cloaks heavy with frost and their expressions grim.
Word had reached Winterfell of the southern conquest. The Targaryens were no longer whispers on the wind but a storm sweeping across Westeros. The tales were brought by riders, their faces pale with both exhaustion and terror. Aegon the Conqueror, with his three dragons and his queens, had brought Harrenhal to ash, shattered the Stormlands, and burned thousands on the Field of Fire. The riverlords had bent the knee, the Gardener line was extinguished, and the stormlords had sworn loyalty to the dragon.
Torrhen listened to these accounts in silence, his fingers absently tracing the pommel of his sword, Ice. The ancestral blade of House Stark, forged of Valyrian steel, was cold to the touch, much like the chill that had settled over the room.
As the lords argued around him, Torrhen raised a hand for silence. His voice, calm and steady, carried the weight of authority. “The South is in flames, and fire and blood mark the steps of this Targaryen king,” he said, his gray eyes scanning the room. “We cannot ignore the tide that rises against us. The North must prepare.”
The Stark bannermen murmured among themselves, some voicing defiance, others expressing unease. Torrhen turned to his closest advisors: Lord Manderly of White Harbor, the wealthiest man in the North; Lord Karstark, known for his ferocity in battle; and Lord Umber, a giant of a man whose booming voice often matched his fiery temper.
“March south?” Lord Umber thundered, his thick beard bristling with indignation. “To bend the knee to some silver-haired boy with lizards? We’re Starks, Torrhen. The North has never knelt!”
Torrhen’s eyes sharpened. “The North has also never been burned by dragonfire, Greatjon,” he said evenly. “And we will not be the first.”
Lord Manderly spoke next, his tone more measured. “It is said that one dragon destroyed Harrenhal, my king. Three dragons... the North cannot stand against that.”
Torrhen’s jaw tightened. “The South marches under banners that once stood against each other. The Reach, the Stormlands, the Riverlands—they all kneel now. If we stand alone, the North will burn.”
The murmurs ceased. Torrhen let his words settle, the truth undeniable. The North was vast, but it could not withstand the might of dragons and the unity of the southern kingdoms.
Finally, Torrhen spoke again, his voice firm. “We march. Thirty thousand strong. We will meet this Targaryen king at the Neck.”
The North mobilized with an efficiency born of generations of hardship. The great houses rallied their forces, sending thousands of soldiers southward to join their king. Torrhen himself rode at the head of the army, Ice strapped to his side, his direwolf sigil flying high above him. His cloak of gray wolf pelts billowed in the icy wind, his expression set in determination.
Behind him stretched a column of thirty thousand men, a sea of fur-lined cloaks, steel helms, and raised banners. The march was somber, the men quiet as they trudged through the snow-dusted landscape of the North. The sound of boots crunching against frostbitten earth and the occasional call of a horn echoed across the expanse.
The Neck was their first challenge. Torrhen’s forces crossed the marshy terrain of the Crannogmen, their progress slow but steady. The swampy ground sucked at their boots, and the air grew thick with mist, but the North pressed on. The lords of the Neck offered their allegiance, bolstering Torrhen’s forces with their skilled trackers and archers.
As they entered the riverlands, signs of the Targaryen conquest became impossible to ignore. Burned fields stretched as far as the eye could see, their charred remains stark against the winter-kissed land. Villages lay in ruin, the survivors speaking in hushed tones of dragons and fire. The men of the North grew uneasy, but Torrhen’s presence held them steady. His calm resolve became a beacon, his silence a reassurance.
One evening, as the army set up camp near a bend in the Trident, Torrhen stood alone on a ridge overlooking the river. The water glimmered in the moonlight, its gentle current a stark contrast to the storm raging in his mind. He thought of his people, the vast expanse of the North, and the lives that would be lost if they stood against the dragons. His gray eyes, ever watchful, seemed to pierce the night as he weighed the future of his kingdom.
When he descended from the ridge, his decision was made. “We will meet this Targaryen king,” he told his bannermen. “And we will decide if the North’s strength lies in fire or in wisdom.”
The army of the North continued southward, their breath visible in the crisp morning air. At their head, Torrhen Stark remained an unyielding figure, the last king of the North marching to meet his destiny.
The sun rose over Highgarden, casting a golden glow across the sprawling castle and its lush surroundings. The Reach’s jewel was a marvel of architectural splendor, with its cascading gardens, verdant terraces, and winding walls crowned with turrets that caught the light like jewels. Flowers in every imaginable color spilled over the stone balustrades, their fragrance drifting through the air. The Mander River sparkled in the distance, its waters winding lazily through fertile lands that stretched as far as the eye could see.
But Highgarden was no longer a sanctuary of peace. Beneath its beauty, the scars of war lingered. The banners of House Gardener had been replaced by the black and red of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon flying high above the ramparts. Soldiers bustled in the courtyard, sharpening swords and fitting armor, their voices blending with the clang of metal and the braying of horses.
Inside, the great hall had been transformed into a war room. The vibrant tapestries depicting the Gardener dynasty were gone, replaced by maps, charts, and the ominous symbols of Targaryen conquest.
Aegon sat at the head of the long table, his black-and-crimson doublet immaculate despite weeks of relentless campaigning. His silver-gold hair was tied back, and his sharp violet eyes scanned the map spread before him. Blackfyre rested against the edge of the table, a constant reminder of the strength he wielded. Around him stood his queens—Visenya and Rhaenys—and the lords who had already bent the knee: Edmyn Tully of Riverrun, Loren Lannister of the Rock, and Harlan Tyrell of Highgarden.
Visenya stood to Aegon’s left, her black armor gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Her silver hair was pulled into a severe braid, and the hilt of Dark Sister jutted over her shoulder. Her sharp features were a mask of cold calculation, her piercing gaze fixed on the map as if she could will victory into existence.
Rhaenys was a stark contrast to her elder sister. Her crimson gown, embroidered with delicate gold dragons, flowed around her as she leaned against the table, her eyes alight with curiosity and warmth. Her silver-gold hair, worn loose and soft, framed her face. Despite her regal demeanor, she exuded a quiet intensity that belied her gentle appearance.
“The Arbor will wait,” Aegon declared, tracing a path on the map with his gloved finger. “Oldtown is the key to securing the Reach. If the Hightowers submit, the rest will follow.”
Harlan Tyrell, now the steward of Highgarden, nodded. “The Hightowers command the largest fleet in the Reach. With Oldtown under your control, my king, the south will be yours.”
“And Dorne?” Loren Lannister asked carefully, his pride still bruised despite his submission. He stood in gilded armor, a lion embossed on his chest plate, the golden mane catching the flickering light.
“Dorne is a longer game,” Visenya said sharply, her tone brooking no dissent. “They’re surrounded by mountains and sand. They’ll wait and watch while we take their neighbors.”
Aegon listened in silence, his gaze shifting to a messenger who approached with a sealed letter. The red wax bore the sigil of House Baratheon: a crowned stag on a golden field. Breaking the seal, Aegon read quickly before setting the parchment down, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“It’s from Orys,” he said, his voice calm but edged with satisfaction. “The stormlands are secure. The lords have sworn their oaths, and the borders with Dorne are fortified. Argella Durrandon has proven herself loyal.”
Rhaenys smiled, her fingers brushing a strand of her silver hair. “Orys is more than capable. He was a worthy choice for Storm’s End.”
Visenya nodded once, her expression unreadable. “Good. One less front to concern ourselves with.”
Before they could continue, a loud knock echoed through the hall, drawing all eyes to the door. Aegon raised a hand, and a captain stepped forward to open it. A scout entered, his armor dusty and face weathered from the road. He bowed low, his voice steady but urgent.
“My king,” he began, “news from the north.”
The room stilled, the weight of his words heavy. “Speak,” Aegon commanded, his tone calm but firm.
“Torrhen Stark, King in the North, has crossed the Neck,” the scout said. “He marches south with an army of thirty thousand northmen.”
Rhaenys’s eyes widened slightly, her expression flickering with concern. Visenya’s hand instinctively touched the hilt of Dark Sister, her violet eyes narrowing. Aegon’s expression remained unreadable, though his hand rested on Blackfyre.
“They march for the riverlands,” the scout continued.
“Foolish,” Visenya muttered, her tone icy. “They’ll find no quarter there.”
Aegon’s gaze dropped to the map, his finger tracing the path from the Neck to the Trident. “They’ll aim for Riverrun first,” he said, his voice measured. “Edmyn Tully has sworn his loyalty, but his forces are spread thin.”
Visenya straightened. “We march to meet them.”
Aegon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We will,” he said. “But we will not rush to meet them unprepared. Torrhen Stark has thirty thousand men. This must be handled with precision.”
Rhaenys stepped closer to Aegon, her voice soft but firm. “We’ve seen what happens to kings who defy you. Torrhen will face the same fate.”
Aegon looked at her, his expression softening for a brief moment. “Let’s ensure he does.”
Over the next few days, the Targaryen host swelled with activity. Soldiers prepared weapons, polished armor, and readied supplies for the long march north. The banners of House Targaryen flew high above the camp, their black-and-red colors stark against the Reach’s green fields.
Aegon and his queens walked through the camp together, their presence a rallying point for the men. Rhaenys, ever warm and approachable, offered quiet words of encouragement to the soldiers, her smile a beacon of hope. Visenya was colder, her sharp gaze enough to silence any whispers of doubt. Aegon, stoic and commanding, walked between them, the weight of his crown evident in his measured steps.
The march north would be long, but it would bring them closer to their goal: uniting the Seven Kingdoms under one rule. Fire and blood had carried them this far, and it would carry them through what was to come.
The Targaryen host had made camp a week’s march from Highgarden, the endless plains of the Reach stretching in all directions. The evening was calm, the sun sinking below the horizon, leaving streaks of gold and crimson painted across the sky. The camp bustled with activity as soldiers prepared for the night. Fires crackled, their smoke curling into the air, and the faint murmur of conversation and the clinking of armor filled the cool breeze.
Aegon sat alone in his command tent, his silver-gold hair catching the flickering light of the oil lamp. Spread before him was a map of Westeros, marked with scribbled notes and tiny figurines representing armies and dragons. His violet eyes scanned the parchment, his hand idly tracing potential paths and strategies. He was deep in thought, his mind occupied with the looming confrontation with Torrhen Stark.
Not far from the camp, Visenya and Rhaenys sat together on a small hill overlooking the plains. The soft grass rustled beneath them as the wind carried the faint scent of smoke and wildflowers. Behind them loomed their dragons—Vhagar and Meraxes—silent and watchful, their massive forms blending into the twilight. The dragons' deep breaths rumbled like distant thunder, their golden eyes glowing faintly in the darkening light.
Visenya sat with her legs folded beneath her, her dark armor reflecting the dying light. Her silver braid hung over one shoulder, slightly frayed from the day’s ride. Despite her usual severity, her sharp features softened as she leaned back on her palms, letting the breeze wash over her. She rarely allowed herself these moments, but the presence of her sister brought a rare sense of peace.
Rhaenys reclined beside her, her crimson cloak spread like a pool of blood around her. Her hair, loose and wild, shimmered in the dim light, and her soft laughter broke the silence. She leaned back on one elbow, gazing at the sky where the first stars were beginning to appear.
“Do you remember Dragonstone?” Rhaenys asked, her voice wistful.
Visenya glanced at her, arching an eyebrow. “What of it?”
“Those nights when we’d sneak out to the cliffs,” Rhaenys said, a smile playing on her lips. “We’d sit there for hours, watching the waves crash and pretending we weren’t heirs to anything.”
A rare smirk tugged at the corner of Visenya’s lips. “You mean you’d pretend. I was too busy dragging you back inside before you fell off the edge.”
Rhaenys laughed, the sound light and melodic. “You were always so serious. Even then.”
“And you were always reckless,” Visenya countered, though her tone lacked its usual edge. “I suppose some things never change.”
Rhaenys leaned closer, bumping her shoulder against her sister’s. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”
Visenya shook her head, a soft exhale escaping her lips. “No,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t.”
Meraxes stirred, her massive head rising as her golden eyes fixed on the horizon. She rumbled softly, her tail curling around her body like a cat settling for the night. Vhagar, ever watchful, stretched her wings slightly, the movement sending a breeze through the grass. The two dragons’ proximity was a comfort to each other, their bond mirroring that of their riders.
Rhaenys reached out, her hand brushing over Meraxes’s warm, scaly flank. The dragon rumbled in response, her breath hot and steady. “Sometimes I think they understand more than we give them credit for,” Rhaenys mused, her gaze drifting to Vhagar.
“They do,” Visenya said firmly. “They’re more than beasts, Rhaenys. They’re kin. Partners. If you listen closely, you can feel their thoughts.”
Rhaenys tilted her head, studying her elder sister. “Do you think they’ll ever see what we’re building here? Truly understand it?”
Visenya’s gaze darkened slightly, her hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister. “If they don’t, it won’t matter. We’re not building for dragons. We’re building for us.”
The two sisters fell into silence, the weight of their shared burden settling over them. The stars above glittered like scattered diamonds, their light casting a faint glow over the plains. For a moment, it felt as if the world beyond the camp had fallen away, leaving only the two of them and their dragons.
“I miss him sometimes,” Rhaenys said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Daemon.”
Visenya’s sharp gaze flicked to her sister, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn’t respond immediately, but her hand tightened on the grass. “We don’t have time for ghosts, Rhaenys.”
“That doesn’t mean they don’t linger,” Rhaenys said gently, her eyes reflecting the starlight. “But you’re right. We have a kingdom to win.”
Visenya’s gaze softened slightly, and she reached out, resting her hand briefly on Rhaenys’s arm. “And we will,” she said firmly. “Together.”
Rhaenys smiled, her warmth a balm against the cold edge of Visenya’s resolve. “Together.”
As the night deepened, the two sisters remained by their dragons, their bond unspoken but unbreakable. The road ahead was long and fraught with peril, but in that moment, they found solace in each other’s company, the stars above bearing silent witness to their quiet determination.
The northern host marched with the quiet determination that defined their people. Thirty thousand strong, they had crossed the Neck, their banners snapping sharply in the cold wind. The wolf of House Stark loomed over the vanguard, its gray and white sigil standing defiant against the pale sky. Torrhen Stark, King in the North, rode at the head of his army, his dark cloak billowing behind him as his sharp gray eyes scanned the landscape ahead.
Torrhen was a tall and broad man, his face weathered by years of northern winters and battles. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and his beard was neatly trimmed, framing a jaw set with grim determination. Clad in thick leathers and chainmail, with a direwolf fur draped over his shoulders, he was every inch a king of the North—a man forged in the icy wilderness and tempered by loyalty to his people.
When they reached the southern banks of the Trident, the sight that greeted them was as awe-inspiring as it was daunting. The Targaryen host stretched across the horizon, a sea of banners and steel that dwarfed Torrhen’s forces. Men from the Reach, riverlands, stormlands, and westerlands stood united under the dragon banner. Their camps sprawled across the plains, meticulously organized, with soldiers drilling even as scouts patrolled the perimeter.
Above it all loomed the dragons. Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes cast shadows over the camp, their massive forms resting but watchful. The dragons’ scales shimmered in the sunlight—Balerion’s black as night, Vhagar’s bronze-green, and Meraxes’ silver-gold. Their eyes glinted with a predatory intelligence that sent shivers through even the most hardened northern men.
The northern lords gathered around Torrhen in a makeshift war council as the campfires flickered against the deepening twilight. Their voices were low but heated, a mix of anger, fear, and determination coloring their words.
“We should strike now,” Lord Manderly said, his hand slamming against the crude wooden table. “Catch them off guard before they can bring their full might to bear.”
“And be burned alive for our trouble?” countered Lord Glover, his face pale beneath his thick beard. “You’ve heard the tales of Harrenhal and the Field of Fire. Those dragons can turn an entire army to ash in moments.”
“Then we fortify Moat Cailin,” suggested Lord Umber, his booming voice cutting through the din. “Hold them at the Neck, where their numbers count for less.”
Torrhen listened in silence, his sharp gaze flicking from one lord to another. His mind churned with the weight of their words, but it was his younger brother, Brandon Snow, who broke through the noise.
“I’ll go,” Brandon said, his voice quiet but firm. The council fell silent as all eyes turned to him. Brandon was leaner than Torrhen, his dark hair cropped short and his blue eyes bright with intensity. Clad in simple northern leathers, he looked more ranger than lord, but his reputation as a skilled fighter preceded him.
“What are you suggesting, Brandon?” Torrhen asked, his tone measured.
“I’ll slip into their camp under cover of night and kill their dragons while they sleep,” Brandon said, his voice steady despite the gasps of some lords.
“You can’t be serious,” Lord Manderly said, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You’d be dead before you even reached the beasts.”
Brandon’s gaze didn’t waver. “The dragons are the heart of their power. Without them, they’re just men.”
Torrhen’s jaw tightened as he regarded his brother. The thought was tempting, but he knew the odds. “And if you fail?” he asked.
“Then I die trying,” Brandon said simply. “But it’s a chance.”
The weight of the moment pressed down on Torrhen as he looked at the men gathered around him. He saw the fear in their eyes, the defiance, and the grim acceptance of the odds they faced. But he also saw the wisdom of the past—the lessons of Harrenhal and the Field of Fire.
“No,” Torrhen said at last, his voice firm and final. “I will not send my brother to certain death, nor will I throw away the lives of my men against an enemy we cannot defeat.”
“But my king—” Lord Manderly began, only to be silenced by a raised hand.
“We will negotiate,” Torrhen continued. “Brandon, you will go to their camp, but not as an assassin. Take the maesters. Speak to the Targaryens. If there is a way to spare our people from the fate of Harrenhal, we will find it.”
There was a moment of stunned silence before Brandon nodded, his expression unreadable. “As you command"
The Targaryen camp stretched vast across the plains south of the Trident, a tapestry of banners, armor, and firelight. Smoke from countless campfires mingled with the crisp evening air, while the rhythmic clamor of blacksmiths repairing armor and sharpening weapons echoed faintly. Near the center of the camp, the three great dragons loomed like ancient gods of war, their immense forms casting long shadows over the rows of tents.
Aegon Targaryen stood at the heart of the camp, his black-and-crimson armor catching the firelight. Balerion rested nearby, the Black Dread’s massive golden eyes half-lidded as he lazily watched the activity around him. Aegon’s violet gaze was fixed on the horizon as he traced the course of the Trident in his mind. Beside him, Visenya stood, her dark armor still streaked with soot from their most recent battles, while Rhaenys, dressed in lighter, more practical attire, kept a watchful eye on the soldiers as they prepared for what might come.
The distant sound of hooves broke the calm, drawing the attention of the Targaryen host. A small group of riders approached, a banner of truce unfurled and fluttering in the cool breeze. At the front rode a lean, sharp-featured man with piercing blue eyes and the unmistakable bearing of a Stark.
The Targaryen soldiers tensed, their hands drifting toward their weapons, but Aegon raised a hand, signaling them to hold. “Let them come,” he commanded, his voice calm but firm.
The riders halted just outside the camp, and the lead figure dismounted with practiced ease. Brandon Snow, a trusted emissary of Torrhen Stark, strode forward, his northern leathers and fur cloak marking him as a man of the North. His demeanor was steady, though his sharp eyes darted briefly to the dragons before settling on Aegon.
“You stand before Aegon Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm,” a herald announced, his voice ringing out over the gathering soldiers.
Brandon inclined his head slightly, enough to acknowledge respect but not submission. “I bring a message from Torrhen Stark, King in the North,” he began, his voice steady and clear despite the weight of his words. “He wishes to negotiate terms with House Targaryen.”
Visenya, standing to Aegon’s left, tilted her head slightly, her violet eyes narrowing as she studied Brandon. “Negotiate?” she repeated, her voice low and edged with steel. “Does the King in the North think to dictate terms to dragons?”
Brandon met her gaze without flinching. “The King in the North remembers,” he said simply. “We remember Harrenhal. The Field of Fire. Torrhen Stark wishes to avoid such a fate for his people.”
Aegon stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he looked down at the Stark emissary. “Your king sends you to speak, yet he remains on the other side of the river. What guarantee do we have that he will not use this time to fortify his position?”
Brandon’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You have his word, my king, that Torrhen Stark seeks only peace. If he wished to fortify, he would have remained at Moat Cailin, where no dragon or army could break through.”
Rhaenys, ever the mediator, spoke then, her tone softer but no less commanding. “And what does Torrhen Stark propose?”
Brandon straightened, his voice ringing clear. “He asks for an audience with you, Your Grace, and your queens. He will come in peace tomorrow to speak of terms.”
The Targaryens exchanged glances. Aegon’s gaze shifted to Visenya, who gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, her expression as cold and unreadable as ever. Rhaenys, standing to his right, offered a faint smile, though her eyes were keen with curiosity.
Aegon turned back to Brandon. “We will meet with Torrhen Stark,” he said finally. “Tell your king to come to this side of the river at dawn.”
Brandon inclined his head again, his expression giving nothing away. “I will deliver your message, my king.” With that, he turned and mounted his horse, his companions following suit as they rode back toward the Trident.
As the northern riders disappeared into the twilight, Aegon turned to his queens. “What do you make of this?” he asked, his tone even.
Visenya crossed her arms, her expression hard. “It’s a gamble, but not one made lightly. Torrhen Stark knows what he’s facing. The North is not a land of cowards, but they are not fools either. He will bend the knee.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Aegon pressed.
“Then the North will burn,” Visenya said simply, her gaze flicking to Vhagar, who stirred in her rest, as if sensing her rider’s thoughts.
Rhaenys, ever the voice of tempered reason, placed a hand on Aegon’s arm. “Let’s not assume the worst. The North has seen what we’re capable of. If Torrhen Stark truly seeks peace, then we may gain the loyalty of his men without spilling their blood.”
Aegon nodded, though his expression remained guarded. “Tomorrow, we’ll see what the King in the North truly desires.”
With that, the Targaryens turned their attention back to their camp, the weight of the coming dawn heavy on their shoulders. Fire and blood had won them much, but peace—if it came—would be the truest victory of all.
The morning was shrouded in a cool mist that clung to the Trident’s waters, the first rays of sunlight piercing through the haze like spears of light. Torrhen Stark stood on the northern bank, his tall, broad figure framed against the rolling hills and the expanse of the North beyond. He wore the weight of his decision like armor, his fur-lined cloak hanging heavy around his shoulders. His dark hair was tied back in a simple braid, and his gray eyes—sharp and unyielding—held the distant horizon as if bidding it farewell.
The King in the North had chosen to cross the river alone. It was a decision that had stunned his bannermen, many of whom begged him to reconsider. Torrhen had silenced them with a simple command. “The blood of the North need not water this foreign land today,” he had said, his voice steady. But as he approached the small skiff that would carry him across the Trident, he could not help but glance back at the rows of northern men behind him—thirty thousand strong, loyal to a fault. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was betraying them by kneeling to dragons.
He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. Honor could not stand against fire.
As the boat glided across the river, Torrhen’s gaze swept the Targaryen camp on the southern bank. It was vast, an organized chaos of banners, horses, and men, with the three great dragons looming above it all like ancient gods. Even from this distance, he could hear their guttural rumblings, feel the tension in the air. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword—not as a challenge, but as a grounding force.
When the skiff touched the shore, Torrhen stepped off with purpose, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The Targaryens awaited him in a wide clearing just beyond their camp. Aegon stood at the center, his imposing figure clad in gleaming black-and-crimson armor, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on his breastplate. To his left was Visenya, her dark armor streaked with soot, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of Dark Sister. Rhaenys stood to Aegon’s right, her red-and-black attire more regal than martial, her silver-gold hair catching the morning light.
Torrhen’s approach was slow and deliberate, his steps measured. He felt the weight of the eyes upon him—not just the Targaryens, but their soldiers, the dragons, and the gods themselves. The banners of House Targaryen fluttered faintly in the breeze, a stark contrast to the sigil of the direwolf that had long represented the North. For a moment, Torrhen’s thoughts drifted back to Winterfell, to the snow-covered halls and the familiar chill of the air. He could almost hear the whisper of the weirwoods, feel the steady presence of the land that had shaped him. But the North was far away, and its future depended on what he did now.
When Torrhen reached the trio, he stopped a respectful distance away. Aegon’s violet eyes studied him intently, his expression inscrutable. Visenya’s gaze was sharper, colder, while Rhaenys regarded him with a hint of curiosity.
“I am Torrhen Stark,” he said, his voice steady and unyielding, carrying the weight of his ancestry and the North itself. “King in the North and King of Winter.”
Aegon inclined his head slightly, his tone measured as he replied. “I know who you are, Torrhen Stark. And you know who we are.”
Torrhen met Aegon’s gaze, his own unwavering. “I know. You are fire and blood. I have seen the cost of defiance in the Riverlands, at Harrenhal, at the Field of Fire. I would not see the North burned to ash.”
Visenya’s lips twitched, a shadow of a smile playing across her face. “Then you understand what must be done.”
Rhaenys stepped forward slightly, her voice warmer but no less commanding. “Torrhen Stark, the choice is yours. Will you stand against us and see your people fall, or will you bend the knee and preserve the North?”
Torrhen looked at her, then back to Aegon. He could feel the weight of his ancestors’ judgment, but it was nothing compared to the lives of the men and women he swore to protect. He reached for his sword, drawing it slowly—not in challenge, but in surrender. The sound of steel rang out, clear and sharp in the quiet morning.
“I will not see my people burned,” Torrhen said. He sank to one knee, bowing his head as he extended his sword to Aegon in offering. “I, Torrhen Stark, yield to you, Aegon Targaryen. I bend the knee and name you my king. The North is yours.”
For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the distant rumble of dragons. Aegon stepped forward, accepting the sword with a solemn nod. “Rise, Torrhen Stark,” he said. “You are no longer a king, but you remain the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Serve me well, and your people shall be protected.”
Torrhen rose slowly, his face impassive but his heart heavy. He glanced briefly at Visenya, who regarded him with a cool approval, and at Rhaenys, whose expression softened with understanding. Aegon handed the sword back to him, the weight of it feeling heavier now than ever before.
As Torrhen turned to leave, he could feel the eyes of the Targaryens on his back. He had knelt to fire and blood, but he had saved the North. Whether history would see him as a coward or a hero, he could not say. All he knew was that the King in the North was no more.
From that day forward, Torrhen Stark would be remembered as the King Who Knelt.
The first rays of dawn cast a golden light over the Targaryen camp, illuminating the bustling activity as soldiers prepared to march. Tents were dismantled, wagons were loaded, and dragons loomed in the background, their immense shadows stretching across the frost-touched ground. The air was crisp with the promise of winter, but the hum of purpose kept the men moving briskly, their breath visible in the chill morning air.
Aegon Targaryen stood at the center of the camp, watching the orderly chaos unfold. Clad in his black-and-crimson armor, with Blackfyre at his hip, he looked every inch the king he had become. His silver-gold hair was tied back, and the beard he’d grown over the months added an air of gravitas to his already commanding presence. Around him, banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen fluttered in the wind, a stark reminder of the fire and blood that had brought them to this point.
To his right stood Visenya, her dark armor still streaked with the soot and ash of countless battles. Her hair, pulled back into a severe braid, framed her sharp, calculating features. She adjusted the straps of her vambraces with precise movements, her violet eyes scanning the camp with a critical gaze. Behind her, Vhagar stirred restlessly, the massive dragon’s bronze scales glinting faintly in the sunlight.
Rhaenys stood to Aegon’s left, a striking contrast to her elder sister. Her crimson cloak flowed behind her as she moved, and her silver-gold hair, loosely braided, caught the morning light. Though her armor bore the marks of battle, her presence radiated warmth and reassurance. Meraxes, her golden-eyed dragon, sat coiled nearby, her tail swishing lazily as soldiers carefully kept their distance.
The siblings had gathered at the heart of the camp to make a decision that had lingered unspoken for days. After nearly a year of relentless conquest, the time had come to return home.
“We’ve done what we set out to do,” Aegon began, his tone measured but firm. “The Riverlands, the Reach, the Stormlands, and now the North—they’ve all bent the knee. Westeros knows who its king is.”
“Not all of it,” Visenya said sharply, her gaze locking onto Aegon’s. “The Vale and Dorne remain untouched. They will be a problem if left unchecked.”
“And they will be dealt with,” Rhaenys interjected, her voice calm but resolute. “But not now. We’ve been away from Aegonfort for nearly a year. The realm needs to see us as rulers, not just conquerors.”
Aegon nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Rhaenys is right. We’ve established our dominance. Now we must secure it.”
Visenya’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she gave a curt nod of agreement. “If we return, it cannot be for long. The longer we delay, the more time our enemies have to gather their strength.”
Aegon placed a hand on her shoulder, his violet eyes meeting hers. “We’ll be ready for them, Visenya. We always are.”
Visenya relaxed slightly under his touch but said nothing more. Instead, her gaze drifted to the dragons, who seemed to sense the shift in their masters’ plans. Balerion, the Black Dread, stretched his massive wings, his golden eyes gleaming as if in anticipation. Vhagar and Meraxes followed suit, their roars rumbling low in their throats.
Rhaenys stepped closer to Aegon, a soft smile playing on her lips. “It’ll be good to see Aegonfort again,” she said. “To sleep in a proper bed, to walk its halls. And Orys will be eager to hear our plans.”
“And Argella,” Visenya added dryly, her sharp tone hinting at amusement. “She’s not one to sit idly, I imagine.”
Aegon chuckled softly, the sound rare but genuine. “Then it’s decided,” he said. “We return to Aegonfort.”
The trio stood together for a moment longer, their shared history and purpose binding them in a way no words could express. Then Aegon turned, his voice rising to address the camp.
“Ready the men!” he commanded, his voice carrying across the clearing. “We march for Aegonfort!”
The soldiers responded with a cheer, their spirits lifting at the prospect of returning home. The camp buzzed with renewed energy as preparations quickened. Wagons creaked under the weight of supplies, horses were saddled, and the rhythmic clang of armor being adjusted filled the air.
Visenya moved toward Vhagar, murmuring quietly in Valyrian as she placed a hand on the dragon’s warm flank. The great beast rumbled low in response, her golden eyes watching the activity with disinterest. Rhaenys, meanwhile, approached Meraxes, her touch gentle as she stroked the dragon’s neck, whispering words of affection.
Aegon stood back, observing his sisters with a rare softness in his expression. He allowed himself a brief moment of reflection, the enormity of what they had accomplished settling over him. But the moment passed quickly. He turned to Balerion, who lowered his massive head in a show of deference.
“Let’s go home,” Aegon murmured, his voice barely audible but filled with resolve.
As the Targaryens took to the skies, their dragons’ roars echoing across the land, the soldiers below marched in disciplined ranks. The black-and-crimson banners flew high, a symbol of fire and blood that would soon be welcomed back to the place where their conquest had begun: Aegonfort.
Chapter 13: Bonds Forged in Fire and Blood
Chapter Text
The Great Hall of Aegonfort was alive with grandeur and anticipation, its soaring walls adorned with the banners of House Targaryen. Crimson and black dragons rippled above as the lords and ladies of Westeros filtered into the room, their presence a testament to the reach of the Targaryen conquest. Though the Iron Throne loomed incomplete at the far end of the chamber, its jagged silhouette still dominated the space, a stark reminder of the fire and blood that forged this new era.
At the heart of it all stood Aegon Targaryen, the embodiment of kingly power. He was clad in blackened steel armor engraved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. A crimson cape flowed from his shoulders, fastened with a dragon-claw clasp of pure Valyrian steel. His silver-gold hair framed his chiseled features, and his violet eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the gathered lords. Though a conqueror, there was an undeniable regality to him, as if he were born for this moment.
To his right stood Visenya Targaryen, the warrior queen. Dressed in black, scaled armor that hugged her lithe frame, she was the picture of lethal elegance. Her white-blond hair was braided tightly and pinned into a crown-like style, her violet eyes piercing as she watched the room with calculated calm. Dark Sister, her Valyrian steel blade, hung at her hip—a reminder that while Aegon ruled with might, she was the steel behind the throne.
On Aegon’s left was Rhaenys Targaryen, the heart of the Targaryen dynasty. Her crimson gown flowed like molten fire, the bodice embroidered with delicate dragon scales that shimmered in the torchlight. Her silver-gold hair cascaded down her back in loose waves, interwoven with fine braids pinned with ruby-encrusted dragon clasps. Her violet eyes, slightly softer than her siblings’, sparkled with warmth as she smiled graciously at those who bowed before her.
Standing beside them was Corlys Velaryon, the youngest of the Velaryon brothers. Barely in his early teens, he was dressed in deep blue and silver, the seahorse sigil of House Velaryon embroidered across his chest. His excitement was palpable, his wide eyes darting toward the great doors as if waiting for someone. Though young, his presence hinted at the legacy of the Velaryons and their deep ties to House Targaryen.
The herald’s voice rang out across the hall as the lords began to arrive.
“Lord Loren Lannister of the Rock, Warden of the West!”
Loren Lannister entered with all the dignity of a man who had once ruled as a king. Clad in golden armor that gleamed under the firelight, he bowed low before the Targaryens. His proud features betrayed no sign of bitterness as he approached Aegon. “Your Grace,” he said smoothly, his voice deep and measured. “The Rock stands with you.”
Aegon inclined his head. “And it will prosper under my reign. Rise, Lord Loren.”
“Lord Harlen Tyrell of Highgarden, Warden of the South!”
Harlen Tyrell strode into the hall, his broad shoulders draped in a green and gold cloak bearing the sigil of the rose. His youth was tempered by the seriousness of his gaze as he approached the Targaryens. Bowing deeply, he said, “Highgarden blooms under your light, Your Grace.”
Aegon nodded. “You’ve done well, Lord Tyrell. Highgarden is in capable hands.”
“Lord Torrhen Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North!”
Torrhen Stark entered with the quiet dignity of a man who had knelt willingly to preserve his people. Dressed in stark gray with a fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders, his somber expression was a stark contrast to the vibrant court. He bowed low before Aegon, his gray eyes meeting the king’s briefly. “The North remembers, Your Grace. We are yours.”
Aegon’s gaze softened slightly. “And I shall never forget the loyalty of House Stark.”
“Lord Edmyn Tully of Riverrun, Warden of the Trident!”
Edmyn Tully followed, his river-blue and silver doublet marking him as the lord of Riverrun. His easy smile and bow were a contrast to the more somber lords. “The Trident flows for the Dragon King,” he declared warmly.
The herald’s voice rang out once more. “Lord Orys Baratheon, Warden of the Stormlands!”
All eyes turned to the doors as they swung open to reveal Orys Baratheon. Dressed in black and gold, his attire bore the crowned stag of House Baratheon proudly. His dark hair was tied back, and his beard was neatly trimmed, though his face showed the strain of war and leadership. Beside him walked Argella Durrandon, her green gown simple yet elegant. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose braid, and her stormy gray eyes scanned the room warily. Though her posture was proud, there was a faint tension in her movements—a woman learning to navigate her new place in a world shaped by dragons.
Rhaenys was the first to move, breaking protocol entirely. “Orys!” she cried, rushing forward to throw her arms around him. The hall seemed to hold its breath as the Targaryen queen embraced her foster brother with unabashed joy.
Orys chuckled, his deep voice warm as he returned the hug. “I’ve missed you too, Rhaenys.”
As they pulled apart, Orys approached Aegon, dropping to one knee in a show of fealty. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice steady.
Aegon stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Rise, Orys. You bow to no one here.”
Orys rose, his brown eyes meeting Aegon’s. “It is good to see you, brother.”
“And you,” Aegon replied. His gaze shifted briefly to Argella. “Lady Argella,” he said, his tone cordial. “I hope you find peace among us. Perhaps, in time, we might call each other friends.”
Argella inclined her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps,” she said simply, her voice measured.
As the herald’s voice rang out again, “Lord Aethan Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark!” the hall turned its attention to the great doors. They swung open to reveal Aethan Velaryon, still young yet commanding respect with his poised demeanor. He had grown into his role since his father Daemon Velaryon’s tragic death, and the weight of leadership was evident in the maturity etched on his features despite his teenage years.
Aethan wore a deep blue tunic embroidered with intricate silver waves, representing the sea that his house ruled. A silver chain of office adorned his shoulders, fastened with a clasp in the shape of a seahorse—the sigil of House Velaryon. His long, pale silver hair, inherited from his Valyrian lineage, was tied back neatly, and his striking blue-green eyes scanned the hall with a measured confidence.
Behind him came his younger brother, Corlys Velaryon, who had remained at Aegonfort under the care of the Targaryen household. Barely into his early teens, Corlys radiated youthful excitement, his wide grin breaking across his face the moment he spotted his older brother. He was dressed in a more modest but equally elegant ensemble of blue and silver, his enthusiasm palpable as he pushed past the formalities to rush forward.
“Brother!” Corlys exclaimed, his voice cutting through the formal atmosphere of the hall.
Aethan’s composed expression softened into a warm smile as he opened his arms. Corlys collided with him in a tight embrace, the older brother chuckling at the younger’s enthusiasm. “Corlys,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with affection. “You’ve grown taller.”
“And you’ve grown sterner,” Corlys quipped with a mischievous grin, pulling back to examine Aethan.
Finally, the herald announced, “Lady Valaena Velaryon!”
The hall fell silent as the matriarch of House Velaryon entered. Valaena, mother to Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys, was a vision of elegance and authority. Her seafoam green gown, embroidered with intricate patterns of waves and shells, shimmered like the ocean under the torchlight. Her silver-gold hair, styled in an elegant updo, framed her regal features, and her blue-green eyes carried a mixture of pride and affection as she approached her children.
Aegon stepped forward first, his violet eyes softening. “Mother,” he said simply.
Valaena reached up to touch his face, her expression tender. “My son,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “You’ve become everything I knew you could be.”
Visenya approached next, her usually guarded expression softening as she embraced her mother. “You look well,” Valaena said, her sharp eyes scrutinizing her eldest daughter. “And strong.”
Rhaenys was the last, her smile wide as she rushed to embrace her mother. “Mother,” she said warmly. “It has been too long.”
“It has,” Valaena agreed, holding her daughter tightly. “But I am here now.”
Later in the day, as the lords retreated to their chambers to prepare for the feast, Visenya Targaryen stood in her private quarters, gazing out at the horizon. The sea was a churning expanse of silver and blue, its unyielding waves crashing against the cliffs below Aegonfort. Her violet eyes, sharp and calculating, reflected the restless waters. Though clad in her black leather armor, polished to perfection, there was an air of stillness about her—rare for the fierce warrior queen.
The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention, and she turned to see Aethan Velaryon enter the chamber. He was dressed in a finely tailored tunic of deep blue and silver, the crest of House Velaryon embroidered across his chest. His silver hair was tied back, accentuating the youthful but determined set of his features.
“Lord Aethan,” Visenya greeted, her tone neutral but not unkind. “You’re looking more like the Lord of Driftmark with every passing day.”
Aethan inclined his head, a faint smile touching his lips. “And you, Your Grace, look ready for war as always.”
She smirked faintly, gesturing for him to approach. “What brings you here, Aethan? Shouldn’t you be preparing for the feast?”
He hesitated, clasping his hands behind his back. “I wanted to speak with you, Your Grace,” he said. “About… leadership.”
Visenya raised an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest. “Go on.”
Aethan’s gaze dropped momentarily before meeting hers again, his blue-green eyes steady despite the uncertainty in his voice. “Since my father’s death, I’ve tried to lead Driftmark as best I can. But every decision feels like a weight I’m not ready to carry. I wonder… if I’ve lived up to his legacy.”
Visenya studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she stepped closer, her voice lowering to a steady, almost gentle tone. “Your father was a great man, Aethan. But greatness is not born in a moment. It’s forged—decision by decision, battle by battle. Do you trust yourself?”
Aethan blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I… I try to,” he admitted.
“Good,” Visenya replied, her tone firm. “Because if you don’t, neither will those who follow you. Driftmark thrives under your leadership because of the man you’re becoming, not the man your father was. Your father’s legacy lives on in you—not in his shadow, but in the way you shape it.”
Her words seemed to settle over Aethan like a mantle. He straightened his shoulders, nodding slowly. “Thank you, Your Grace. That means more to me than you know.”
Visenya’s lips quirked in the faintest hint of a smile. “Your brother looks up to you, you know. Corlys sees you as his hero, though he’d never admit it.”
Aethan chuckled softly, his expression warming. “He has a funny way of showing it.”
“Then don’t disappoint him,” she said, her tone carrying a rare note of encouragement.
Aethan bowed deeply. “I won’t. And… thank you.”
As he turned to leave, Visenya called after him. “Aethan.”
He paused, glancing back.
“Your father would be proud,” she said simply.
Aethan smiled—a quiet but genuine expression of gratitude—before departing.
In another chamber, Rhaenys Targaryen sat before a tall mirror as her mother, Valaena Velaryon, brushed out her cascading silver-gold curls. The room was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, the flickering flames casting soft shadows on the polished stone walls.
“You look beautiful, my star,” Valaena murmured, her voice a blend of pride and tenderness.
Rhaenys glanced at her mother through the mirror, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “You’ve said that three times already, Mother. Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
Valaena chuckled softly, setting the brush aside to smooth her daughter’s hair with her hands. “Neither. I’m simply stating the truth. You are the very image of a queen.”
Rhaenys’s smile faltered slightly, and she looked down at her lap. “Do you think Father would be proud of what we’ve done? Of what we’re building here?”
Valaena’s hands stilled, and she met her daughter’s gaze in the mirror. “Your father would be prouder than you could ever imagine. You’ve brought light to this family, Rhaenys. Where Aegon wields strength and Visenya commands fear, you inspire love. That is a power greater than any sword.”
Rhaenys’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she reached up to cover her mother’s hand with her own. “And you, Mother? Are you proud?”
Valaena’s expression softened, and she leaned down to kiss her daughter’s head. “Always. Of all my children.”
Meanwhile, in his own quarters, Aegon stood before a full-length mirror as servants adjusted his crimson cloak. The dragon sigils embossed on his black tunic gleamed in the torchlight, and his silver-gold hair framed his face with effortless regality.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted the quiet preparations. “Enter,” Aegon called.
The door swung open to reveal Orys Baratheon, dressed in a golden tunic embroidered with the crowned stag of his house. His strong frame and confident stride carried a sense of authority, but there was a nervousness in his expression as he stepped inside.
Aegon smiled, his violet eyes lighting up. “Orys. You look… regal.”
Orys chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Argella insisted. She said I’d embarrass her if I came in anything less.”
Aegon smirked, leaning against a nearby table. “The two of you seem close.”
Orys hesitated, his cheeks reddening slightly. “She’s… formidable. But I think she probably hates me.”
Aegon’s grin widened. “Hates you? She doesn’t look like a woman who hates you, Orys. Trust me.”
The feast awaited, but within these chambers and halls, bonds were strengthened, doubts eased, and quiet moments of humanity shone through the grand tapestry of fire and blood.
The Great Hall of Aegonfort, now alive with the warm glow of countless torches and chandeliers, had been transformed into a spectacle of opulence. Long oak tables lined the hall, their surfaces covered in rich red and gold tablecloths embroidered with the sigils of the great houses of Westeros. Golden goblets and silver plates reflected the flickering candlelight, while platters of roasted meats, honeyed fruits, fresh-baked breads, and exotic delicacies from across the realm filled the air with tantalizing aromas. Servants moved gracefully through the space, refilling goblets of wine and mead, their simple attire contrasting starkly with the grandeur of the lords and ladies they served.
The lords of Westeros were seated in their appointed places, each dressed in finery that declared their house and status, a living tapestry of the Seven Kingdoms under one roof. Though the Targaryens had yet to enter, their absence only heightened the anticipation that hung in the air like a charged storm.
Seated prominently near the head of the table, Loren Lannister was every inch the lion of the West. His golden doublet, intricately embroidered with the roaring lion of House Lannister, shimmered in the firelight. A crimson sash was draped across his broad chest, pinned with a lion-shaped brooch of ruby and gold. His hair, golden as the riches of Casterly Rock, was swept back from his face, and his sharp blue eyes surveyed the room with calculated precision. Rings adorned his hands, their gemstones catching the light as he lifted his goblet to drink.
Harlen Tyrell, seated not far from Loren, was a stark contrast to the Warden of the West. His green velvet doublet was adorned with embroidered roses in gold thread, and a cloak of golden silk fell gracefully from his shoulders. A simple golden circlet rested atop his dark curls, marking his status as the head of House Tyrell. Harlen’s youthful face carried a calm yet confident expression, and his deep brown eyes gleamed as he conversed with a neighboring lord. The faint scent of roses clung to him, a subtle nod to the legacy of his house.
The Warden of the North sat silently at his place, his somber presence commanding respect. Torrhen Stark’s attire was as practical as it was noble—a heavy gray cloak lined with wolf fur draped over his shoulders, secured with a silver brooch in the shape of a direwolf’s head. His tunic, a muted gray-green, bore the faint embroidery of his house sigil. His dark hair was combed back, and his gray eyes were watchful, taking in the opulence of the hall with quiet detachment. Torrhen’s stoic demeanor and sturdy build seemed to carry the weight of the cold North, even in this warm southern castle.
Edmyn Tully, ever the genial lord, was dressed in a doublet of river-blue silk embroidered with silver fish leaping through waves. His silver hair was neatly combed, and his sharp blue eyes twinkled as he exchanged pleasantries with nearby lords. A crimson sash, representing the blood of the Trident, was tied at his waist, and a small, delicate pin of a trout adorned his collar. Edmyn’s easy smile and lighthearted demeanor added a touch of levity to the formal proceedings.
Orys Baratheon sat tall and proud, his black and gold attire exuding authority and power. His tunic, made of fine silk, bore the crowned stag of House Baratheon embroidered in dark threads, a subtle yet striking detail. His golden cloak, lined with black velvet, cascaded down his chair. His dark hair was neatly tied back, and his brown eyes gleamed with both weariness and determination. Despite his composed demeanor, there was a subtle air of unease about him, his gaze occasionally flickering toward Argella, who sat beside him.
Seated beside Orys, Argella was the picture of restrained elegance. Her green gown, simple yet regal, was tailored to her tall, athletic frame. The bodice was embroidered with stormclouds and lightning bolts in silver thread, a nod to her Durrandon heritage. Her thick, dark hair was styled into a loose braid that fell over one shoulder, and her sharp gray eyes seemed to take in every detail of the hall. Though she remained quiet, her posture and the set of her jaw spoke of a woman determined to hold her own among the lords and ladies of Westeros.
Aethan Velaryon, newly raised as Lord of the Tides, sat with quiet composure. His deep blue tunic, embroidered with silver waves and seafoam patterns, reflected the legacy of his house. A simple silver chain of office adorned his shoulders, its clasp shaped like a seahorse. His pale silver hair was tied back neatly, and his youthful face carried an air of maturity beyond his years. Aethan’s blue-green eyes were calm as he spoke with a neighboring lord, his words measured and deliberate.
Seated beside his older brother, young Corlys Velaryon radiated energy and excitement. His blue doublet, trimmed with silver, bore the smaller sigil of their house—a seahorse riding the waves. His pale silver hair fell loosely around his face, and his bright blue eyes darted around the hall with curiosity. Though still young, Corlys carried himself with a confidence that belied his years, his smile bright as he chatted with a nearby servant.
The great doors at the far end of the hall creaked open. A wave of anticipation rippled through the room, every eye turning toward the entrance. The herald’s voice rang out clearly:
“His Grace, Aegon of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm!”
Aegon Targaryen entered first, a figure of regal dominance. His blackened steel breastplate gleamed under the torchlight, engraved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its crimson eyes glowing. A crimson cape draped over his broad shoulders, fastened with a dragon-claw brooch clutching a ruby. His silver-gold hair framed his sharp features, and his piercing violet eyes swept the room with quiet authority. On his brow rested a crown of Valyrian steel, adorned with rubies that burned like fire against the dark metal.
Visenya Targaryen followed, the embodiment of lethal grace. She wore a fitted black gown adorned with silver thread in the shape of winding dragons. Her silver-gold hair, usually braided for battle, flowed loosely down her back. At her side hung Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel blade, its hilt gleaming in the light. Her violet eyes burned with calculated intensity, daring anyone to meet her gaze.
Rhaenys Targaryen entered last, her crimson gown flowing like molten fire. Her silver-gold hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, interwoven with fine ruby-studded braids. Her violet eyes, warm and inviting, softened the sharpness of her siblings’ gazes. Around her neck rested a dragon-shaped necklace, its ruby eyes glinting like the fire in her blood.
Valaena Velaryon, their mother, was a vision of elegance and pride as she entered behind her children. Her gown of oceanic blue shimmered with golden embroidery resembling waves. Her silver hair, streaked with platinum, was styled in an intricate updo, her tiara adorned with emeralds and pearls. Her presence carried both authority and affection, her blue-green eyes filled with pride as she beheld her children.
The lords rose to their feet, bowing deeply as the Targaryens made their way to the high table. Conversations ceased, and the hall filled with an almost reverent silence.
As Aegon, Visenya, Rhaenys, and Valaena took their seats, Aegon’s commanding voice resonated through the hall: “Lords and ladies of Westeros, tonight we gather not as conquerors and conquered, but as allies. Let this feast symbolize unity under the banner of the dragon. Drink, eat, and know your loyalty shall be rewarded.”
A wave of agreement rippled through the room. The feast had begun, the air alive with music, conversation, and the clinking of goblets—a celebration of the new era forged in fire and blood.
The Great Hall of Aegonfort was alive with merriment. Hours into the feast, the air was thick with the sounds of music, the laughter of drunk lords, and the rhythmic stomping of feet on the stone floors. The once-pristine tables were now cluttered with emptied goblets, platters of half-eaten food, and the remnants of a grand meal that had satisfied even the heartiest appetites. Musicians perched on a small dais near the corner, their lively tunes inspiring a whirl of dancers in the center of the room.
Aegon sat at the high table, leaning slightly forward as he engaged in an intense discussion with Orys Baratheon and Harlen Tyrell. The three men’s heads were close together, their voices low amidst the cacophony of the hall. Aegon’s expression was one of focused authority, his violet eyes narrowing as he listened to Orys’s words. Tyrell, ever the diplomat, gestured animatedly, his jovial demeanor masking the gravity of their conversation.
Across the hall, Rhaenys spun joyfully with young Corlys Velaryon. Her crimson gown flared as she turned, her laughter ringing clear above the music. Corlys, though barely into his teens, moved with surprising confidence, his wide grin evidence of his delight. They made a striking pair—Rhaenys, the radiant queen, and Corlys, the bright-eyed Velaryon heir—captivating the lords and ladies who paused to watch their dance.
Near them, Valaena Velaryon danced gracefully with Aethan. Dressed in her flowing sea-green gown, she moved with the elegance of her Valyrian heritage, her every step fluid and precise. Aethan, though still young, held himself with poise, his pale silver hair gleaming in the torchlight. Their movements were synchronized, a testament to the bond they shared.
Yet not everyone shared in the revelry. Standing near the far wall, away from the laughter and dancing, was Argella Durrandon. Her stormy gray eyes roamed the room, her posture stiff and uneasy. She wore a simple green gown, its understated elegance a contrast to the opulence around her. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose braid that fell over her shoulder, and though her face betrayed no emotion, her hands were clasped tightly before her.
From the shadows, Visenya Targaryen emerged, her presence sharp and commanding even in the dim light. Her black gown, adorned with silver dragon motifs, shimmered as she approached Argella with deliberate steps. She stood beside her, arms crossed, her piercing violet eyes fixed on the younger woman.
“The best way to kill everyone in this room,” Visenya said in a voice cold and measured, “is to poison the wine. No swords needed. I doubt you could lift one anyway.”
Argella turned to Visenya, her face a mask of shock. “I would never,” she stammered, her voice trembling slightly.
“Why not?” Visenya replied, her tone cutting. “We destroyed your home, killed your father, and took everything from you. Why wouldn’t you?”
Argella’s lips parted, but no words came immediately. “I… I wouldn’t,” she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Visenya’s gaze bore into her. “I’ll warn you once, and only once,” she said, her words like steel. “If you try anything, you’ll join your father in death.”
Tears welled in Argella’s eyes, though she fought to keep them from falling. “I am not like you, my queen,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Enough blood has been spilled for your conquest. My father did not deserve what happened to him… but I have no choice but to accept it. I will forever mourn him.”
Visenya’s expression remained hard, though her eyes flickered with something unreadable. “I would take away your grief if I could,” she said quietly, “but my duty is to protect my family.”
Argella nodded, her voice steadier now. “I understand. But I am but a mere mouse to you dragons. There will be no threat from me.”
Visenya regarded her for a long moment, then stepped closer. “Don’t show anyone your weakness,” she said, her voice low but firm. “They will use it against you.”
With that, she turned on her heel and strode away, her black gown trailing behind her like a shadow.
From across the hall, Orys Baratheon had been watching the exchange. His dark eyes followed Visenya as she disappeared into the crowd, then shifted to Argella. Her head was bowed slightly, her hands trembling as she wiped at her eyes before regaining her composure. Orys’s jaw tightened, a flicker of concern crossing his face as he took a step toward her—but then he hesitated, his gaze lingering on her as the music and laughter carried on around them.
The feast was beginning to settle into its later stages. The music had softened into a steady rhythm, and though many still danced or conversed animatedly, a quiet undercurrent of fatigue was beginning to thread through the celebration. At the far end of the hall, Visenya Targaryen stood in deep conversation with Lord Torrhen Stark. Their voices were low, but their expressions were serious as they discussed the state of the Wall and the defenses of the North.
Visenya’s sharp violet eyes bore into Torrhen’s somber gray ones as she spoke. “The Wall is the first and last defense against whatever lies beyond. If it falls, the North will not be the only region to suffer. The entire realm could be at risk.”
Torrhen nodded, his brow furrowed. “The Night’s Watch has been neglected for too long. I’ll ensure that our banners send aid—supplies, men—but rebuilding their strength will take time.”
Visenya inclined her head slightly. “Time is not a luxury we have in abundance, Lord Stark. Ensure your men are ready for whatever comes. Winter waits for no one.”
As they continued their discussion, Aegon sat near the high table, his mother, Valaena Velaryon, beside him. The matriarch of House Velaryon exuded grace and poise even in the waning hours of the night. She sipped from a silver goblet, her piercing blue-green eyes fixed on her son with a mixture of pride and affection.
“You’ve built something remarkable here,” Valaena said, her voice steady but warm. “Your father would have been proud.”
Aegon, dressed in his regal black and crimson attire, leaned back in his chair, a rare smile gracing his lips. “It’s not yet complete, Mother,” he replied. “But it’s a start. One built on the backs of many.”
Valaena placed a gentle hand on his arm. “A foundation forged in fire and blood can still grow into something lasting, Aegon. The Iron Throne may be jagged, but it will unite this realm.”
Before Aegon could respond, a familiar laugh drew their attention. Rhaenys approached, her crimson gown trailing behind her like a flame, her cheeks flushed from the night’s activity. Beside her, a visibly tired Corlys Velaryon shuffled along, his silver hair slightly disheveled and his bright blue eyes heavy with exhaustion.
“I think this one is heading for bed,” Rhaenys teased, a playful lilt in her voice as she gently rested a hand on Corlys’s shoulder.
Aegon chuckled, his deep laugh resonating warmly in the space between them. “Is that so, young Velaryon?” he asked, his tone light. “The mighty Sea Snake succumbs to weariness?”
Corlys managed a sheepish grin, rubbing his eyes. “It’s been a long day, Your Grace,” he admitted, his voice small but sincere.
Aegon stood and stepped toward the boy, resting a large, steady hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done well tonight,” he said, his voice carrying a touch of fondness. “Rest now, Corlys. The sea will wait for you tomorrow.”
With that, he bent down and pressed a fatherly kiss to Rhaenys’s forehead. “Take him to his chambers, Rhaenys,” he said softly. “He’s earned it.”
Rhaenys smiled, her dimples deepening. “Of course. Good night, Aegon. Mother.”
Valaena smiled warmly at her son and Rhaenys, raising a hand in a delicate wave. “Good night, my star,” she said, her voice tender as she watched them go.
Rhaenys guided Corlys gently toward the exit, her hand resting lightly on his back as they weaved through the crowd. The boy leaned into her side, his exhaustion evident, but there was a small smile on his face as he whispered something to her. She laughed softly, her voice fading into the hum of the hall as they disappeared through the grand doors.
Aegon watched them go, his expression thoughtful as he returned to his seat beside his mother. For a brief moment, the weight of his crown seemed to lift, replaced by the quiet contentment of family.
The castle had grown quieter as the night deepened, though faint echoes of laughter and murmured voices still carried through the stone corridors. The remnants of the grand feast lingered in the air—the sweet aroma of spiced wine, the faint tang of roasted meats, and the fading hum of music. Aegon Targaryen moved through the dimly lit halls of Aegonfort, the soft glow of wall-mounted torches casting long shadows ahead of him.
His steps were measured, his thoughts heavy with the weight of the day’s conversations and alliances. Yet, as he approached his chambers, a rare sense of peace settled over him. The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, the warm light of a dying hearth spilling into the hallway behind him.
Inside, the room was quiet, save for the gentle crackle of the fire. The space was dominated by a grand bed draped in crimson and black, the sigils of House Targaryen embroidered into the rich fabrics. Rhaenys lay beneath the covers, her silver-gold hair spilling across the pillows like liquid moonlight. Her features, usually bright with energy and charm, were softened in sleep, her full lips slightly parted, and her breathing steady and slow. She looked serene, a stark contrast to the vibrant queen who had graced the feast hours before.
Aegon stood for a moment, simply watching her, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The burdens of his crown, the scars of conquest, all seemed distant as he took in the sight of his wife, her presence grounding him in a way nothing else could.
He removed his crown first, placing it carefully on a polished wooden stand by the bedside. Then, with deliberate motions, he shed his tunic, boots, and breeches, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound breaking the silence. Clad only in his smallclothes, he slipped beneath the covers, the bed shifting slightly under his weight.
As he slid closer, Aegon wrapped an arm gently around Rhaenys, pulling her into his chest. She stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent before settling back into his embrace. Her warmth seeped into him, and he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head, the faint scent of lavender and dragonberries lingering in her hair.
Aegon closed his eyes, his breathing slowing to match hers. The world beyond their chambers faded, the alliances and battles, the swords and flames—all of it seemed distant now. In this moment, there was only Rhaenys and the quiet promise of rest.
Holding her close, the King of the Seven Kingdoms let himself drift into sleep, the echoes of laughter fading into the stillness of the night.
The castle was quiet, the echoes of the feast having faded into the stillness of the night. In his chambers, Orys Baratheon stood by a modest wooden table, the flickering light of a single candle casting shadows across his broad frame. He tugged at the laces of his tunic, his hands moving with the mechanical rhythm of routine as he unwound from the day. The rich black and gold fabric fell away, revealing his well-built chest, the muscles carved from years of battle and command. He reached to place the tunic neatly over the back of a chair when a soft knock interrupted his movements.
Orys frowned slightly, his brow furrowing. Visitors at this hour were unusual, and his first instinct was caution. He crossed the room in a few long strides, his bare feet silent against the stone floor. When he opened the door, his surprise was immediate.
Standing there, framed by the dim light of the hallway, was Argella Durrandon. She was dressed in a simple nightgown of pale green, its silk fabric shimmering faintly. A delicate shawl was draped over her shoulders, shielding her from the chill of the stone halls. Her dark hair, usually bound in precise braids, now fell loosely around her face, softening her sharp features. Her storm-gray eyes held a mixture of determination and vulnerability as they met his.
"Argella," he said, his deep voice laced with both confusion and concern. "What brings you here?"
"I know it’s not appropriate," she replied quickly, her voice quiet but firm, as if rehearsed. She glanced down, her fingers clutching the edges of her shawl tightly. "But I needed to speak with you."
"Are you well?" Orys asked, his tone gentler now, his concern deepening.
She nodded, though her gaze wavered for a moment before returning to his. He stepped aside, holding the door open. "Come in."
Argella hesitated only briefly before stepping past him. The faint scent of lavender and rain accompanied her as she moved into the room. Orys closed the door softly behind her, then turned to watch as she glanced around the chamber, her fingers grazing the edge of the table.
For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the occasional crackle of the candle. Finally, Argella spoke, her voice low. "I’m tired, Orys. Tired of being afraid."
He approached her slowly, careful not to invade her space. "You’ve nothing to fear from me," he said, his tone steady and sincere. "You have my word on that."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her stormy eyes locking onto his. "It’s not you I fear," she admitted. "It’s… everything else. The dragons, the Targaryens, the ghosts of what I’ve lost. Every time I close my eyes, I see my father. I hear his voice." Her voice faltered, but she steadied herself. "I can’t keep living like this, haunted by what’s gone."
Orys’s expression softened, and he reached out hesitantly, his large hand resting lightly on her shoulder. "I’m sorry," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of his regret. "For what we’ve done. For what you’ve had to endure. If I could take away your pain, I would."
Argella looked at him, her eyes glistening. "Why do you care?" she asked, her voice trembling. "After everything, why?"
"Because I see you," Orys said simply. "Not just as the Storm King’s daughter, but as you. You’re strong, Argella. Stronger than anyone gives you credit for. And you don’t deserve to carry this alone."
The vulnerability in his words seemed to reach her. She stared at him for a long moment, her breathing unsteady. Then, without warning, she stepped closer. Her gaze searched his face as if looking for something she couldn’t quite name. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her, and before either of them could second-guess the moment, she closed the distance between them.
Her lips pressed against his, hesitant at first but growing bolder as he responded. Orys froze briefly, caught off guard by her sudden action, but the warmth and sincerity in her touch melted his hesitation. He cupped her face gently, his calloused thumb brushing against her cheek as he deepened the kiss.
When they finally parted, both were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together as the silence between them spoke louder than words. Argella’s hand lingered on his chest, her fingers tracing faint scars there.
"I’m not sure what this means," she admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Neither am I," Orys replied, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. "But we’ll figure it out. Together."
Argella nodded, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. For the first time in what felt like years, the weight on her shoulders seemed to lighten. Orys, watching her closely, felt the faint stirrings of hope—hope for something more than conquest and duty, something he hadn’t allowed himself to dream of until now.
Chapter 14: Flames of Vengeance, Wings of Mercy
Chapter Text
The early morning sun spilled through the tall windows of Aegonfort, painting the royal chambers in a warm golden glow. The castle was beginning to stir—servants moved through the halls, muffled voices carried faintly, and the occasional clatter of hooves echoed from the courtyard below. Yet, within these walls, the sounds of the world seemed distant, overshadowed by the soft cries and gasps shared between husband and wife.
Rhaenys moved atop Aegon with a rhythm both urgent and deliberate, her silver-gold hair cascading down her back, catching the light like threads of spun moonlight. Her skin glistened, flushed with warmth, as her violet eyes locked onto his. Aegon’s hands gripped her hips firmly, guiding her movements as his own breaths grew ragged. His silver-gold hair was tousled, his violet eyes burning with intensity as he gazed up at her, his every muscle taut with effort.
Their pace quickened, both bodies trembling as they neared the peak of their passion. Rhaenys let out a cry, her head falling back as her hands braced against Aegon’s chest. He groaned deeply, her name escaping his lips like a prayer. Together, they reached their climax, their cries blending into one, a crescendo of shared ecstasy that echoed softly through the room.
For a moment, they remained entwined, their bodies trembling with the aftershocks of their passion. Rhaenys collapsed onto Aegon’s chest, her breathing labored as her hand rested against his shoulder. His arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly as they both sank into the bed, their hearts pounding in unison.
After several long moments of silence, Rhaenys lifted her head slightly, her dimples showing as a lazy smile spread across her face. “The last of the lords are leaving this morning,” she murmured, her voice soft but tinged with relief.
Aegon chuckled, his hand brushing through her sweat-dampened hair. “Good riddance. The sooner they leave, the sooner we can breathe again.”
Rhaenys laughed, her breath warm against his neck. “You make it sound as if they’re vultures picking at a carcass.”
“They might as well be,” he replied with a smirk. “But we’ve done what needed to be done. For now, let them return to their lands and sing songs of loyalty to their dragon king.”
“And dragon queen,” she added playfully, pressing a kiss to his jaw before rolling off him.
He turned to his side, propping his head up on his hand as he watched her. “You’ve done more for this realm than any song could capture, Rhaenys.”
Her smile softened, and she reached out to touch his face. “And you, my love, have carried the weight of it all. I only hope we’ve built something worth the burden.”
Aegon leaned down, kissing her gently. “We have.”
They lingered for a moment longer before the sounds of the castle pulling them back to reality. Rhaenys rose first, slipping into a loose robe and tying it at her waist as Aegon stretched languidly on the bed.
Visenya Targaryen strode through the stone corridors of Aegonfort, her black gown flowing behind her like liquid shadow. Her expression was as sharp as her blade, and her stride was purposeful. She approached the chambers of Orys Baratheon and rapped her knuckles against the heavy wooden door.
“Enter,” came Orys’s deep voice from within.
Visenya pushed the door open, finding Orys fully dressed and ready for his departure. He wore a black tunic trimmed with gold, the crowned stag of House Baratheon emblazoned across his chest. His dark hair was tied back, and his travel cloak was draped over his shoulders. He turned as she entered, his brown eyes meeting hers with a mixture of curiosity and respect.
“Visenya,” he greeted, inclining his head slightly. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I came to see if you were ready,” she replied, her tone cool but not unkind. Her sharp violet eyes swept over him, taking in the neatly packed belongings on the table. “It seems you are.”
Orys smirked faintly. “I don’t dawdle.”
“No, you don’t,” Visenya said, crossing her arms. She glanced toward the window, her expression contemplative. “The Stormlands will need strong leadership in the coming months. The scars of conquest linger longer than swords can mend.”
Orys nodded, his gaze steady. “They’ll heal. I’ll make sure of it.”
Visenya regarded him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’ve done well, Orys. Better than I expected.”
“High praise from you,” he replied, his tone carrying a hint of humor. “Should I be flattered?”
“Take it as you will,” Visenya said with a faint smirk. Before she could say more, a commotion from outside drew both their attention. The faint but unmistakable sound of raised voices echoed through the halls, growing louder with each passing moment.
Visenya’s eyes narrowed. “Stay here,” she commanded, already moving toward the door.
Orys followed her. “If there’s trouble, you’ll need another sword.”
She didn’t argue, the two stepping into the corridor together. The morning light filtered through the narrow windows as they moved toward the source of the noise, their footsteps echoing against the stone floors. Whatever awaited them, it seemed the day was far from over.
The morning sun streamed through the narrow windows of Aegonfort as Visenya Targaryen and Orys Baratheon strode down the castle's stone corridors, following the sound of raised voices. The echoes grew louder with each step, until they turned a corner and emerged into a courtyard bustling with early activity.
At the center of the commotion stood two lords—Loren Lannister of the Rock and Harlen Tyrell of Highgarden. Their voices were sharp, their heated exchange drawing the attention of nearby guards and courtiers. Loren, clad in his golden doublet emblazoned with the lion of his house, gestured emphatically with one hand while gripping the hilt of his sword with the other. Harlen, equally resplendent in his green and gold attire, crossed his arms over his broad chest, his dark eyes blazing with irritation.
“You overstep, Lannister!” Harlen growled, his voice carrying across the courtyard. “The Vale’s defenses are none of your concern.”
“And yet their defiance threatens us all!” Loren shot back, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “Or do you expect the Targaryens to ignore such a blatant challenge?”
“Enough!” Visenya’s voice cut through the argument like a blade, sharp and commanding. The two lords immediately fell silent, turning to face the warrior queen as she approached. Her black gown, adorned with subtle silver dragon motifs, flowed around her with each deliberate step, and her piercing violet eyes bore into both men. Orys followed close behind, his presence adding weight to the moment.
“What is this noise?” Visenya demanded, her tone cold as steel. “Have you both forgotten where you stand?”
The lords exchanged glances, their earlier bravado dampened by her presence. Loren was the first to speak, his tone measured but laced with frustration. “Your Grace, we were merely discussing the Vale and its queen regent’s defiance.”
Visenya’s gaze hardened. “And you saw fit to turn a discussion into a spectacle? Explain yourselves.”
Harlen sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Your Grace, in response to the Targaryen successes, Sharra Arryn has fortified her defenses. She’s strengthened Gulltown, moved a host to the Bloody Gate, and tripled the garrisons at the way-castles guarding the Eyrie.”
Loren added, his voice tight with irritation, “It’s a direct challenge to your rule. And if left unchecked, it will embolden others to follow.”
Visenya’s expression remained unreadable as she processed their words. “Sharra Arryn’s defiance is noted,” she said finally, her voice calm but firm. “But this is not the place to discuss strategy or retaliation. You are lords of great houses, not common sellswords. Conduct yourselves accordingly.”
The sharp rebuke left both men silent, their gazes dropping momentarily under the weight of her authority. Satisfied, Visenya turned her attention back to Harlen. “Send word to Aegon of these developments. He will decide how best to respond.”
“And what of the Vale?” Loren pressed cautiously.
Visenya’s lips curled into a faint smirk, the barest hint of menace in her expression. “The Vale will answer. In time. Until then, focus on your own lands and leave the larger matters to the crown.”
With that, she turned on her heel, her gown sweeping the cobblestones as she strode away. Orys followed after her, his dark eyes flicking briefly to the subdued lords before returning to Visenya.
As they moved back into the castle, Orys broke the silence. “Do you think the Vale will yield without a fight?”
Visenya glanced at him, her smirk fading into a thoughtful frown. “No,” she admitted. “But the falcon does not know it flies beneath the shadow of the dragon. It will learn soon enough.”
The tension from the courtyard began to fade, but the looming threat of the Vale lingered in both their minds. The morning, it seemed, had only just begun.
The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over Aegon’s study, its light filtering through the tall, narrow windows. The room, filled with the scent of aged wood and parchment, was dominated by a large map table. The intricate map of Westeros sprawled across its surface, marked with miniature dragon sigils to denote Targaryen control and other tokens for the regions yet to bend the knee.
Aegon sat at the head of the table, his violet eyes scanning the map with a quiet intensity. Visenya stood to his right, her hand gripping the hilt of Dark Sister, her posture rigid and charged with energy. Rhaenys sat opposite her, her crimson gown flowing like liquid fire, her expression contemplative. Across from them stood Orys Baratheon, his broad frame casting a shadow over the table as he leaned forward, his focus unwavering.
The tension in the room was palpable as Visenya broke the silence. “The Vale,” she began, her voice sharp and unyielding. “Sharra Arryn fortified Gulltown, the Bloody Gate, and the Eyrie, thinking her mountains will save her from fire. Her forces killed Daemon in battle, and I will not rest until we avenge him.”
Her words cut through the room like a blade. Orys straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. “We don’t need to raze the Vale to the ground to avenge Daemon,” he countered, his tone calm but firm. “They’ve built their walls high, but no wall is impenetrable. We can take the Vale strategically, without turning it to ash.”
Visenya’s eyes narrowed, her voice rising with restrained fury. “They took him from us. They dared to challenge us, thinking the mountains and their sellswords would save them. This isn’t just about vengeance; it’s about ensuring the realm knows no one defies us and survives.”
Aegon leaned back in his chair, his steepled fingers resting against his lips as he listened. His gaze shifted between his siblings and Orys, his expression unreadable.
“I agree with Visenya,” Aegon said finally, his voice steady, carrying the weight of command. “The Vale’s defiance must be answered decisively. They must see that no fortress can shield them from the dragons.”
Rhaenys, who had remained silent until now, lifted her head, her amethyst eyes meeting Aegon’s. “I disagree.”
The room fell silent, the surprise evident on Aegon and Visenya’s faces. Even Orys looked momentarily taken aback, his brow furrowing.
“Explain,” Aegon said, his tone curious but measured.
Rhaenys leaned forward, her hands resting lightly on the table. “We’ve shown the realm our strength through fire and blood, but strength is not just in destruction. The Vale is a prize, Aegon. Its people, its resources, its strategic value—they are worth more alive than dead. Burning it to the ground will make us tyrants, not rulers.”
Visenya’s fists clenched, her knuckles white against the dark leather of her gloves. “They killed Daemon,” she spat, her voice trembling with fury. “Do you expect me to let that go unpunished?”
Orys stepped in, his voice calm but firm. “Daemon died in battle, Visenya. A battle he chose to fight, knowing the risks. His death was a tragedy, but it doesn’t justify senseless slaughter. If we burn the Vale, we’ll turn every other region against us. The conquest will crumble under the weight of our vengeance.”
Rhaenys reached out, placing a gentle hand on her sister’s arm. “Visenya,” she said softly, her voice steady. “Daemon wouldn’t want his legacy to be a field of ashes. He fought for a realm united, not one torn apart by our anger.”
Visenya’s jaw tightened, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She turned away, her voice low but fierce. “If we spare them, it won’t be because they deserve it. It will be because I trust you, Rhaenys. But if they defy us again…” Her grip tightened on Dark Sister. “There will be no mercy.”
Aegon nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping across the room. “Then it’s settled. We take the Vale, but we temper our fire with strategy. Let the world see that the dragons can build, not just destroy.”
The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of their decision settling over them like a stormcloud. The siblings exchanged glances, their bond unspoken but unshaken, as the memory of Daemon’s sacrifice loomed over them.
The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of sea salt from Blackwater Bay. Horses pawed the ground, their saddles gleaming with polished leather and adorned with the sigils of their riders. Men-at-arms moved about, tightening straps and securing supplies for the journey ahead.
Among them was Argella Durrandon, already seated atop her horse. Her posture was upright, her storm-gray eyes scanning the courtyard with a calm determination. She wore a simple yet sturdy riding gown of green and silver, the colors of her house, and a long cloak fastened at her shoulder. Her dark braid rested over one shoulder, and though her face was impassive, there was a subtle tension in the way her gloved hands gripped the reins.
Nearby, Orys Baratheon stood with Rhaenys Targaryen, his large frame dwarfing her slender figure. Orys’s armor glinted in the sunlight, the crowned stag of House Baratheon proudly displayed on his black and gold surcoat. His face was set with a mixture of resolve and hesitation as he spoke quietly to Rhaenys.
“I can stay,” Orys said, his deep voice carrying just enough to reach her ears alone. “You’ll need men—strong men—for the Vale. Let me lead them.”
Rhaenys placed a hand lightly on his arm, her expression soft but firm. Her silver-gold hair shimmered in the light, her crimson gown catching the gentle breeze. “Your heart is in the right place, Orys, but your duty is to the Stormlands. Argella and your people need you there more than we need you here.”
Before Orys could respond, the sound of boots against stone drew their attention. Aegon descended the steps of Aegonfort, his black and crimson attire as commanding as the crown upon his head. His violet eyes held an air of calm authority as he approached them, his steps deliberate.
“Orys,” Aegon called, his voice steady but resolute. “Your offer is noble, but your land needs you now. The Stormlands must remain secure. Argella will look to you for guidance as she finds her place among our allies.”
Orys turned to face Aegon, nodding slowly. “As you command, Your Grace,” he said, though there was a trace of reluctance in his tone.
Rhaenys stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Orys in a warm embrace. “Take care of yourself, Orys,” she murmured. “And take care of her.”
“I will,” Orys replied, his voice softening as he returned the hug. “You do the same, Rhaenys. The Vale isn’t an easy conquest.”
When they pulled apart, Rhaenys offered him a faint smile. “We’ll manage. We always do.”
As Orys moved to his horse, Rhaenys turned toward Argella. She looked down at her from atop her steed, her expression unreadable. Rhaenys lifted a hand in a casual wave, her dimples showing as she smiled. “Good luck, Argella,” she called warmly.
Argella inclined her head, her voice calm but firm. “And to you”
Orys mounted his horse with practiced ease, glancing once more at Rhaenys and Aegon. With a brief nod, he turned his steed toward the gates of Aegonfort, his banners rippling in the wind as his retinue followed behind him.
Rhaenys watched them until they disappeared down the road, her hand lingering in the air as if reluctant to let them go. Aegon stood beside her, his gaze fixed ahead, his expression stoic.
“They’ll be fine,” Aegon said quietly, his tone carrying an assurance meant as much for himself as for her.
Rhaenys nodded, lowering her hand and folding her arms. “I know,” she said softly, though the flicker of worry in her amethyst eyes suggested otherwise.
The courtyard of Aegonfort was quiet now, save for the soft rustle of banners in the breeze and the distant sound of seagulls circling over Blackwater Bay. Aegon and Rhaenys turned from the gates, their steps measured as they walked back toward the castle. The faint tension from Orys’s departure lingered between them, though neither spoke of it aloud.
As they approached the grand stone archway leading into the keep, a figure stepped into their path. Aethan Velaryon strode toward them, his expression thunderous, his pale silver hair catching the sunlight in sharp contrast to the dark blue of his tunic. His blue-green eyes burned with fury, and his jaw was set in anger.
“You decided to spare the Vale,” Aethan said, his voice low but trembling with restrained emotion. “Visenya told me.”
Rhaenys froze, her eyes softening as she took a step forward. “Aethan—”
“Don’t,” Aethan interrupted, his voice rising. “Don’t try to justify it. Daemon was my father. He gave his life for this conquest, and now you’re saying we won’t avenge him?”
The weight of his accusation hung in the air, the sharpness of his words cutting through the cool morning like a blade. Rhaenys opened her mouth to respond, but Aethan’s anger surged, and he didn’t allow her to speak.
“He trusted you,” Aethan continued, his voice breaking slightly. “He believed in this family, in this dream of a united realm. And now you—”
“Enough!”
Aegon’s voice thundered through the courtyard, startling a flock of birds into flight. His violet eyes locked onto Aethan with the full weight of his authority, his expression hard as iron. The king took a step forward, his broad shoulders squared, his presence commanding.
“How dare you,” Aegon said, his voice low and fierce. “How dare you raise your voice to your king and your queen.”
Aethan faltered, his anger tempered by the force of Aegon’s rebuke, though the pain in his eyes remained.
“This was my decision,” Aegon continued, his tone unyielding. “Mine and mine alone. It is my right as king to make such judgments, and I will not have you question it as though you were my equal.”
Rhaenys placed a hand lightly on Aegon’s arm, her touch a subtle reminder of her presence, though she let her brother’s words stand.
Aegon’s gaze bore into Aethan, who looked away, his fists clenched at his sides. “You think you honor Daemon by shouting at us in anger?” Aegon asked, his voice softening slightly but losing none of its edge. “You dishonor him by forgetting who he was. Daemon fought for a realm united, not a realm burned to ash.”
Rhaenys stepped forward now, her voice calm but firm. “Aethan,” she said gently. “We loved your father. His loss is felt by all of us. But revenge won’t bring him back. And it won’t give him the legacy he deserves.”
Aethan looked at her, his anger wavering as her words sank in. He drew a sharp breath, his hands unclenching as he straightened his posture. His blue-green eyes shimmered with unspoken grief, though his voice was steadier when he spoke.
“I… I understand,” Aethan said, his tone quieter now. “But it doesn’t make it easier.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Rhaenys agreed softly. “But we must honor him by continuing what he fought for. Not by destroying what he tried to build.”
Aegon inclined his head slightly, his gaze still firm but less harsh. “Your loyalty to your father does you credit, Aethan. But remember your loyalty to the crown. To this family.”
Aethan nodded slowly, the fire in his eyes dimmed by the weight of their words. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said, his voice subdued.
With a final glance at both of them, Aethan turned and walked away, his steps heavy as he disappeared into the shadows of the castle.
Rhaenys let out a soft sigh, her hand falling from Aegon’s arm as she turned to face him. “He’s young,” she said quietly. “And he’s hurting.”
Aegon’s expression softened just slightly, a flicker of regret crossing his face. “I know,” he said. “But he needs to learn. The burden of leadership is heavier than grief.”
Rhaenys nodded, though her gaze lingered in the direction Aethan had gone. “Let’s hope he does.”
With that, the two siblings continued their walk into the castle, the echoes of their confrontation fading into the stillness of the morning.
The light filtering through the narrow windows of the chamber cast long shadows across the stone walls. Visenya stood near the armor stand, fastening her vambrace with sharp, practiced movements. Her black riding leathers fit her like a second skin, and Dark Sister hung from her hip, gleaming even in the dim light. The air was tense, heavy with unspoken words.
“I can feel you lurking,” Visenya said coldly, not bothering to turn. “Are you going to stand there all day, or do you have something to say?”
At the door stood Rhaenys, her crimson gown pooling at her feet, her expression hesitant but resolute. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
“You spoke to Aethan,” Rhaenys began carefully.
Visenya turned slightly, her sharp violet eyes narrowing. “What of it?” she asked, her tone sharp as steel.
“He’s grieving, Visenya. He needed guidance, not anger,” Rhaenys replied, her voice calm but edged with disappointment.
Visenya turned fully now, her movements slow and deliberate, her expression hardened. “Grieving? And yet it’s you—you—who coddles him, the same person who would let his father’s killers walk free.”
Rhaenys’s face fell. “Don’t you dare,” she said softly, her voice shaking. “Don’t you dare suggest I don’t feel Daemon’s loss as deeply as you.”
Visenya’s expression darkened, her hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister. “Don’t make claims you can’t back, little star. I fought beside Daemon. I saw his blood stain the sea. Where were you? Dancing in your pretty gowns? Laughing at court?” Her voice was venomous.
Rhaenys’s eyes glistened with hurt, but her voice remained steady. “Killers? Visenya, there are killers on both sides. Blood spilled doesn’t wash away other blood.”
“You think a war is won with songs and dance?” Visenya sneered, stepping closer to her sister. “This world is built on fire and blood, Rhaenys. You dream of a realm united, but you can’t unite ashes.”
“Visenya,” Rhaenys said, her voice pleading now. “This bitterness—it will destroy you. It will destroy us all. Can’t you see that?”
Visenya’s jaw tightened, her anger like a storm barely contained. “I see everything. And what I see is the softness that will be our downfall. If the dragons fall, it will be because of mercy—your mercy.”
The words cut deeper than any blade, and Rhaenys stepped back as if struck. For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only with the faint sound of Visenya’s armor clinking as she moved.
“I must go,” Visenya said coldly, pulling on her gloves with quick, sharp tugs. “While you scheme for peace, I’ll be making friends with the Vale.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm as she brushed past Rhaenys, her boots echoing on the stone floor.
Rhaenys stood frozen, the sting of her sister’s words weighing heavily on her. “Visenya…” she called softly, but the warrior queen didn’t stop.
Visenya strode through the dim corridors of Aegonfort, her steps brisk and purposeful. The cool morning air hit her as she entered the dragon keep, the towering walls echoing the distant growls of the beasts housed within.
Vhagar loomed in the shadows, her bronze scales glinting in the shafts of sunlight streaming through the open arches. The dragon’s massive head turned toward Visenya as she approached, her sharp yellow eyes meeting her rider’s.
Visenya placed a hand on Vhagar’s scaled snout, her touch firm yet reverent. “We’ve much to do, old girl,” she murmured, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.
As she secured the saddle and mounted Vhagar, the great dragon let out a low rumble that echoed through the keep. Visenya took one last glance back toward the castle, her expression unreadable.
With a sharp command, Vhagar spread her massive wings, the powerful gusts sending dust and straw flying. In a rush of wind and sound, they took to the skies, leaving behind the fractured bond between two sisters and the heavy weight of words that couldn’t be unsaid.
Aegon’s study was bathed in the soft glow of late morning light filtering through the tall windows. The map of Westeros spread across the table remained untouched as Aegon sifted through a stack of reports. His brow furrowed, his violet eyes scanning the parchment before him. The quiet hum of the room was broken by the abrupt slam of the heavy oak door.
Startled, Aegon looked up to see Rhaenys standing in the doorway, her expression a storm of anger and frustration. Her crimson gown swayed as she strode into the room, her steps quick and purposeful.
“Rhaenys?” Aegon said, his tone edged with confusion. “What’s the matter?”
She placed her hands firmly on the edge of the table, leaning toward him. “Visenya,” she said sharply, her voice uncharacteristically heated. “We fought, Aegon. Truly fought. I don’t think we’ve ever raised our voices like that, not even as children.”
Aegon leaned back in his chair, surprised by both her words and her tone. Rhaenys, ever the peacemaker, rarely showed such fury. “What happened?” he asked cautiously, his hands folding together on the table.
“She’s furious about the decision not to burn the Vale,” Rhaenys began, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. “And she blames me. Me, Aegon. As if I haven’t carried Daemon’s death in my heart every day since it happened.” She straightened, crossing her arms tightly. “I stood there, trying to reason with her, and all she could do was mock me. She called me weak.”
Aegon sighed, rubbing his temples. “Visenya doesn’t mince words when she’s angry. You know that.”
Rhaenys narrowed her eyes. “That’s not the point, Aegon. She’s leaving for the Vale, and I still don’t understand why. Why her? Why now?”
Aegon met her gaze, his tone steady but laced with weariness. “Because it’s the least we can give her, Rhaenys. Visenya needs this. Letting her go to the Vale is a compromise—a way for her to channel her grief without igniting a war we can’t afford.”
Rhaenys’s expression softened for a moment before hardening again. “You somewhat agree with her, don’t you?” she accused, her voice rising. “You believe we should have struck them down. So why didn’t we?”
Aegon exhaled deeply, standing from his chair to face her. “Because it wasn’t the right choice for the realm,” he admitted. “I might understand her anger, but understanding doesn’t mean acting on it. We made the decision together, Rhaenys. You and Orys convinced me, and I stand by it.”
“But you don’t believe in it,” she pressed, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt. “You’ve left Visenya to bear the weight of avenging Daemon alone while pretending this compromise is enough.”
Aegon’s jaw tightened, and his voice grew firmer. “Enough, Rhaenys. This is war, not a story sung by bards. Every choice we make carries a price. Do you think I don’t feel the weight of what happened to Daemon? Do you think it’s easy to look my family in the eye and say no to vengeance? But I have to think of the realm first, even if it means disappointing Visenya—or you.”
Rhaenys took a step closer, her amethyst eyes glistening. “And what about us, Aegon? What about this family? Visenya and I have always been close, and now she looks at me like I’m a stranger. Like I’ve betrayed her.”
Aegon softened at her words, his hands reaching out to rest on her shoulders. “This family will endure, Rhaenys. Even if we fight, even if we disagree, we are stronger together. Visenya will come back. She may be furious now, but she’ll see reason in time.”
Rhaenys pulled away, her expression conflicted. “I hope you’re right, Aegon. Because if you’re wrong, I fear we’re breaking something that might never mend.”
She turned on her heel and left the room without another word, the sound of the door closing behind her echoing through the quiet study. Aegon stood there, staring after her, the weight of leadership and family pressing heavily on his shoulders.
The Vale of Arryn stood defiant as ever, its white-stoned Eyrie perched high above the Mountains of the Moon. Surrounded by sheer cliffs and formidable defenses, it was a symbol of safety, a fortress believed to be untouchable. But all that confidence melted away as a dragon’s shadow fell over its walls.
Vhagar’s roar shattered the calm of the late morning, echoing through the mountains and sending courtiers and guards scattering like leaves in the wind. The massive dragon descended, her bronze scales gleaming in the sunlight, her wings churning the air into a tempest. With a thunderous thud, Vhagar landed in the inner courtyard of the Eyrie, shaking the very ground with her weight.
Visenya Targaryen dismounted with practiced grace, her black armor glinting sharply in the light. The hilt of Dark Sister protruded from her hip, a reminder of her lethality. Her silver-gold hair was braided tightly against her head, her violet eyes scanning the panicked faces of the courtiers and guards. She was the embodiment of a conqueror, her very presence exuding command.
Her gaze swept the courtyard, her heart heavy with rage and sorrow as she recalled Daemon’s death. This was the place where his killers had hid, where their banners flew as his blood stained the snow. Her fingers brushed against Dark Sister’s hilt, the urge to raze the Eyrie clawing at her mind.
A cry rang out from a young boy near the steps of the keep. “Mother!”
Visenya’s attention snapped to the source of the voice. There, standing amidst the chaos, was a young boy no older than six or seven. His fine clothes and golden-brown hair marked him immediately as Ronnel Arryn, the boy-lord of the Vale. His blue-gray eyes, wide with a mixture of awe and excitement, were fixed not on her, but on Vhagar.
“Is that a dragon?” he asked breathlessly, his small hands clutching the railing of the steps.
Sharra Arryn, the Queen Regent of the Vale, burst from the keep, her skirts billowing as she ran to her son’s side. Her face was pale, her hands trembling as she pulled Ronnel behind her. “Stay back!” she cried, her voice sharp with fear.
But Ronnel squirmed free of her grip, taking a step closer to Visenya. “Can I ride it?” he asked eagerly, his voice carrying across the courtyard.
Visenya stared at the boy, her hand still resting on Dark Sister. Her jaw tightened, her mind flashing with images of Daemon’s broken body, his blood pooling in the snow. These were the people who had taken him from her. She could kill them all, burn their proud Eyrie to ash, and avenge her loss. Her hand tightened on her sword hilt, her heart pounding with the temptation of fire and blood.
But then Ronnel’s eager face filled her vision, the innocence in his eyes piercing through her rage. He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t responsible for Daemon’s death. He was just a child.
The boy stepped closer, his gaze fixed on her. “Please, can I ride the dragon?”
“Ronnel!” Sharra’s voice broke as she lunged to pull him back again, but this time, Visenya raised a hand, stopping her.
The Queen Regent froze, her wide eyes meeting Visenya’s. Her expression was a mixture of terror and defiance, but Visenya’s gaze was unreadable. Slowly, the dragonrider crouched, bringing herself to Ronnel’s eye level.
“You’re not afraid of dragons?” Visenya asked, her voice low but steady.
Ronnel shook his head vigorously, his small face lighting up with excitement. “No! I’ve always wanted to see one up close. She’s beautiful.”
Visenya’s lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, though her heart was heavy with conflict. She gestured toward Vhagar. “Her name is Vhagar. She’s the mightiest dragon in the world.”
“Can I ride her?” Ronnel repeated, his voice full of wonder.
Visenya hesitated, her mind racing. The boy’s innocence was disarming, but she hadn’t forgotten why she was here. She turned her gaze to Sharra, who stood frozen, her hands clenched in helplessness.
“You killed Daemon Velaryon,” Visenya said, her voice sharp. “He fell to the swords and arrows of your men.”
Sharra swallowed hard, her grip tightening on Ronnel’s shoulder. “It was war,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “Daemon fought bravely. His death… was not taken lightly.”
“Not lightly,” Visenya echoed bitterly. She rose to her full height, towering over the Queen Regent. “You hid behind your mountains, thinking them unassailable. You thought yourself safe. And now, your son asks to ride my dragon.”
Sharra flinched, pulling Ronnel closer. “He’s a boy, Visenya. He doesn’t understand.”
“Perhaps he should,” Visenya replied coldly. Her gaze shifted back to Ronnel, who looked up at her with unbridled curiosity.
She could kill them both. Burn the Eyrie to ash and scatter the remains of House Arryn as a warning to the realm. But as she looked into Ronnel’s eager eyes, the weight of her anger began to waver. Daemon’s death burned within her, but would vengeance against a child truly honor his memory?
Slowly, she extended a hand to Ronnel. “If you’re brave enough, you can ride her.”
“Visenya!” Sharra cried, her voice breaking with fear.
Ronnel didn’t hesitate. He took Visenya’s hand, his small fingers dwarfed by her gauntlet. She led him to Vhagar, her heart heavy with the choice she was making. She lifted the boy onto the saddle, climbing up behind him.
“Hold on tightly,” she instructed, her voice steady.
As Vhagar’s wings unfurled and the dragon rose into the sky, Sharra watched in stunned silence, tears streaming down her face. The boy’s laughter rang out, pure and joyous, as Vhagar carried them around the Giant’s Lance.
Three times they circled the mountains before landing. When Ronnel slid down from the saddle, he ran to his mother, his face alight with excitement. “Mother, it was amazing! I want to ride her every day!”
Sharra knelt, pulling him into her arms. Her gaze met Visenya’s, her expression a mix of gratitude and resignation. “You’ve made your point.”
Visenya stepped forward, her voice firm but no longer cold. “The Vale bends the knee. Ronnel Arryn will swear fealty to House Targaryen as Warden of the East.”
Sharra bowed her head, the weight of her decision clear. “The Vale will stand with the dragons.”
Visenya nodded, turning back to Vhagar. Her heart ached with the memory of Daemon, but she knew she had chosen the path he would have wanted—one that united the realm, rather than tearing it apart. As she mounted her dragon and soared into the sky, the shadow of vengeance lingered, but it no longer consumed her.
Chapter 15: A Hearth Rekindled
Chapter Text
The skies above Storm’s End were a brooding gray, the sea winds howling against the ancient stone walls of the Baratheon stronghold. The castle stood defiant against the elements, its towering walls and massive gatehouse a testament to centuries of resilience. Inside the keep, the air was alive with the salty tang of the sea and the faint murmurs of servants attending to their duties.
In the great hall, Argella Durrandon stood by one of the high arched windows, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She wore a gown of deep green, its bodice embroidered with silver lightning bolts that reflected her Durrandon lineage. Her stormy gray eyes gazed out at the horizon, where the restless waves crashed against the rocky shores below.
The echo of boots on stone announced Orys Baratheon’s approach. He entered the hall with his usual steady stride, his dark eyes scanning the room until they settled on her. Dressed in a simple yet finely tailored black tunic embroidered with the crowned stag of House Baratheon, he carried an air of quiet authority.
“Argella,” he greeted, his voice deep but soft. “You’ve been standing here for some time. Are you troubled?”
She turned to face him, her expression guarded. “Troubled? No. Reflective, perhaps.” Her voice carried the sharpness of someone who had learned to shield herself from vulnerability.
Orys moved closer, his footsteps deliberate. “The storms outside mirror the ones within,” he said, his tone lighter, though his eyes betrayed concern. “You’ve been quieter than usual these past days.”
Argella let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “What would you have me say, Orys? That I’m still learning how to live in a world shaped by dragons? That I wrestle daily with what it means to rebuild my father’s legacy while carrying the weight of his defeat?”
“You could say those things,” he replied, stepping closer. “But you don’t have to carry that weight alone.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of defiance igniting within them. “What would you know of it? You took my home, Orys. You wear my sigil and call it your own. How could you possibly understand?”
Orys’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I took this castle under the banner of conquest. But I’ve fought for it, bled for it, and sworn to protect it—and you. Not as spoils of war, but because I care for this house and its future.”
Argella’s lips parted as if to retort, but the sincerity in his words gave her pause. She studied him, the tension in her shoulders softening slightly. “And what future do you see for this house, Orys?”
“A strong one,” he said firmly. “Rooted in honor, resilience, and loyalty. Storm’s End isn’t just stone and mortar—it’s the heart of the Stormlands. It deserves a future built on unity, not division.”
“And you think you can build that future?” she asked, her tone skeptical but not dismissive.
“I can,” he replied, his voice steady. “But not alone.”
The weight of his words hung in the air, and for a moment, neither spoke. The sound of the storm outside filled the silence between them, a reminder of the castle’s enduring strength.
Finally, Argella turned away, her gaze once again fixed on the churning sea. “I’ve spent my life being told what my place is—first as my father’s daughter, then as a queen without a crown. What makes you think I would willingly surrender that to you?”
Orys stepped closer, his presence solid and reassuring. “I’m not asking you to surrender anything, Argella. I’m asking you to stand with me, as an equal.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes searching his face for any hint of deceit. Finding none, she turned fully to face him, her expression unreadable.
“You mean that?” she asked quietly, her voice almost a whisper.
“I do,” he replied without hesitation. “Argella, you are the Storm Queen. Your strength, your fire—that’s what this house needs. That’s what I need.”
The vulnerability in his words struck her like a wave, and for a moment, the storm within her subsided. She took a step closer, the distance between them narrowing. “You have a way of making impossible things seem possible,” she said, her voice softening.
Orys smiled faintly, a rare warmth lighting his features. “That’s because I believe in us.”
Argella studied him for another moment before letting out a quiet laugh. “You’re insufferably persistent, Baratheon.”
“And you’re impossibly stubborn, Durrandon,” he retorted, his tone light but affectionate.
The tension between them shifted, replaced by something softer, more intimate. Orys reached for her hand, his calloused fingers brushing against hers. “Argella,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “Will you let me stand by your side? Not just as the lord of this castle, but as your husband?”
The question hung in the air, the weight of it palpable. Argella’s stormy eyes met his, her expression a mixture of surprise and something deeper—something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years.
For a moment, the only sound was the storm raging outside. Then, with a steady voice, she replied, “Yes, Orys. I will.”
A rare, genuine smile spread across Orys’s face as he clasped her hand tightly. “You won’t regret this,” he said, his voice filled with quiet determination.
“I should hope not,” Argella replied, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Because if you do, I’ll remind you why the Storm Queen is not to be trifled with.”
Orys laughed, the sound rich and warm, as he pulled her closer. Together, they stood by the window, the storm outside a mirror of the strength and passion they had found in each other. In that moment, the foundations of a new legacy were laid, one built not on conquest, but on partnership and trust.
A week had passed since Argella Durrandon had accepted Orys Baratheon’s proposal, and the air in Storm’s End seemed lighter, as if the storms themselves were retreating in deference to the bond forming between its lord and lady. The courtyards buzzed with activity as the castle prepared for Orys’s imminent departure. Horses were saddled, supplies loaded, and banners of the crowned stag flapped in the salty breeze.
Orys stood in the center of the yard, overseeing the preparations with his usual calm efficiency. His dark tunic, embroidered with the gold sigil of House Baratheon, clung to his broad frame, and his expression was focused as he issued orders to his men. Despite the outward calm, there was a tension in his stance—a weight that only he seemed to feel.
From the shadows of the archway leading into the courtyard, Argella watched him, her stormy gray eyes conflicted. She had been avoiding this conversation, hoping the inevitability of his departure might somehow be delayed. But as she saw him mount his warhorse, the decision was made for her.
Gathering her skirts, she stepped into the courtyard, her movements purposeful but hesitant. Her emerald gown swayed with her stride, the silver lightning bolt embroidery catching the sunlight. The shawl draped over her shoulders billowed in the wind, a stark contrast to the resolute expression on her face.
“Orys,” she called, her voice steady despite the emotions swirling within her.
He turned at the sound, his eyes softening the moment they met hers. “Argella,” he replied, dismounting with practiced ease. He took a few steps toward her, his boots crunching against the stone. “You should be inside. The wind bites today.”
She ignored his concern, coming to stand before him. “Why do you have to go?” she asked, her voice quieter now, though it carried the weight of her question. “Why can’t we simply wed here, quietly, without all the fanfare?”
Orys sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve spoken about this, Argella,” he said gently. “I must tell Aegon. He is not just our king—he is my family. A union of this importance must be blessed by him.”
Her brows furrowed, frustration flashing in her eyes. “What does our marriage have to do with them? This is between us—between Storm’s End and its future.”
Orys reached out, his hand resting on her arm. His touch was steady, grounding. “You know it’s not that simple,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “We are not just lord and lady of the Stormlands. We are subjects of the crown, and the crown is more than a symbol. It binds us to something greater.”
Argella pulled her arm away, her gaze sharp. “But this is our life, Orys. Our choice. Why should we need their approval for something so personal?”
“Because it is not only personal,” Orys said, his voice deepening slightly. “Storm’s End stands because of our alliance with the Targaryens. It thrives because of their strength, just as they thrive because of our loyalty. This marriage is not just about us—it’s about what it represents.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her stormy eyes searching his face for any hint of compromise. “You speak as if we are nothing more than pieces on a board,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion.
Orys’s expression softened, and he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You are not a piece, Argella. You are my partner, my equal. But we cannot forget the world we live in. Aegon is more than a king to me—he is my brother in all but blood. And to you, he is a sovereign who deserves the respect of being informed of this union.”
Argella crossed her arms, the fight in her beginning to waver. “I still don’t see why it has to be now,” she murmured, her voice quieter but no less resolute.
“Because it is the right thing to do,” Orys said simply. “And because I would not have our union begin with secrecy.”
For a moment, the wind was the only sound between them, carrying the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. Argella turned her gaze away, her jaw tightening as she struggled with the truth of his words.
“Will you come back quickly?” she asked finally, her voice barely audible.
Orys reached out, tipping her chin up so her eyes met his. “As quickly as I can,” he promised. “And when I return, we’ll marry here, in the hall of Storm’s End, with all the storms as our witnesses.”
Her lips quirked in the faintest of smiles, though her eyes still held traces of worry. “You’d better,” she said softly. “Because if you don’t, I’ll ride to Aegonfort myself and drag you back.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and rich. “I don’t doubt it.”
Without another word, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, his touch lingering as if to reassure her of his promise. Then, with a final glance back, he mounted his horse.
As Orys led his retinue out of the courtyard, Argella stood in the archway, her shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders. She watched until the last banner disappeared beyond the gates, the storm within her settling into a quiet resolve.
Storm’s End, with all its unyielding stone and raging winds, was her fortress. But it was Orys Baratheon who had become her foundation. And for that, she would wait.
The storm battered against the high walls of Aegonfort, the wind howling like a beast at the gates. Rain lashed against the narrow windows of Aegon’s study, casting distorted shadows on the walls as the flickering candlelight fought against the oppressive gloom. The room smelled of damp stone and parchment, its usual stillness now permeated by the distant rumble of thunder.
Aegon Targaryen sat at his map table, his crown placed to one side, forgotten. His violet eyes stared at the intricate map of Westeros sprawled before him, but his focus was far away. His black and crimson attire was slightly rumpled, a testament to hours spent brooding in solitude. A goblet of wine sat untouched near his hand, the dark liquid rippling with the vibrations of the storm.
Six months had passed since the Vale had bent the knee, but the triumph had left behind fractured bonds rather than celebration. Visenya, fierce and unyielding, had thrown herself into her arcane pursuits, her chambers filled with the scent of herbs and the eerie glow of flickering flames. Whispers of spells and the clinking of glass vials drifted from her quarters at odd hours, her focus consumed by matters of spirits and secrets.
Rhaenys, ever the vibrant heart of their family, had taken to the skies more often than ever before. Meleys, her dragon, soared through the stormy skies even now, her crimson scales barely visible against the black clouds. Rhaenys’s laughter, once a constant in Aegonfort’s halls, had grown distant, her absence cutting through the castle like a blade. The rift between her and Aegon lingered like an open wound, their last argument leaving unspoken words festering in the silence.
Aegon sighed deeply, his hand running through his silver-gold hair. The weight of his crown felt heavier than ever, even when it wasn’t perched upon his head. He was used to making difficult decisions, to balancing the needs of the realm against the bonds of blood, but the storm within his family seemed harder to navigate than any battlefield.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke through the storm’s cacophony. A servant appeared at the door, bowing deeply before stepping inside. “Your Grace,” the young man said hesitantly, his voice barely audible over the wind. “The queen’s dragon is returning.”
Aegon nodded curtly, dismissing the servant with a wave of his hand. He pushed himself up from his chair and moved to the window, the cold glass chilling his palm as he leaned against it. Through the rain, he caught a glimpse of Meleys descending toward the dragon pit, her wings cutting through the tempest with ease. The sight stirred a mixture of relief and unease within him.
He turned away from the window, pacing the length of his study as his mind churned. The sisters had barely spoken since the Vale. Visenya’s coldness and Rhaenys’s simmering anger had created a rift that even he, with all his authority and reason, had been unable to bridge. His own words from their last confrontation echoed in his mind, sharp and regretful.
The door to his study opened without a knock, and Aegon’s pacing ceased. He turned, half-expecting Visenya with her pointed words or Rhaenys with her fiery retorts. Instead, it was a servant again, drenched from the rain, bowing low.
“Your Grace, Queen Rhaenys has returned and is making her way to the hall,” the servant said.
Aegon gave a brief nod and dismissed him. He steeled himself, unsure of what to expect from his youngest sister. Though he longed to mend what had been broken, he knew Rhaenys’s anger would not be easily soothed.
With the storm still raging outside, Aegon left his study and headed for the great hall, the flickering torches lining the stone corridors barely illuminating the path ahead. Each step was heavy with anticipation, the storm within him mirroring the one battering Aegonfort’s walls.
Would this storm bring clarity, or would it deepen the fractures between them? He didn’t know, but he was determined to face it.
Aegon made his way into the great hall, the storm outside rumbling ominously, its thunder a faint echo in the cavernous space. The flickering torchlight danced against the damp stone walls, casting long, wavering shadows. His eyes fell immediately on the figure standing in the center of the room, drenched from head to toe. Rhaenys, her crimson gown clinging to her form, turned her gaze to him as the doors closed with a low groan behind him.
She was soaked, her silver-gold hair plastered to her face and neck, rainwater dripping from the hem of her gown to pool at her feet. Her violet eyes, usually filled with light, were unreadable. Her expression, cool and distant, sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the storm raging outside.
“Aegon,” she greeted, her tone icy.
The way she said his name—sharp and measured—made him pause. Aegon took a step closer, his gaze scanning her soaked figure with concern, though he knew better than to voice it.
“You’re soaked,” he began, his voice softer than he intended. “You should have—”
“Should have what?” she interrupted, her voice cutting through his like a blade. “Sent a servant to fetch a towel? Waited until someone told me where I’m allowed to go? Stayed dry and docile like a little bird?”
Her words hit harder than he expected, but Aegon’s expression remained neutral. He had learned long ago that Rhaenys’s fury burned bright but brief—like a flame easily snuffed out. But this time, there was something different about her anger. It simmered beneath the surface, steady and unyielding.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said cautiously.
“No?” Rhaenys crossed her arms, tilting her head. “Then how did you mean it? Because every time we talk, it feels like you see me as… less. Less than you, less than Visenya. A little bird who thinks war is won by song and charm.”
Aegon frowned, stepping closer. “That’s not true, Rhaenys. You know I value you.”
“Do I?” she shot back, her voice rising. “Do I really? Because all I see is you brushing me aside when it matters most. Visenya gets to wield swords and dragons; she gets your trust in battle. And me? I’m the ‘sweet’ one. The one who smiles and dances and sings. You think war can’t be won by charm? Tell me, Aegon, how many lords have bent the knee because of my words, my diplomacy?”
Her words hung heavy in the air, and Aegon’s jaw tightened. He didn’t interrupt her—he couldn’t. There was truth in what she said, and it stung.
“I have never thought of you as weak,” he said after a moment, his voice steady. “You’re a Targaryen, Rhaenys. Your strength is different, yes, but it’s no less important. It’s what binds us—what balances us.”
Her gaze softened slightly, though her frustration was still evident. “Then why do you make me feel like I’m standing in the shadow of you and Visenya?”
Aegon sighed, running a hand through his damp silver-gold hair. “Because I’m trying to hold this together, Rhaenys. The realm, our family… everything. Sometimes I fail, and sometimes I let my own doubts cloud my judgment.”
“Your doubts,” she echoed, her voice quieter now but no less firm. “You doubt me.”
“No,” Aegon said firmly. “I doubt myself. You’re right—I rely on Visenya’s steel and my own fire too much. I lean on what’s familiar because it’s what I know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see what you bring to this family, this conquest. You are the light in our darkness, Rhaenys. And if I’ve made you feel less than that, then I’ve failed you.”
Her expression shifted, her violet eyes searching his face for sincerity. For a long moment, she said nothing, the storm outside filling the silence between them.
Finally, she spoke, her voice softer now. “I don’t want to be a light you use when it’s convenient, Aegon. I want to stand beside you, not behind you.”
“You already do,” he said, stepping closer. “Even if I haven’t shown it enough, you always have.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly, though the tension between them hadn’t fully dissipated. She nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Then prove it.”
“I will,” Aegon promised, his tone resolute. “Not with words, but with actions.”
Rhaenys held his gaze for a moment longer before exhaling softly. “Good,” she said, brushing past him toward the door. “Because I’m done being your ‘sweet’ sister, Aegon. It’s time you see me for what I am.”
Aegon watched her go, the storm outside swallowing her figure as the door creaked shut. For a moment, he stood in silence, the weight of her words pressing down on him like the storm clouds above. He had always seen Rhaenys as the heart of their family, the balance to his fire and Visenya’s steel. But now he realized she was more than that. She was a force of her own—a storm that could rival any dragon’s wrath.
The storm outside continued its relentless assault on Aegonfort, its winds howling as though the very gods raged at the world below. Lightning flashed, illuminating the tall, narrow windows of Visenya’s chambers. The brazier in the center of the room cast flickering shadows that danced on the stone walls, but its warmth did little to soften the cold air between the siblings.
Aegon closed the heavy wooden door behind him, his violet eyes fixed on Visenya. She stood by the window, her back straight, her hands gripping the stone sill as though it was the only thing keeping her tethered. Her silver-gold hair, usually tightly braided, cascaded down her back in loose waves, a rare vulnerability in her otherwise composed appearance.
“You’re just going to stand there?” Visenya asked sharply, her voice cutting through the silence. “Speak, Aegon, or leave.”
He took a step closer, his boots echoing against the stone floor. “I came to talk,” he said calmly, though his tone carried the weight of his intention. “About us. About the choices we’ve made. About you.”
Visenya turned slightly, her piercing violet eyes meeting his. “What about me?” she asked, her voice tinged with a mixture of curiosity and irritation.
“You’ve carried a burden that none of us could ever understand,” Aegon said, his tone soft but steady. “And in doing so, you’ve convinced yourself that the only way to keep us safe is to burn everything that stands against us. I need to know if you believe that’s the only way forward.”
Visenya’s eyes narrowed, and she turned fully to face him, her arms crossing over her chest. “I don’t just believe it,” she said firmly. “I know it. Fire is our strength, Aegon. It’s what sets us apart. You can build all the bridges you want with Rhaenys, but in the end, those bridges won’t hold against the tide of enemies waiting for us to falter.”
“Enemies waiting to falter,” Aegon repeated, his tone thoughtful. “Is that what you see when you look at the kingdoms we’ve united? Enemies?”
“They’re not friends,” Visenya retorted. “They bend the knee because they fear us. And fear is the only thing that will keep them loyal.”
Aegon stepped closer, his voice lowering but gaining intensity. “And what happens when the fear consumes us? When we become nothing more than tyrants ruling over ashes?”
Her lips tightened, her gaze hardening. “You sound like Rhaenys.”
“And maybe I should,” Aegon said firmly. “Because for all her talk of mercy and peace, she understands something you seem to have forgotten: the point of conquest is not destruction. It’s to create something worth ruling.”
Visenya’s fists clenched at her sides, her voice rising. “You think I’ve forgotten that? I remember it every time I see Daemon’s face in my dreams, his blood soaking the sea. They didn’t just defy us, Aegon. They killed him. And now you expect me to forget that because Rhaenys wants to sing them lullabies?”
The anger in her voice echoed through the chamber, but Aegon didn’t flinch. Instead, he took another step forward, his tone softening. “I don’t expect you to forget. I don’t expect you to forgive. But I do expect you to trust me. To trust that I see what you see and feel what you feel. And to trust that we can be more than conquerors. We can be rulers.”
Visenya stared at him, her violet eyes shimmering with a mix of fury and something deeper—something raw and unresolved. “You think ruling is about peace,” she said bitterly. “It’s not. It’s about power. And power comes from fear.”
“No,” Aegon said firmly. “Power comes from unity. And unity is only possible if we give them something to believe in. Something stronger than fear.”
The room fell into a tense silence, the storm outside mirroring the tempest between them. Visenya turned back to the window, her grip on the sill tightening. “You think unity will save us,” she said quietly. “But you’ll see, Aegon. When the time comes, it will be fire that protects this family. Not unity. Not love. Fire.”
Aegon stepped up behind her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Then let it be both,” he said softly. “Let the fire be our shield, not our weapon. We don’t need to burn the world to rule it.”
Visenya turned to face him again, her expression unreadable. For a moment, the weight of her anger seemed to lift, replaced by a flicker of doubt. Aegon stepped closer, his hand rising to touch her face lightly. “You’re my sister,” he said. “My blood. My strength. But strength isn’t just in the sword you carry or the fire you command. It’s in the bonds we share. And those bonds need tending, Visenya. Even with Rhaenys.”
Visenya looked away, her jaw tightening. “She doesn’t understand,” she muttered.
“Then help her understand,” Aegon urged. “Show her your fire, but also show her your heart. Make peace with her, Visenya. For all our sakes.”
She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes fixed on the flickering brazier. Finally, she nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I’ll think about it,” she said grudgingly.
Aegon smiled faintly and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “That’s all I ask.”
He stepped back, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he turned and left the room. The door closed softly behind him, leaving Visenya alone with her thoughts and the storm that raged both outside and within.
The morning sun filtered through the high windows of Aegonfort, casting golden patches across the smooth stone floors. The storm of the previous night had left the air crisp and fresh, and the faint hum of activity outside the castle walls indicated the start of another day in the realm of the dragon.
Inside the grand hall, Aegon and Visenya awaited Orys Baratheon’s arrival. Aegon, dressed in his signature black and crimson attire, stood by the high table, idly running a finger over the map of Westeros spread across it. Visenya leaned against one of the tall chairs, her piercing violet eyes fixed on the great doors with a mixture of curiosity and quiet calculation. Her dark gown, embroidered with silver dragons, shimmered faintly in the sunlight, and the ever-present hilt of Dark Sister peeked from its sheath at her side.
The heavy doors swung open, and Orys Baratheon entered, his boots echoing against the stone. His broad frame, draped in a deep black tunic trimmed with gold, exuded authority. His face, though shadowed with the faint lines of a man who had seen war, broke into a small smile as he approached the Targaryen siblings.
“Orys,” Aegon greeted warmly, stepping forward to clasp his hand. “It’s been too long.”
“Your Grace,” Orys replied, bowing his head. “The Stormlands have been quiet, but it’s good to be here again.”
Visenya stepped forward, her gaze cool and appraising. “A rare visit,” she said, her tone sharp but not unkind. “What brings you to Aegonfort?”
Orys shifted his weight, his confidence undeterred by her scrutiny. “I come with news and a request,” he said, his voice steady. “I wish to marry Argella Durrandon and ask for your blessing.”
Aegon’s eyes lit with intrigue as he gestured for Orys to sit. “Argella Durrandon,” he mused, sitting at the head of the table. “A formidable match. What inspired this union?”
“She inspires me,” Orys said simply, his sincerity cutting through the air. “She is strong, proud, and loyal to her people. I’ve seen her strength, her defiance, and I believe we could build something enduring together.”
A faint smile touched Aegon’s lips. “You’ve chosen well. You have my blessing, Orys.”
Before Orys could thank him, Visenya spoke, her tone precise. “It’s a smart alliance,” she said, crossing her arms. “Argella’s loyalty has always been a question. Marriage solidifies her place under the dragon’s banner. A union with you ensures she won’t stray.”
Orys stiffened slightly, his brows knitting. “This isn’t just about alliances or politics, Visenya,” he said. “This is about us. About love.”
“Love,” Visenya repeated, her voice laced with faint mockery. “Love is fragile, Orys. Politics endures.”
Aegon raised a hand to forestall an argument, his calm voice cutting through the tension. “Peace, the both of you. Orys, your loyalty is without question. If Argella brings you happiness, then your union has my blessing. Visenya is simply... practical.”
Visenya’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “Practicality keeps thrones intact,” she said. “But if Argella’s loyalty is unwavering, then I’ll hold no objections. For now.”
Before Orys could respond, the heavy doors opened once more, and the sound of boots on stone echoed through the hall.
“Rhaenys!” Aegon exclaimed, his tone lightening.
Rhaenys swept into the room, her crimson riding gear dusted with ash, her silver-gold hair tied loosely behind her. Her cheeks were flushed, her amethyst eyes bright with excitement.
She stopped abruptly when she saw Orys, her face breaking into a radiant smile. “Orys!” she exclaimed, running toward him.
Orys rose from his seat just in time to catch her in a warm embrace. He laughed, his deep voice echoing warmly. “Rhaenys,” he said, holding her tightly. “You’re as spirited as ever.”
She pulled back, her hands resting on his shoulders. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice filled with curiosity and delight.
“I came to speak with your brother,” Orys replied, his tone steady. “To ask for his blessing. Argella and I wish to marry.”
Rhaenys gasped, her smile widening. “That’s wonderful!” she exclaimed, stepping back to look at Aegon and Visenya. “Oh, we must celebrate! A feast, music, dancing—”
“Rhaenys,” Orys interrupted gently, his voice kind but firm. “Argella wishes to be wed at Storm’s End. It’s her home. It’s where she feels strongest.”
Rhaenys paused, her excitement dimming just slightly as she considered his words. “Of course,” she said after a moment, her voice softer but no less warm. “It’s her right. But you’ll still let us celebrate, won’t you?”
Orys chuckled. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
As they spoke, Visenya’s gaze lingered on Orys, her expression unreadable. “Storm’s End is a proud house,” she said finally, her tone softer than before. “Keeping its heir loyal through marriage is no small thing.”
Orys met her gaze, his voice steady. “Argella’s loyalty doesn’t need securing, Visenya. She has chosen her path.”
Rhaenys, sensing the tension, stepped forward and linked her arm with Orys’s, her smile bright and disarming. “Enough politics for one morning,” she said lightly. “Orys, you must stay for supper. Let me find the perfect wine for us to toast your news.”
Visenya turned back toward Aegon as Rhaenys led Orys away, her expression hardening. “A union forged in love,” she said, her voice low. “Let’s hope it doesn’t cost us more than we can bear.”
Aegon’s gaze was calm, though the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips. “Visenya,” he said, his tone quiet. “Let them have their happiness. The realm is heavy enough without us weighing it down further.”
Visenya said nothing, but the faint tension in her jaw betrayed her lingering reservations. As the storm clouds outside began to thin, the siblings returned to their duties, the shadow of Orys and Argella’s union lingering between them like a faint echo of thunder.
The golden glow of the setting sun bathed Rhaenys’s chambers in a warm, gentle light, softening the sharp edges of the stone walls and casting flickering shadows from the candles she had lit. The room was a harmonious blend of elegance and warmth, with crimson and gold fabrics draped across the bed and windows. A faint floral fragrance lingered in the air, a signature of Rhaenys’s presence.
She stood before a tall mirror, adjusting the delicate clasp of her ruby-studded necklace. Her gown, a deep crimson with golden embroidery, shimmered as she moved. Her silver-gold hair was intricately braided, with soft curls cascading down her back. Though her appearance was radiant as always, her expression was unusually subdued, her amethyst eyes focused but distant.
A soft knock broke the quiet. Rhaenys turned, her brows raising slightly in surprise. “Enter,” she called.
The door creaked open, and Visenya stepped inside. Her dark gown, adorned with silver dragons, seemed to absorb the waning sunlight, and her sharp features were framed by her tightly braided hair. Her posture, ever commanding, was tempered by a hint of hesitance as she closed the door behind her.
“Good evening,” Visenya began, her tone neutral but softer than usual.
“Visenya,” Rhaenys replied, turning back to the mirror. Her voice was polite but lacked its usual warmth. She reached for a pair of earrings, her movements deliberate, as though focusing on the task would shield her from the discomfort of the moment.
Visenya crossed the room slowly, her violet eyes studying her sister. “You look well,” she said after a pause, her voice carrying an uncharacteristic tentativeness.
“Thank you,” Rhaenys replied coolly, fastening the earrings. “And you seem… busy, as always.”
The air between them was thick with unspoken words. For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth.
Finally, Visenya spoke. “Rhaenys, I…” She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. She exhaled sharply, as if forcing herself to continue. “I miss you.”
Rhaenys turned slowly, her expression unreadable. “I never left, Visenya,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with an edge. “It’s you who pulled away.”
Visenya’s shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t look away. “I know,” she admitted quietly. “And I know that I’ve been… harsh. Perhaps more than I intended.”
Rhaenys crossed her arms, her amethyst eyes locking onto her sister’s. “Harsh doesn’t begin to describe it. You accused me of being weak, of not understanding the weight of what we do. Do you truly think I don’t feel the cost of all this?” Her voice was steady but carried a note of hurt.
Visenya’s gaze dropped briefly, a rare display of vulnerability. “I don’t think you’re weak, Rhaenys,” she said softly. “Far from it. But we see the world differently. And sometimes, I... I struggle to reconcile that.”
“Peace isn’t a bad thing, Visenya,” Rhaenys said, her voice firm but not unkind. “Wanting to spare lives doesn’t make me weak. It doesn’t mean I don’t understand the weight of our decisions. It means I believe there’s more to ruling than fire and blood.”
Visenya nodded slowly, the tension in her jaw easing. “I know. And perhaps I envy you for it. You see hope where I see threats. You see light where I see shadows. It’s... easier for me to strike than to trust.”
Rhaenys stepped closer, her expression softening for the first time. “You don’t have to carry it all alone, Visenya. That’s why there are three of us. We balance each other.”
Visenya looked at her, the weight of her sister’s words settling over her. “I’ve been angry,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “At myself, at the world, at Daemon’s loss. But I was wrong to take it out on you.”
Rhaenys reached out, placing a hand on Visenya’s arm. “You’re not alone in your grief,” she said gently. “We all lost him. And we’re stronger together than apart.”
Visenya met her sister’s gaze, the flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I’ll try,” she said simply. “To trust more. To see the light, as you do.”
Rhaenys smiled, her warmth finally breaking through the frost between them. “That’s all I ask.”
Visenya placed her hand over Rhaenys’s briefly, a gesture of quiet solidarity. “I should let you finish getting ready,” she said, stepping back. “Aegon would have my head if I kept you from supper.”
Rhaenys chuckled softly. “I think he fears you more than me.”
Visenya smirked. “As he should.”
With that, she turned and made her way to the door. Before leaving, she glanced back, her expression softer than it had been in months. “Thank you, Rhaenys,” she said simply.
Rhaenys nodded, her smile steady. “Always.”
As the door closed behind Visenya, the warmth returned to Rhaenys’s chambers, and for the first time in a long while, it felt as though the bonds between the Targaryen sisters had begun to mend.
The corridors of Aegonfort echoed softly with the steady footfalls of Aegon and Orys as they made their way toward the private royal dining hall. The storm outside drummed against the castle walls, a rhythmic accompaniment to their quiet conversation. The warm glow of torchlight illuminated the stonework, highlighting the intricate dragon motifs carved into the walls.
“It’s been some time since you’ve visited Aegonfort,” Aegon remarked, his tone light but curious.
Orys nodded, his broad frame casting long shadows. “The Stormlands keep me busy. Argella insists on knowing every detail of the land, every grievance of the smallfolk. She’s relentless.”
Aegon chuckled, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “A good trait for a leader, but no doubt exhausting for her husband-to-be.”
“She’s her father’s daughter in many ways,” Orys said, his tone tinged with both admiration and melancholy. “But wiser, more thoughtful.”
Aegon glanced at him, noting the flicker of emotion in his brother-by-bond’s expression. “You’ve chosen well, Orys. Argella is a formidable woman. Together, you’ll be a force to reckon with.”
They turned a corner, the heavy oak doors of the dining hall coming into view. Laughter drifted through the crack in the doors, a sound that made Aegon pause. He tilted his head, his expression softening. It was rare to hear such lightness in the castle.
Pushing open the doors, they were greeted by the sight of Rhaenys and Visenya seated together at the table. Rhaenys, her crimson gown flowing like molten fire, was laughing as she leaned slightly toward Visenya. The elder sister, dressed in her customary dark attire, smirked faintly at something Rhaenys had said—a rare, unguarded moment between the two.
The sight warmed Aegon’s heart. For all their differences, for all the tension that had simmered between them in recent months, they were still sisters. He exchanged a glance with Orys before stepping into the room.
“Decided to grace us with your presence?” Visenya quipped, her sharp violet eyes glinting with amusement.
Rhaenys turned, her amethyst eyes lighting up. “And Orys, too!” She rose from her seat, her silver-gold hair cascading over her shoulders. “It’s about time.”
The four of them took their places at the table, which was adorned with roasted meats, fresh-baked bread, and goblets of wine. The atmosphere was warm, the storm outside a distant murmur as conversation flowed easily. Orys found himself seated beside Rhaenys, who greeted him with a quick embrace.
“Where’s Corlys?” Orys asked, glancing around the room.
Rhaenys’s expression softened, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “He’s on Dragonstone, spending time with his brother and…” She hesitated slightly before adding, “our mother.”
Orys nodded. “And how does he fare?”
“He loves it,” Rhaenys replied, her tone a mixture of pride and longing. “But I miss him terribly. The hall feels quieter without his energy.”
Aegon poured himself a goblet of wine, his expression thoughtful. “Corlys is growing into his own. He’ll return stronger for the time he’s spent there.”
The conversation meandered through lighter topics—recent events in the realm, tales from Storm’s End, and plans for the future. The laughter and camaraderie were genuine, a reprieve from the weight of rulership. But eventually, the subject of Orys’s upcoming wedding came to the fore.
Aegon leaned back in his chair, his violet eyes gleaming with curiosity. “So, Orys, how are the wedding preparations progressing? Will it be a grand affair?”
Orys smiled, though there was a hint of nervousness in his expression. “Argella wishes for something meaningful but modest. She’s adamant about marrying in the Stormlands, in her home.”
“That’s wonderful!” Rhaenys exclaimed, her eyes bright with excitement. “But we must still host festivities here in Aegonfort afterward. It’s only fitting.”
Orys raised a hand, his tone gentle but firm. “Argella prefers to keep it simple, Rhaenys. She values tradition and intimacy over grandeur.”
From her seat, Visenya raised an eyebrow. “Will we be invited, then?” she asked coolly.
The table fell silent, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Visenya’s sharp eyes darted to Orys. “It seems fitting,” she continued, her voice edged with a bitter note, “considering we are the reason her father won’t be there to walk her down the aisle.”
Rhaenys’s smile faltered. She looked down, her fingers tracing the rim of her goblet. “I don’t even know if Argella would want us there,” she said softly. “We took so much from her.”
Orys shifted in his seat, his expression serious. “Her father’s death was a tragedy, one that none of us can change. But Argella is wiser than most. She understands the weight of the choices we’ve made.”
The silence deepened, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Visenya’s gaze remained steady, her fingers brushing against the hilt of Dark Sister. “It’s not just about her understanding, Orys. It’s about whether we can live with the choices we’ve made.”
Aegon’s voice cut through the tension, calm but firm. “Enough. What’s done is done. Argella is part of the peace we’re building. If she’s willing to move forward, so must we.”
Rhaenys placed a hand on Orys’s arm, her voice gentle. “I think Argella will see that we’re not just conquerors, but people trying to build something lasting. That’s what matters.”
Visenya’s sharp features softened slightly, though her eyes still held a flicker of conflict. “Perhaps you’re right,” she murmured. “Peace is worth striving for.”
The mood lightened as the conversation shifted once more. Laughter returned, the bonds of family momentarily easing the weight of their shared past. As Aegon looked around the table—at Orys, Rhaenys, and Visenya—he allowed himself a rare moment of hope. For one evening, at least, they were more than rulers and warriors. They were a family.
The castle of Aegonfort was still, the quiet of the late hour broken only by the distant murmurs of wind against the stone walls. The torches lining the corridors flickered faintly, casting long, dancing shadows. Orys Baratheon moved silently through the halls, his steps unhurried but purposeful. The familiar scent of steel and leather drew him onward, past the royal chambers and toward the training grounds.
When he reached the courtyard, memories surged forward. The space, dimly lit by the crescent moon above, seemed smaller than he remembered, yet every corner held a ghost of his past. He could almost hear the clash of swords, the barked commands, and the rare laugh that would escape when he and Visenya sparred as youths.
Orys ran a hand over the hilt of his sword, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His gaze fell on the worn sparring dummies, their tattered padding a testament to countless battles waged in preparation for wars far grander than they ever imagined.
“You’ve always been sentimental,” came a familiar voice, sharp but not unkind, cutting through the stillness.
Orys turned, his smile widening as Visenya stepped into the courtyard. She was dressed simply for the night, her dark tunic and breeches a stark contrast to the regal attire she wore in the halls. Her silver-gold hair, usually bound in intricate braids, hung loose over her shoulders, shimmering in the moonlight.
“Sentimental?” Orys repeated, his tone light. “Or perhaps reflective. There’s a difference, you know.”
Visenya smirked faintly, crossing her arms as she regarded him. “Reflective, then,” she allowed, though her sharp violet eyes held a glimmer of amusement. “What brings you here, Orys? Surely not just memories.”
Orys leaned against one of the training posts, his expression softening. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Too many thoughts swirling around. This place… it helps clear my head.”
Visenya’s gaze softened, though her posture remained guarded. “What’s on your mind?”
He hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing against the hilt of his sword. “Argella,” he said finally. “And you.”
Visenya arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faintly sardonic smile. “I didn’t realize I was such a troubling subject.”
“It’s not that,” Orys said quickly, shaking his head. “I know you’re wary of her, Visenya. And I understand why. But she’s… she’s not what you think.”
Visenya’s smirk faded, her expression hardening slightly. “And what do I think, Orys?”
“That she’s some kind of threat,” he replied, his tone steady but earnest. “She’s not. She’s strong, yes, but she’s also loyal. She’s trying to navigate a world that we’ve completely upended. I’m asking you, as your friend… as your brother… don’t be so harsh on her.”
Visenya regarded him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
“I’ve seen what happens when you trust too easily,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm. “It’s not about her loyalty—it’s about her resilience. The world isn’t kind, Orys. She needs to be stronger if she’s to stand beside you.”
“She is strong,” Orys said, his voice unwavering. “Stronger than you give her credit for. But she doesn’t need to be forged into something she’s not. She’s enough as she is.”
Visenya’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the sharp edges of her demeanor dulled. “Perhaps you’re right,” she murmured. “Perhaps I’ve been… unfair.”
Orys straightened, his grin returning. “Was that an admission of fault, Visenya? I never thought I’d live to hear it.”
Her eyes narrowed, though her lips quirked into a reluctant smile. “Don’t push your luck, Baratheon.”
He laughed, the sound echoing softly in the quiet courtyard. “I’ll take what I can get.”
Visenya stepped closer, her fingers brushing against the hilt of her own blade. “Since we’re here,” she said, her tone shifting to one of playful challenge, “what do you say to one last spar? For old times’ sake.”
Orys raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “You sure you want to embarrass yourself?”
She drew her sword, the steel gleaming faintly in the moonlight. “The only one embarrassed tonight will be you.”
They squared off, circling each other with the ease of seasoned warriors. The first clash of their blades rang out, sharp and clear, as they tested each other’s defenses. The years had only honed their skills, and the duel quickly became a dance of precision and strength.
“You’re slower than I remember,” Visenya teased as their blades locked briefly.
“And you’re just as insufferable,” Orys shot back, breaking the lock and stepping aside.
Laughter mingled with the sound of steel as they sparred, their movements fluid and deliberate. It wasn’t just a duel—it was a conversation, a rekindling of a bond forged in the fires of their youth.
When the spar finally ended, both were breathing heavily, their blades lowered but still in hand. Visenya smirked, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. “You’ve improved,” she admitted.
“And you’ve softened,” Orys retorted, though his grin was good-natured.
Visenya rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “Perhaps.”
They sheathed their swords, the tension of the night giving way to a comfortable silence. As they stood in the moonlit courtyard, the storm clouds seemed a little less heavy, the weight of their shared history a little easier to bear.
“Thank you, Visenya,” Orys said softly, his tone sincere. “For this.”
She glanced at him, her expression unreadable for a moment before she nodded. “Don’t make me regret it,” she said simply, though her voice held a note of warmth.
With that, they turned and made their way back into the castle, the echoes of their duel fading into the night. For the first time in what felt like an age, the bonds of family and friendship seemed just a little stronger.
The soft knock at the door came as a surprise. Rhaenys Targaryen, seated by her vanity in the candlelit warmth of her chamber, glanced up from the comb she had been running through her silver-gold hair. Her violet eyes flickered toward the door, her heart skipping slightly. Few would disturb her this late in the evening, and fewer still without warning.
“Come in,” she called softly, setting the comb down.
The door creaked open to reveal Aegon, his broad frame filling the doorway. The storm outside had left him slightly damp, his dark hair curling at the edges, and his black and crimson tunic clung to him in places. His expression was hesitant, uncharacteristically so, and Rhaenys tilted her head, her usual warm smile notably absent.
“Aegon,” she said coolly, her tone unreadable.
For a moment, he stood there, almost uncertain. Then he stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. The faint scent of rain and wind clung to him, mingling with the lavender and dragonberries that lingered in the air of her chambers.
“Rhaenys,” he began, his voice quiet but steady. “May I sit?”
She gestured to the cushioned chair near the hearth without a word, her expression calm but distant. Aegon crossed the room, taking the seat as she remained at her vanity, her back to him. For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the distant rumble of thunder.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Aegon said after a moment, his tone softer than she had heard it in some time.
“You don’t usually knock,” Rhaenys replied, her voice carrying a faint edge. “That’s new.”
Aegon winced slightly but nodded. “I thought it… appropriate,” he admitted. “Given how we left things.”
She turned in her seat to face him fully, her violet eyes meeting his. For a long moment, she studied him, her expression guarded. Then, with a sigh, she stood, crossing the room to sit on the edge of her bed, facing him.
“What do you want, Aegon?” she asked, her tone gentle but tired.
“To make amends,” he said simply. “To try, at least.”
Rhaenys blinked, her surprise evident, though she quickly masked it. “And what brought about this change?”
He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling heavily. “I’ve been thinking a lot,” he admitted. “About us. About everything we’ve been through. I hate this… distance between us.”
She folded her hands in her lap, her fingers fidgeting slightly. “I hate it too,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Aegon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I was wrong, Rhaenys,” he said earnestly. “In so many ways. I dismissed your thoughts, your feelings. I made you feel small, and that’s not what I wanted. Not ever.”
Her eyes softened, though her lips trembled slightly. “You made me feel like I didn’t belong,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Like I was just… a little bird singing in the shadow of dragons.”
His head bowed, his guilt etched into his features. “I know,” he murmured. “And I was a fool for it. You’re not just a songbird, Rhaenys. You’re the light in all of this. You remind me of what we’re fighting for.”
Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she looked away, blinking back tears. “You hurt me, Aegon,” she said softly, her voice cracking. “But I don’t want to stay angry. I miss you too much.”
Aegon stood then, crossing the small space between them. He sank to one knee before her, taking her hands gently in his own. “I’m sorry, Rhaenys,” he said, his voice steady and full of emotion. “For every word, every look, every moment that made you feel less than what you are. You’re my sister, my queen, and my heart. Please… forgive me.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks, but her lips curved into a faint smile. “You’re not usually so eloquent,” she teased, her voice trembling with emotion.
He laughed softly, squeezing her hands. “Don’t get used to it.”
They both chuckled then, the sound lightening the air between them. Aegon rose, sitting beside her on the bed. For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence, the storm outside mirroring the emotions that had finally calmed within them.
“Do you remember,” Rhaenys said suddenly, her tone wistful, “when we used to sneak away from the tutors to climb the cliffs at Dragonstone?”
Aegon chuckled, nodding. “You were fearless,” he said. “And always convinced you could fly without a dragon.”
She laughed, her dimples deepening as she wiped at her cheeks. “You were always the one who caught me when I slipped.”
“And you always laughed about it, even when you scraped your knees,” Aegon added, his grin widening.
They shared a warm look, the years of shared memories bridging the gap that had grown between them. Slowly, the weight of their recent tensions began to fade, replaced by the bond that had always anchored them.
As the hours slipped by, they spoke of lighter things—memories, dreams, and even Rhaenys’s fondness for flying Meraxes through storms. Aegon, in turn, shared his hopes for the realm, his desire to see unity prevail, and his gratitude for the strength his sisters brought to their shared reign.
When the fire burned low, and the storm outside began to wane, Aegon reached out, placing a hand on Rhaenys’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said softly.
“For what?” she asked, tilting her head curiously.
“For always reminding me of what matters,” he replied. “Even when I’m too blind to see it.”
Her smile was bright and unguarded as she leaned her head against his shoulder. “We’ll figure this out, Aegon,” she said softly. “Together.”
The storm outside had faded, leaving only the soft patter of rain against the windows as the Targaryen siblings sat side by side, their bond renewed and their path forward a little clearer.
Chapter 16: Of Loyalty and Diplomacy
Chapter Text
The journey to Storm’s End was undertaken with careful consideration. The Targaryens, known for their dragons and fiery power, had opted for a less menacing approach. Aegon had insisted they travel on horseback, their dragons left behind to maintain a semblance of peace. The sight of three dragons circling above could evoke fear in their allies and serve as an unwelcome reminder of the devastation wrought during the conquest.
Their party was substantial, a testament to their status. Dozens of knights, bannermen, and servants accompanied the royal family, their banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen fluttering in the cool evening breeze. The procession wound its way through the fertile lands of the Stormlands, the landscape dotted with rolling hills and ancient oaks, the air heavy with the scent of pine and salt from the nearby sea.
As twilight descended, the party made camp in a wide clearing shielded by towering trees. The tents were erected swiftly and efficiently, each one reflecting the status of its occupant. Two royal tents stood at the center of the encampment, their crimson and black fabric trimmed with gold.
Visenya’s tent was a picture of austere elegance, befitting her no-nonsense demeanor. The interior was sparse but functional: a sturdy cot draped with fine furs, a small brazier for warmth, and a weapons rack holding her favored arms, including the legendary Dark Sister. A table sat near the entrance, strewn with maps and scrolls, evidence of her relentless preparation. Despite its simplicity, the tent exuded an air of quiet authority.
Aegon and Rhaenys shared a larger tent nearby, its luxurious furnishings reflecting Rhaenys’s penchant for comfort and beauty. The cot was broader, draped in silk and velvet, with cushions in shades of crimson and gold. A small vanity stood in one corner, its polished surface catching the flicker of candlelight. Aegon’s Valyrian steel crown rested on a table alongside a flagon of wine and a map of Storm’s End. The space was warm and inviting, with the mingling scents of lavender and dragonberries.
As the camp settled, the three Targaryens gathered in Aegon and Rhaenys’s tent. Rhaenys lounged on a cushion, her silver-gold hair cascading over her shoulder as she sipped from a goblet of wine. Visenya sat rigidly in a chair, her hand resting idly on the hilt of her sword. Aegon stood by the table, his expression calm but resolute.
“I still don’t see why we couldn’t have flown,” Rhaenys grumbled, her tone light but tinged with frustration. “The dragons would have made this journey in hours.”
“Because,” Aegon replied evenly, “Storm’s End is not just any destination. Argella’s father died by dragonfire, and her people have not forgotten that. We’re here to celebrate unity, not remind them of the past.”
Visenya’s sharp violet eyes flicked to her brother. “And do you think traveling like common lords will erase that history? We are dragons, Aegon. We should not diminish ourselves to placate others.”
Aegon met her gaze without flinching. “We are dragons, yes. But dragons can show restraint. It’s not about diminishing ourselves; it’s about strengthening the bonds we’ve forged.”
Before Visenya could retort, a knock sounded at the tent’s entrance. A guard stepped inside, his armor glinting in the candlelight. “Your Grace, another party approaches. It bears the banners of House Tyrell.”
Aegon’s expression softened. “Lord Harlen,” he said. “Good. Orys and I agreed the lords of the realm should attend, even for a small wedding. It honors their loyalty.”
The Targaryens stepped out of the tent, their retinues already lighting torches as the Tyrell party arrived. Lord Harlen Tyrell rode at the head, his green and gold cloak billowing behind him. His youthful face, framed by dark curls, lit up as he dismounted and approached Aegon with a warm smile.
“Your Grace,” Harlen said, bowing deeply. “An honor to join you on this journey.”
Aegon clasped his arm in greeting. “The honor is mine, Lord Harlen. You’ve come a long way.”
“The journey is worth it,” Harlen replied. “A union like this strengthens us all.”
Visenya watched the exchange with quiet scrutiny, her sharp eyes assessing Harlen as she always did. Meanwhile, Rhaenys greeted him warmly, her smile bright. “It’s good to see you again, Lord Tyrell. I trust Highgarden thrives?”
“It does,” Harlen said with a nod. “And I hear the dragons thrive as well, though I notice you’ve left them behind.”
“Aegon’s decision,” Rhaenys said, a teasing lilt to her voice. “He’s ever the diplomat.”
They all shared a light laugh as they moved toward the campfire. The conversation flowed easily, touching on the wedding, the realm’s stability, and mutual allies. At one point, Harlen leaned closer to Aegon. “I’ve heard word that Aethan Velaryon and young Corlys are on their way as well.”
Aegon nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “They’ll join us soon. Corlys has been on Dragonstone with our mother.”
“I miss the boy,” Rhaenys added, her tone wistful. “He’s growing so fast, but I’m glad he’s spending time with Aethan and Valaena.”
As the conversation shifted, Visenya raised a topic that had been weighing on her mind. “And what of Dorne?” she asked, her tone direct.
Harlen frowned slightly. “A difficult matter, Your Grace. They remain as they always have—unyielding and elusive.”
Aegon’s expression darkened slightly. “We’ll deal with Dorne in time. For now, let’s focus on the bonds we’re strengthening here.”
The discussion turned serious, with Visenya pressing for a more aggressive approach and Harlen advocating caution. Rhaenys chimed in with her usual optimism, envisioning a future where even Dorne might be swayed through diplomacy.
The night stretched on, the firelight casting long shadows as they debated, planned, and laughed together. Despite their differences, there was a sense of unity among the group, a shared understanding that their strength lay not just in their dragons but in their ability to forge lasting bonds.
Storm’s End buzzed with activity as preparations for the upcoming festivities reached their peak. The castle, perched defiantly on the edge of the storm-lashed cliffs, seemed to pulse with energy. Servants scurried through the wide stone halls, their arms laden with bolts of fabric, garlands of flowers, and trays of polished silverware. The kitchens were a hive of motion, the air thick with the scents of roasting meats, spiced wine, and freshly baked breads.
The great hall, cavernous and imposing, was being transformed into a space of celebration. Heavy oak tables were arranged in neat rows, each adorned with tablecloths of green and gold—the colors of House Baratheon. Fresh-cut flowers in hues of white and yellow were placed in bronze vases, while banners bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon hung alongside those of the Targaryens, their three-headed dragon striking against the stone walls. Servants polished the long rows of chandeliers until the iron gleamed in the flickering torchlight.
Beyond the castle walls, the courtyard was alive with activity. Grooms tended to the horses, their coats brushed to a fine sheen, while squires sharpened swords and polished armor. Musicians tuned their instruments, the occasional note of a lute or the trill of a flute floating on the salty sea breeze. From the ramparts, guards kept a vigilant watch, their eyes scanning the horizon for the arriving lords and their entourages.
Argella Durrandon stood on one of the castle’s high balconies, her sharp gray eyes fixed on the distant horizon. The wind whipped her dark hair around her face as she gazed out at the flickering lights dotting the landscape far below. The camps of the arriving lords sprawled across the surrounding fields like a sea of fireflies, their torches and campfires twinkling in the gathering dusk.
Her fingers gripped the cold stone of the parapet as she felt a pang of unease settle in her chest. The sight of the camps triggered memories she had tried to bury—memories of fire and blood, of her father’s defiance during the Targaryen conquest. She could still hear the roar of dragons, feel the heat of their flames, and see the smoke rising over her home. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, fierce and unyielding, as he rallied his men to defend the Stormlands against the invincible might of the Targaryens.
Argella closed her eyes and took a steadying breath, willing the memories away. This was a different time, a different purpose. These lords came not to conquer but to celebrate, to honor her union with Orys Baratheon—a union that symbolized peace and unity, though it had come at a great cost.
“Argella?”
The deep voice pulled her from her thoughts. She turned to see Orys Baratheon standing in the doorway, his broad frame silhouetted against the light spilling from the corridor behind him. He stepped onto the balcony, his presence grounding her in a way nothing else could.
“You’re brooding again,” he said gently, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Argella managed a small smile in return, though her eyes remained distant. “It’s hard not to,” she admitted. “Seeing all those lights… it reminds me of the conquest. Of what we lost.”
Orys moved to stand beside her, resting his hands on the parapet. His dark eyes, warm and steady, turned toward hers. “You’ve endured more than most, Argella. But what we’re building here—it’s worth it. We’re turning loss into something stronger.”
She let out a soft laugh, though there was little humor in it. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not,” he said, his voice low. “But nothing worth having ever is.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the wind swirling around them as the lights in the distance twinkled like stars. Orys reached out and took her hand, his calloused fingers wrapping around hers.
“I know it’s hard,” he said softly. “But we’re not alone anymore. We have each other. And we have a future—one we’re going to build together.”
Argella looked up at him, her storm-gray eyes searching his face. In his steady gaze, she found a reassurance she hadn’t realized she needed. She nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around his.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For being here. For staying.”
Orys smiled, his expression warm. “Always.”
As the distant campfires flickered and the sounds of the bustling castle carried on the wind, the two stood together on the balcony, their presence a testament to the resilience of the Stormlands—and the strength of their bond.
The next morning dawned clear and cool, a welcome reprieve from the storms that so often lashed against the walls of Storm’s End. The castle was a hive of activity as lords, ladies, and their retinues arrived in grand processions. Horses, their coats gleaming with sweat, were led to the stables by stablehands, while banners in a myriad of colors—greens, golds, silvers, and reds—fluttered in the crisp breeze. The air was thick with the scents of fresh hay, the salt of the sea, and the faint hint of roasted meats being prepared for the grand feast.
Argella stood on the stone steps leading to the main courtyard, her posture rigid but regal. She was dressed in a gown of deep green, its fabric heavy with embroidered stormclouds and lightning bolts in silver thread, a subtle homage to her Durrandon heritage. Her dark hair was pulled back into a simple braid that cascaded over one shoulder. Though her expression remained composed, there was a quietness to her presence—a reserved energy that spoke volumes to those who knew her well.
As each lord and lady arrived, Argella greeted them with polite nods and faint smiles, her words sparse but courteous. She endured the endless stream of pleasantries with practiced grace, though her gray eyes often wandered to the horizon, where the last—and most anticipated—party was expected to arrive.
The low rumble of approaching hooves silenced the chatter of the courtyard. All eyes turned toward the massive gates as they swung open, revealing the royal procession. The Targaryens had arrived.
Aegon rode at the head of the party, his black destrier prancing beneath him. He was clad in black and crimson, his armor gleaming in the sunlight and his Valyrian steel sword, Blackfyre, sheathed at his side. His silver-gold hair caught the light, and his violet eyes scanned the gathered lords with calm authority. Behind him rode his sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys, each a striking vision of their own.
Visenya, as ever, was the picture of martial grace. She wore dark armor that hugged her lithe frame, her silver-gold hair braided tightly and pinned into a crown-like style. Dark Sister, her legendary Valyrian steel blade, rested at her hip. Her gaze was sharp, missing nothing, as she guided her mount with practiced ease.
Rhaenys, in contrast, was a vision of warmth and charm. She wore a flowing crimson gown trimmed with gold, her silver-gold hair cascading down her back in loose waves. She smiled at the gathered lords, her violet eyes sparkling as she inclined her head in greeting.
The crowd of lords and household members bowed deeply as the Targaryens dismounted, their movements synchronized as though rehearsed. Argella and Orys led their household in a bow, Orys’s dark eyes flicking briefly to his betrothed before returning to the royal trio.
Aegon stepped forward, his voice carrying easily over the courtyard. “Lord Orys, Lady Argella. We are grateful for your hospitality.”
Orys straightened, a faint smile touching his lips. “Your Grace, your presence honors our home. Welcome to Storm’s End.”
Aegon inclined his head, his gaze shifting briefly to Argella. “Lady Argella,” he said, his tone cordial but edged with curiosity.
Argella met his gaze and dipped her head. “Your Grace,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the tension in the air.
Rhaenys stepped forward, her smile warm as she addressed Argella. “Thank you for welcoming us into your home,” she said sincerely.
Argella hesitated for the briefest moment before offering a small smile and a nod. “You are welcome, Your Grace.”
As the royal party began their tour of the castle, Orys took the lead, gesturing toward the outer walls and explaining some of the changes made since the conquest. The lords trailed behind, their conversations hushed as they observed the interaction between the Targaryens and their hosts.
The group moved through the winding corridors and into the courtyard, where the sound of hurried footsteps drew their attention. A young boy with silver-gold hair and bright blue eyes darted toward them, his face lighting up as he reached Rhaenys.
“Corlys!” Rhaenys exclaimed, dropping to one knee to embrace the boy. He flung his arms around her neck, his laughter ringing out as she pulled him close.
“You’re here!” Corlys said, his voice bubbling with excitement.
Rhaenys smiled, her dimples deepening as she held him. “Of course I’m here. I couldn’t miss this for anything.”
Behind Corlys, Aethan Velaryon appeared, his movements more measured but no less eager. The young lord approached the group, his blue-green eyes scanning the royal trio before settling on Visenya. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and pulled her into a rare embrace.
“Visenya,” he said simply, his voice quiet but filled with affection.
Visenya stiffened momentarily, unused to such displays, but she softened as she patted his back. “Aethan,” she replied, her tone carrying an edge of warmth.
Orys chuckled, gesturing toward the two boys. “They arrived last night,” he explained. “Argella insisted on keeping them occupied until today.”
As the group continued their tour, Rhaenys held Corlys’s hand, the boy’s chatter punctuating the conversation. Aethan, however, fell into step beside Aegon, his expression serious.
“Your Grace,” Aethan said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of regret. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior the last time we met. I spoke out of turn, and I disrespected you and the queen. It was inexcusable.”
Aegon glanced at him, his violet eyes calm. “You were angry, Aethan,” he said after a moment. “And grief often clouds our judgment. There’s nothing to forgive.”
Aethan nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
The tour wound through the castle, the group pausing occasionally as Orys pointed out key features and shared stories of the Stormlands’ history. The conversation shifted naturally, laughter and camaraderie filling the spaces between heavier topics. It was a moment of rare unity, the burdens of conquest momentarily set aside in the shadow of Storm’s End.
The warm glow of the setting sun streamed through the high, narrow windows of Argella’s chambers, casting long, golden shadows across the room. A collection of gowns and jewelry lay neatly on a nearby table, a maid’s earlier handiwork as she’d prepared everything for the evening’s festivities. Argella stood before a polished bronze mirror, carefully fastening the silver clasp on her deep green gown. The fabric shimmered faintly, embroidered with stormclouds and lightning bolts—a subtle but powerful nod to her Durrandon lineage.
A soft knock at the door broke her focus. Assuming it was one of her maids, Argella said, “Enter.”
The door creaked open, and Rhaenys Targaryen stepped inside, her presence as radiant as a dragon in flight. She was dressed in a flowing crimson gown that caught the light with every movement, its intricate embroidery glinting faintly. Her silver-gold hair, elegantly styled with delicate braids woven into an updo, framed her striking violet eyes and soft features. Despite her beauty, her expression was gentle, a quiet kindness reflected in her gaze.
Argella turned sharply, her gray eyes widening in surprise. “Your Grace,” she said stiffly. “Is everything all right?”
Rhaenys smiled faintly, closing the door behind her. “Yes, everything is fine,” she replied softly. “I just… wanted to see how you were doing. I imagine today must feel overwhelming.”
Argella’s gaze flicked back to the mirror, her fingers adjusting the clasp of her necklace as she spoke. “I’m fine,” she said curtly. “There’s nothing to be overwhelmed about.”
Rhaenys took a step closer, her gown whispering softly against the stone floor. “I don’t believe you,” she said gently. “Not after everything you’ve endured.”
Argella stiffened, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And what would you know of what I’ve endured?” she asked, her tone clipped. “You and your family caused it.”
The words landed with a quiet weight, but Rhaenys didn’t flinch. “You’re right,” she said, surprising Argella with her candor. “We did. And I’ve never stopped thinking about what we took from you.”
Argella turned to face her, folding her arms across her chest. “Then why are you here?” she asked sharply. “To ease your guilt?”
“No,” Rhaenys said firmly. “I’m here because I admire your strength, and because I know Orys loves you. I want us to move forward, Argella—not as enemies, but as something better.”
Argella blinked, taken aback by the honesty in the queen’s words. “Move forward?” she echoed. “After everything?”
Rhaenys stepped closer, her expression earnest. “I know we can’t change the past. But I believe we can shape the future. You’ve already proven your strength, Argella. You’ve shown grace and resilience in ways I can’t begin to imagine. But you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”
Argella’s sharp expression faltered, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. “And what about you?” she asked quietly. “What do you carry, Your Grace?”
Rhaenys hesitated, her violet eyes briefly clouded with emotion. “I carry the weight of knowing what we’ve done to build this realm,” she admitted. “But I also carry hope—for what it can become. For what we can become.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the only sound the faint rustle of fabric as Argella shifted on her feet. Finally, she spoke, her tone measured. “It’s hard to forget,” she said. “But… I’ll try.”
Rhaenys’s smile returned, warm and genuine. “That’s all I could ask.”
She stepped back, her dimples deepening as she inclined her head slightly. “You look beautiful, Argella. Storm’s End couldn’t ask for a better lady to lead it.”
Argella’s lips twitched into the faintest smile, her gray eyes softening. “Thank you… Your Grace.”
Rhaenys nodded and turned to leave, her crimson gown trailing behind her like a living flame. As the door closed softly behind her, Argella exhaled deeply, her reflection in the mirror showing a woman who, for the first time in a long while, felt just a bit lighter.
The Great Hall of Storm’s End was transformed into a vibrant tapestry of music, laughter, and flickering torchlight. Banners of deep green and gold, emblazoned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon, adorned the towering stone walls. Long oak tables groaned under the weight of platters piled high with roasted meats, steaming pies, fresh-baked breads, and a variety of colorful fruits from across the Stormlands. Goblets filled with the finest mead and wine clinked together in toasts, the sound rising above the merry din.
At the center of it all sat Argella Durrandon, resplendent in a deep emerald gown that shimmered with every movement. The embroidery of stormclouds and silver lightning bolts along the hem mirrored her house’s proud legacy. Seated beside her was Orys Baratheon, his black and gold attire tailored perfectly to his broad frame. His warm smile rarely left his face as he glanced at Argella, her usual stoicism softened by the lively atmosphere.
For the first time in what felt like an age, Argella smiled—a small, rare thing, but genuine. The sight did not go unnoticed by Rhaenys Targaryen, who sat at the high table beside her husband, Aegon. Dressed in a crimson gown that gleamed like molten fire, her hair cascading down her back in intricate braids adorned with ruby-studded pins, she leaned toward Aegon with a delighted whisper. Aegon, in turn, smiled softly, his violet eyes flickering toward the couple as he raised his goblet.
Visenya Targaryen sat to Aegon’s right, clad in an elegant but severe black gown, her platinum hair swept into a tight crown braid. Though her sharp violet eyes often scanned the room with quiet vigilance, even she seemed more at ease, her lips quirking into a faint smile as she observed the lords and ladies enjoying the festivities. Beside her sat Aethan Velaryon, his sea-blue tunic and silver accents a reflection of Driftmark’s maritime legacy. The two shared occasional remarks, their rare camaraderie evident to those who watched.
As the music softened and the chatter ebbed, Aegon stood from his seat, his imposing presence commanding immediate attention. The hall fell silent as all eyes turned to the Conqueror, his black and crimson attire as regal as the crown on his silver-gold hair.
Raising his goblet, Aegon’s deep voice resonated through the hall. “Lords and ladies, tonight we celebrate not only the union of Orys Baratheon and Argella Durrandon but the bonds that tie us all together. Storm’s End stands as a testament to the strength and resilience of this realm. Its walls have withstood storms and sieges, and now, under Orys and Argella’s leadership, it will thrive as a beacon of loyalty and unity.”
The room erupted into applause and cheers, goblets raised high. Aegon’s gaze swept the hall, landing briefly on each of his siblings, his violet eyes warm with unspoken pride. “Let us drink to their happiness, to the strength of this realm, and to the future we shall build together.”
“Here, here!” came a chorus of voices as wine flowed freely, the mood buoyant with celebration.
The musicians struck up a lively tune, the melodies of fiddles and flutes weaving through the air like a joyful spell. The floor was quickly cleared for dancing, and Orys rose from his seat, extending a hand to Argella. She hesitated for only a moment before taking it, her storm-gray eyes meeting his with a mixture of warmth and shyness.
As they moved to the center of the hall, the lords and ladies clapped in rhythm, cheering as Orys led Argella into a graceful dance. His steps were steady and confident, guiding her through the movements with ease. To the surprise of many, Argella smiled—a soft, genuine expression that lit up her face as she moved with unexpected grace.
Next, Aegon extended a hand to Rhaenys, who took it with a bright smile. The two swayed together effortlessly, their connection evident in the way they moved in perfect harmony. Rhaenys laughed softly as Aegon spun her, her crimson gown flaring like fire around her.
Across the hall, Visenya watched the dancers with a reserved expression until Aethan approached her, bowing slightly. “May I have this dance, Your Grace?” he asked with a small, respectful smile.
Visenya hesitated but allowed a faint smirk to play on her lips. “If you can keep up, Velaryon.”
The crowd cheered as the normally reserved Visenya stepped onto the floor with Aethan. Though her movements were precise and controlled, there was a rare lightness to her demeanor as Aethan guided her through the steps with surprising charm.
As the music swelled, partners began to switch, lords and ladies mingling freely in the joyous atmosphere. Rhaenys found herself dancing with Harlen Tyrell, his boyish charm bringing a warm smile to her face. Aegon shared a turn with Lady Velaryon, their movements stately and composed. Even Argella, to her surprise, found herself spinning across the floor with Loren Lannister, his golden hair gleaming in the torchlight as he complimented her grace.
The hall was alive with motion and color, the swirl of gowns and the gleam of polished boots creating a mesmerizing spectacle. Corlys, ever energetic, darted between groups, his youthful laughter infectious as he insisted on dancing with every lady in sight.
By the end of the evening, the hall was filled with flushed faces and breathless laughter. The bonds of loyalty and friendship had been strengthened, the joy of the celebration a balm to the lingering tensions of the past. Even Argella, though still guarded, seemed to glow with a newfound warmth as she leaned into Orys’s side, her storm-gray eyes softening as she gazed across the room.
The feast and dancing continued late into the night, a triumphant celebration of love, loyalty, and the unyielding strength of House Baratheon and its allies.
The Great Hall of Storm’s End had begun to settle as the night grew late. The vibrant energy that had filled the room earlier was now softened, replaced by the comfortable lull of drunk lords and ladies lingering over their cups, their laughter slurred and their conversations meandering. Servants moved quietly, clearing plates and goblets from the tables, while a few musicians continued to play a soothing tune, their fingers gliding over harp strings and flute keys.
Aegon Targaryen sat at one of the tables near the high dais, his black and crimson attire slightly disheveled from the evening’s festivities. Beside him was Visenya, her sharp violet eyes scanning the room with practiced vigilance. Though the tension of her usual demeanor had eased, she still carried an air of readiness, her hand occasionally brushing the hilt of Dark Sister, which rested at her side.
They sat in a companionable silence for a while, watching the hall. Aegon’s gaze lingered on the lords and ladies swaying drunkenly on the dance floor, some stumbling in their steps, others clapping along to the fading music.
“Another successful feast,” Aegon remarked, his deep voice cutting through the quiet between them.
Visenya nodded, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “For once, the lords managed to keep their squabbles to a minimum.”
Aegon chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. “I imagine the wine helped.”
Visenya’s expression turned contemplative as she swirled the last of her wine in her goblet. After a moment, she broke the silence. “What are we to do about Dorne?”
Aegon’s relaxed demeanor shifted slightly, his violet eyes narrowing as he considered her question. “Dorne will be a challenge,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “Their mountains are as formidable as the Eyrie’s, and their people are fiercely independent. They’ll not kneel easily.”
“They won’t kneel at all,” Visenya said bluntly, setting her goblet down with a soft clink. “We’ve taken six kingdoms with fire and blood, but Dorne is different. They’ve had centuries to master their defenses. Even the might of dragons won’t guarantee victory.”
Aegon tilted his head, studying his sister. “You don’t think we should strike?”
“I think we need to strike carefully,” she replied, her voice measured. “Rash action will cost us more than we gain. Dorne thrives on guerilla warfare. They’ll retreat to the mountains, draw us into their territory, and bleed us dry over years if we’re not careful.”
Aegon frowned, his gaze fixed on the goblet in his hand. “Then what would you suggest? A siege won’t break them. And fire alone won’t bring them to their knees.”
Visenya was quiet for a moment, her sharp features etched with thought. Finally, she spoke, her words measured. “Send Rhaenys.”
Aegon’s head snapped up, his surprise evident. “Rhaenys?” he repeated, disbelief coloring his tone. “You would send her?”
“She’s the best choice,” Visenya said firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Her charm, her warmth—they’re assets we’ve overlooked. Dorne won’t respond to fear or fire, but they might respond to her.”
Aegon shook his head, his expression a mixture of shock and skepticism. “You’ve spent the better part of this conquest arguing against her softness. Now you think it’s our greatest weapon?”
Visenya smirked faintly, though there was a trace of something more genuine behind it. “Even I can admit when I’ve been wrong,” she said. “Rhaenys has a way of reaching people, of making them see her as more than a conqueror. If anyone can speak to the Dornish and bring them to the table, it’s her.”
Aegon leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he studied his sister. “And what if they refuse? What if they see her warmth as weakness?”
“Then we respond with fire,” Visenya said bluntly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “But I don’t think it will come to that. Let her try, Aegon. Give her the chance to succeed where we might fail.”
Aegon fell silent, his gaze turning inward as he weighed her words. Finally, he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “I’ll think on it,” he said, his tone softer.
Visenya nodded, satisfied. “That’s all I ask.”
For a moment, they simply sat together, the weight of their conversation lingering in the air. Aegon reached for his goblet, taking a slow sip before glancing at his sister. “You surprise me, Visenya,” he admitted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I didn’t think you had this in you.”
Visenya smirked, her violet eyes glinting with amusement. “Don’t get used to it.”
Aegon chuckled, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
As the music in the hall faded into quiet, the siblings sat together, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows over their faces. For all their differences, for all their arguments and battles, this moment of shared understanding reminded them both of the bond that had carried them through fire and blood—and would carry them still.
The morning of the wedding dawned bright and golden, the stormy skies of the previous week giving way to a clear, vibrant blue. The castle of Storm’s End, its high stone walls a testament to centuries of endurance, was alive with activity. Servants hurried through the halls and courtyards, carrying bouquets of wildflowers, garlands of greenery, and silken banners in the colors of House Baratheon and House Targaryen—black, gold, and crimson. The salty breeze from Shipbreaker Bay carried the mingling scents of roses and fresh sea air, filling every corner of the fortress with the promise of celebration.
In the grand hall, rows of benches had been arranged, their polished wooden surfaces adorned with ribbons and small floral arrangements. The banners of the Stormlords and their vassals hung proudly from the rafters, their sigils adding a burst of color to the otherwise austere stone walls. At the far end of the hall, a dais had been erected, its steps draped in rich black-and-gold fabric, and at its center stood a ceremonial archway crafted from twisted driftwood and adorned with golden roses.
The Lords and Ladies Gather As the guests began to file in, the hall became a tapestry of Westerosi nobility. The lords and ladies of the Stormlands, along with the visiting Targaryens and other notable houses, filled the room with their vibrant attire and hushed whispers.
Lord Harlen Tyrell stood near the front, resplendent in a green velvet doublet embroidered with golden roses. A jeweled brooch in the shape of a blooming rose secured his cloak at his shoulder, and his dark curls were crowned with a simple circlet of gold. His deep brown eyes scanned the crowd with quiet amusement as he exchanged pleasantries with nearby lords.
Lord Loren Lannister, representing the Westerlands, was every inch the lion of his house. His golden tunic shimmered under the light of the hall’s chandeliers, and a crimson sash embroidered with roaring lions was draped across his chest. His sharp blue eyes held a hint of mischief as he observed the proceedings with a faint smile.
The Targaryens Arrive The hall fell into a brief, reverent silence as the doors swung open, revealing the royal party. Aegon Targaryen, clad in a doublet of black velvet trimmed with crimson dragon scales, entered first. His Valyrian steel crown glinted in the sunlight streaming through the high windows, and his violet eyes scanned the hall with quiet authority. The crimson cloak cascading from his shoulders was fastened with a dragon-claw brooch, its ruby eye catching the light.
At his side was Visenya Targaryen, dressed in a gown of black silk that shimmered like dragon wings. Silver embroidery in the shape of winding dragons traced the bodice, and her silver-gold hair was swept into an intricate braided updo, pinned with a dragon-shaped clasp of Valyrian steel. She carried herself with her usual poise, her piercing violet eyes scanning the room with calculated calm.
Behind them was Rhaenys Targaryen, her crimson gown flowing like liquid fire as she walked with grace. The bodice of her dress was adorned with delicate dragon-scale embroidery in gold thread, and her silver-gold hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, adorned with ruby-studded pins. Her violet eyes sparkled with warmth as she smiled and nodded to the gathered lords and ladies.
The Ceremony As the room settled, the music began—a soft, haunting melody played on a harp, accompanied by the gentle rhythm of a drum. Argella Durrandon entered first, escorted by two maids of honor dressed in simple yet elegant gowns of storm-green. Argella’s gown was a masterpiece: a deep emerald green silk with silver lightning bolts embroidered along the hem and bodice. The gown hugged her tall, athletic frame, and a delicate silver circlet rested atop her loose, dark curls. Her storm-gray eyes were steady as she walked, though there was a flicker of emotion in them as she approached the dais.
Orys Baratheon awaited her at the dais, his broad frame clad in a doublet of black and gold, the crowned stag of House Baratheon emblazoned across his chest. A golden cloak draped over his shoulders, its edges trimmed with black velvet. His dark brown eyes softened as they met Argella’s, and a faint, almost boyish smile tugged at his lips.
The ceremony was officiated by a sept, whose voice rang clear and steady as he recited the ancient vows of union. Argella and Orys clasped hands, their fingers intertwining as they exchanged their vows. When the golden cloak of House Baratheon was draped over Argella’s shoulders, symbolizing her transition to her new house, the gathered lords and ladies erupted into applause.
The Feast and Dancing The feast that followed was a celebration of Stormlander tradition and Targaryen grandeur. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, venison pies, fresh-baked breads, and platters of exotic fruits. Golden goblets overflowed with mead and wine, and the laughter and music echoed through the hall.
The first dance was reserved for the bride and groom. Orys and Argella moved with surprising grace, their steps in perfect sync as they swayed to the lively music. Argella, who rarely smiled in public, couldn’t suppress the warmth in her expression as Orys whispered something that made her laugh softly.
When the couple stepped aside, Aegon and Rhaenys took to the floor. Aegon, ever composed, moved with measured elegance, while Rhaenys’s natural charm and light-footed grace lit up the room. Her laughter rang out as Aegon spun her around, the joy on her face infectious.
Next, Visenya stepped forward, accepting Aethan Velaryon’s offered hand. The two danced with a quiet confidence, their movements precise and regal. Though Visenya rarely participated in such festivities, the faint smirk on her lips hinted at her enjoyment of the moment.
As the music continued, partners switched, and soon the entire hall was filled with dancing. Lords and ladies, young and old, moved to the music, their laughter and joy filling the space. Even Argella, who had initially remained on the sidelines after her first dance, was coaxed back onto the floor by Rhaenys, who spun her into an impromptu dance that left both women laughing.
As the evening wore on, the festivities showed no sign of slowing. The hall was alive with the sounds of celebration—a fitting tribute to the union of Orys Baratheon and Argella Durrandon, a symbol of peace and loyalty amidst the fire and blood that had forged their world.
The great hall had finally gone quiet, the revelry of the feast leaving a gentle hum of distant laughter in the air. In her chambers, Argella Durrandon stood before a tall mirror, her fingers brushing over the silken fabric of her nightgown. The firelight painted warm tones across the stone walls, flickering shadows that danced with her own anxious movements. She smoothed the fabric over her hips, her breaths coming shallow as she awaited the knock she knew would come.
When it finally sounded, her pulse quickened. “Enter,” she called, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest.
The door opened, revealing Orys Baratheon. His broad frame filled the doorway, his hair slightly disheveled and his dark eyes shadowed with emotion. Gone were the finery of the wedding ceremony; he now wore a simple linen shirt, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and dark trousers. His presence brought a warmth to the room, though his hesitation in crossing the threshold mirrored her own nervousness.
“You look beautiful,” he said, his voice low and sincere. His gaze softened as he stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him.
“And you look… different without all the armor,” Argella replied, her lips twitching into a faint smile. The tension between them lightened just slightly.
Orys chuckled, moving closer. “I’d hope so. It’s a bit much for this sort of evening.”
She laughed softly, but her hands twisted the fabric of her gown. Sensing her unease, he stopped just short of reaching her, his hands resting loosely at his sides. “You don’t have to be nervous, Argella,” he said gently. “Tonight is about us. No one else.”
She looked up at him, her storm-gray eyes meeting his with a mixture of vulnerability and trust. “I know,” she said softly. “It’s just… new.”
“For both of us,” he reassured her, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Though I won’t lie and say I’ve never shared a bed before.”
Argella raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking. “I’d hope not. A lord without experience might be more concerning.”
He grinned, his laughter a warm rumble that eased the tension in her shoulders. “Not a saint,” he admitted, “but not a scoundrel either.”
“That’s… reassuring,” she replied, her voice softer now.
When he reached for her, his touch was feather-light, his calloused fingers brushing against hers. She allowed him to lead her to the edge of the bed, their movements slow and deliberate, as if each step was a test of trust. He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin as he searched her eyes. “If you’re not ready—” he began, but she shook her head.
“I trust you,” she said simply.
Orys leaned in, his lips brushing against hers with a tenderness that surprised them both. The kiss deepened, his hand slipping to the small of her back to draw her closer. Her hands found his chest, fingers curling into the linen of his shirt as she let herself sink into the moment.
When the layers of her gown slipped from her shoulders, her breath hitched. Orys paused, his dark eyes scanning her face for any sign of hesitation. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t deserve this.”
She shook her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. “And yet, here we are.”
As he joined her beneath the covers, the weight of the day faded, replaced by the shared intimacy of the moment. He moved slowly, his touch both reverent and careful. When she let out a soft cry, his body tensed, and he stilled immediately. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice filled with concern. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Argella reached for him, her hand cupping his face. “It’s fine,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the discomfort. “We can continue.”
Her words seemed to ground him, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead before resuming with even greater care. He held her close, his every movement measured, ensuring that she felt safe and cherished. The pain ebbed, replaced by a warmth that spread between them, binding them in a way deeper than words could express.
When it was over, they lay entwined beneath the blankets, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the room. Orys traced lazy patterns along her arm, his gaze soft as he studied her face. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice filled with emotion.
Argella tilted her head to look at him, a faint smile curving her lips. “For what?”
“For trusting me,” he replied. “For this. For us.”
She rested her head against his chest, her eyes closing as his heartbeat steadied her own. “I’m glad it’s you,” she whispered.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth as the two drifted into a peaceful silence, the weight of the world beyond their chamber momentarily forgotten. Together, they fell into a contented sleep, the bond between them strengthened by the night they shared.
The predawn stillness of Storm’s End enveloped the castle, the only sound the faint murmur of waves crashing against the cliffs far below. Aegon Targaryen walked the quiet halls in his bedclothes—a simple tunic and loose trousers, his silver-gold hair tousled from sleep. The castle was unusually silent, the revelry of the previous night leaving behind a rare calm.
As he passed through a stone archway leading to one of the outer corridors, he spotted a familiar figure standing on a balcony. Orys Baratheon, also clad in his bedclothes—a simple shirt and trousers—leaned on the stone railing, gazing out over the horizon. The sky was a canvas of deep purples and soft oranges, the first light of dawn threatening to break.
“Orys,” Aegon called softly, stepping out onto the balcony. His voice seemed to startle the quiet, but the Stormlander didn’t flinch. Instead, he turned his head, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Orys asked, his voice rough from the early hour.
“Something like that,” Aegon replied, joining him at the railing. The cool morning breeze tugged at their clothes, and for a moment, they stood in companionable silence, watching the sky lighten over the vast sea.
“You’ve made a home here,” Aegon said finally, his tone warm. “Storm’s End feels different now—more alive.”
Orys chuckled, his dark eyes soft as they glanced toward the distant rooftops of the keep. “That’s Argella’s doing more than mine. She’s worked harder than anyone to make it feel like a proper house again.”
“She suits the role,” Aegon said, nodding. “And so do you.”
Orys didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “It’s strange,” he said after a pause. “For so long, I fought for you, for the throne, for conquest. Now I fight for her—for this.” He gestured to the castle and the lands beyond. “It’s a different kind of weight, but no less heavy.”
Aegon placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm. “You’ve earned it, Orys. And you’ve done well. The Stormlands are stronger because of you both.”
Orys turned to face him fully, a hint of uncertainty in his expression. “What about you? What’s next for the crown?”
Aegon’s gaze turned thoughtful, his violet eyes reflecting the pale glow of the waking sun. “Dorne,” he said simply. “They’ve remained defiant for too long. Their independence threatens the unity we’ve built.”
Orys raised an eyebrow, his tone cautious. “And you’re sending Rhaenys?”
Aegon nodded. “We’re sending Rhaenys. She’s better suited to the task—softer in approach, yet no less determined. The Dornish may listen to her where they’d defy anyone else. And it’s not dragons we need to bring to Dorne. It’s diplomacy first.”
Orys frowned slightly, his brow furrowing. “You’re certain they’ll see reason?”
“They might not,” Aegon admitted. “But we have to try. The Seven Kingdoms can’t truly be united until Dorne joins the fold. Rhaenys gives us the best chance of making that happen peacefully.”
The two men stood in silence for a moment longer, the sun now casting its golden rays over the cliffs. Finally, Aegon turned to Orys, his expression softening. “We leave today. Storm’s End has been a generous host, as always.”
“You’ll always have a place here,” Orys replied. His voice carried a rare warmth, his loyalty to Aegon as steadfast as ever.
The two men clasped forearms in a gesture of friendship and understanding. “Take care of Argella,” Aegon said. “She’s strong, but even the strongest need someone they can lean on.”
Orys nodded, his expression resolute. “Always.”
As Aegon turned to leave, Orys called after him. “And take care of yourself, Aegon. The realm needs you.”
Aegon glanced back with a small smile. “And I need the realm. Farewell, Orys.”
With that, Aegon disappeared into the shadows of the castle, leaving Orys alone on the balcony as the sun rose higher, casting Storm’s End in the light of a new day.
Chapter 17: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken
Chapter Text
The city of Oldtown stood cloaked in the stillness of a late autumn night, its streets illuminated by the faint glow of lanterns and the silvery touch of the crescent moon. At its heart, the Starry Sept rose like a monument to faith and power, its black marble walls gleaming faintly under the celestial light. The bustling sounds of the city had quieted, replaced by the murmurs of the faithful whispering prayers for guidance in the uncertain times that loomed over Westeros.
Within the sacred halls of the Starry Sept, the High Septon moved deliberately, his golden robes trailing behind him, their intricate embroidery glinting in the dim torchlight. The air was thick with the heady scent of myrrh and frankincense, their smoke curling in delicate spirals around the towering statues of the Seven. Shadows danced across the walls, cast by the flickering flames of countless candles that lined the altars.
The High Septon paused before the grand altar of the Father, his violet eyes reflecting the weight of his station and the gravity of the moment. His fingers, adorned with rings of gold and silver, trembled slightly as they touched the edge of the altar. The cool marble beneath his fingertips was a stark contrast to the heat of his thoughts.
"Aegon Targaryen," he murmured, the name heavy on his tongue. His voice echoed faintly in the vast chamber, lost amidst the soaring arches and intricate stained glass windows that depicted the glory of the Seven. "Fire and blood. And yet… are they also salvation?"
He glanced upward, his gaze settling on the grand window of the Seven, where light refracted into a kaleidoscope of color that spilled across the polished floor. The imagery of the Warrior, the Crone, and the Stranger seemed to watch him, their silent presence both comforting and daunting.
The High Septon drew in a deep breath, steadying himself. His decision had already begun to form, but it was one that required the clarity and guidance of the divine. He turned and walked with measured steps toward the inner sanctum, the most sacred chamber of the Starry Sept, where only he could enter. The massive double doors were carved with intricate depictions of the Seven, their forms almost lifelike in their detail.
As the High Septon reached the doors, he paused. His gaze swept across the chamber, taking in the flickering candles, the muted prayers of the septons kneeling at their altars, and the soft rustle of robes as acolytes tended to their duties. He nodded once, signaling for the doors to be opened.
The septons stationed at the doors bowed deeply, their heads nearly brushing the floor, before pulling the heavy doors apart with a resonant creak. The inner sanctum was revealed—a modest yet deeply reverent space where the High Septon sought communion with the Seven. The chamber was dimly lit, its walls adorned with carvings of the stars and celestial patterns, and a single altar stood at its center, flanked by seven candles whose flames burned steadily.
The High Septon stepped inside, the doors closing behind him with a finality that echoed through the silent chamber. He approached the altar, the faint sound of his robes brushing against the stone floor the only noise. Kneeling before the altar, he placed his hands together in prayer, his head bowing low.
"O Seven who watch over us, grant me your wisdom," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. "Guide me in this time of darkness, that I may lead your faithful on the path of light."
As the door's lock turned with a solid click, sealing the sanctum, the septons outside exchanged uneasy glances. Whispers of concern flitted among them, for never before had the High Septon secluded himself so suddenly. Yet none dared question his actions, for it was not their place to interfere with the workings of the divine.
Inside the sanctum, the High Septon remained kneeling, his prayers growing fervent as the night deepened. The flames of the candles danced and flickered, casting shifting shadows that seemed to mirror the uncertainty of the world beyond the sept's walls. The conqueror's shadow loomed ever closer, and the High Septon sought desperately for the strength and clarity to face what was to come.
Far to the east, in the stone halls of Aegonfort, the air was charged with anticipation. The storm clouds that gathered above mirrored the tension within as Aegon Targaryen stood before a detailed map of Westeros spread across a grand oak table. His violet eyes traced the coastline of the Reach and the sands of Dorne, his thoughts split between the two regions critical to his vision of a united realm.
The chamber was dimly lit, the glow from a brazier casting dancing shadows over the walls. Aegon’s black and crimson tunic, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, shimmered faintly in the firelight. The weight of his crown pressed heavier tonight, the burdens of conquest and governance resting squarely on his shoulders.
Behind him stood his queens, Visenya and Rhaenys, their contrasting presences as steady as the stone walls around them. Visenya, clad in her dark leather armor, her hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister, leaned over the table with a sharp, calculating gaze. Rhaenys, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders, looked thoughtful but determined, her hands brushing the edge of the map.
"Oldtown is more than a city," Aegon began, his voice steady but heavy with purpose. "It is the heart of the Faith, and its submission will solidify our rule. Without it, our conquest remains incomplete."
Rhaenys nodded, her amethyst eyes scanning the southern reaches of the map. "But how do we approach the High Septon? He is no mere lord to be swayed by strength alone. He commands the souls of the realm."
Aegon’s expression tightened. "We will offer him peace. A chance to preserve the sanctity of his Faith while bending it to the needs of this new realm. If he refuses…" He trailed off, his gaze hardening. "Then fire and blood will remind him what stands against us."
Visenya’s smirk flickered, her voice low and sharp. "The Seven may hold power over the hearts of men, but even gods burn when met with dragons."
Aegon met her gaze but turned to Rhaenys. "You will go to Dorne, Rhaenys. The Martells have evaded our reach for too long. It’s time to extend the olive branch—or the sword, if they refuse."
Rhaenys stiffened slightly, her brow furrowing. "Dorne will not bow easily, Aegon. You know as well as I do that their terrain gives them the advantage against any invading force, even dragons."
"I trust your judgment, Rhaenys," Aegon said, his tone softening. "Speak to them. Assess their willingness to join this realm peacefully. But do not hesitate to show them our strength if they prove unwilling to listen."
Rhaenys sighed, a flicker of doubt crossing her face before resolve took its place. "I will do what must be done."
Aegon turned to Visenya, who had been silent during the exchange, her piercing gaze never leaving the map. "You will remain here, Visenya. Aegonfort must be the anchor if either of us calls for aid. You are the sharpest sword we have; your presence here will keep our realm secure."
Visenya’s expression darkened for a moment, but she nodded curtly. "If either of you falter, you know where to find me."
The room fell silent, the weight of the decisions hanging heavy in the air. Aegon placed his hand firmly on the map, his eyes sweeping over both Dorne and Oldtown before looking at his queens. "This is the path to unification. Together, we will see it through."
The three shared a moment of understanding—one born of shared purpose, ambition, and the burdens they bore for their house and realm. The storm outside roared faintly, as if echoing the storm of challenges that lay ahead.
The dragon pit was alive with a quiet hum of tension, the vast cavernous space echoing with the occasional rumble of a dragon or the distant clatter of tools. The air was thick with the scent of dragonfire and oiled leather, mingling with the faint tang of soot that clung to every surface. Torches flickered along the walls, their glow casting dancing shadows over the hulking forms of the dragons resting in their lairs. The pit itself was a fortress of stone, built to house creatures of immense power, its every corner whispering of restrained might.
Rhaenys stood near Meleys, the Red Queen, her dragon gleaming like molten rubies under the flickering light. The dragon shifted restlessly, her massive claws scraping against the stone floor, the faint sound echoing through the chamber. Rhaenys moved with practiced grace, her hands busy adjusting the reins and saddle. She wore her crimson and gold riding leathers, tailored to perfection, the material hugging her lithe frame and emphasizing her regal bearing. Her silver-gold hair was braided tightly, interwoven with thin strands of gold that caught the light, glinting like fire against the pale waves.
Her face was a mask of calm determination, though her violet eyes carried a flicker of unease. She murmured softly to Meleys, her voice low and soothing, her words meant as much for herself as for the dragon. Meleys let out a low rumble, her nostrils flaring as smoke curled from her jaws.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke the stillness. Rhaenys turned, her expression softening slightly as she saw Aegon striding toward her. He was clad in his black and crimson armor, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen embossed on his chest in gleaming silver. His long crimson cloak billowed slightly as he walked, the weight of his crown resting heavy on his brow. Though his stride was confident, his eyes betrayed his worry.
“Preparing to depart?” Aegon asked, his voice deep and steady, though a faint edge of concern laced his tone.
Rhaenys nodded, pausing her work to face him fully. “Meleys and I are ready. Dorne awaits.” She placed a gloved hand on the dragon’s flank, her fingers tracing the warm scales as if drawing strength from the beast.
Aegon’s gaze lingered on her, his expression softening. “Rhaenys,” he began, stepping closer, “this mission... it’s dangerous. The Dornish are not like the lords we’ve faced before. They’ll fight in the shadows, strike when you least expect it.”
She tilted her head slightly, a small smile playing at her lips. “I know the risks, Aegon. But Dorne needs to see more than fire and blood. They need to see that we come with something more.”
Aegon reached out, placing a hand on her arm, his touch firm but gentle. “And what if they don’t see that? What if they only see a dragon they can shoot from the sky?”
Rhaenys’s smile faded slightly, her violet eyes meeting his with quiet resolve. “Then I’ll remind them why dragons are to be feared. But,” she added, her voice softening, “I will not strike first, Aegon. That is not who I am.”
Aegon exhaled slowly, his hand slipping from her arm to rest at his side. “You’ve always been braver than me,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “You face danger with an open heart, while I… I measure every risk, weigh every cost.”
“You’re not without courage, Aegon,” Rhaenys replied, stepping closer. “But we balance each other, don’t we? You carry the weight of the crown, and I carry the hope of what it can be.”
He smiled faintly, a rare softness overtaking his features. “I just don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rhaenys reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “You won’t,” she promised. “I’ll come back. Meleys and I always find our way.”
For a moment, the world around them seemed to fade. The low murmurs of the servants, the distant growls of dragons—all of it fell away as they stood together. Aegon placed his hand over hers, his eyes searching hers as if to commit this moment to memory.
Finally, Rhaenys broke the silence, her smile returning. “You’re starting to sound like a worried husband.”
“Isn’t that what I am?” Aegon quipped, his tone lightening slightly.
She laughed softly, the sound like music in the cavernous pit. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
With a deep breath, Rhaenys turned back to Meleys, her hands steady as she climbed into the saddle. The dragon shifted, her great wings stretching slightly as if sensing the moment had come. Aegon watched, his heart heavy yet filled with pride as Rhaenys adjusted the reins and prepared to take flight.
She glanced back at him one last time, her smile radiant despite the gravity of her mission. “Until we meet again, my king.”
Aegon raised a hand in farewell, his voice firm but tinged with emotion. “Fly safe, Rhaenys. And may the gods watch over you.”
With a mighty roar, Meleys launched into the air, her massive wings beating against the stone as she rose. Sparks and ash scattered in the wake of her ascent, and the dragon’s crimson form soon became a distant silhouette against the pale sky.
Aegon stood rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The sound of soft, deliberate footsteps behind him drew his attention, and he turned to see Visenya approaching. She was dressed in her black riding leathers, her silver-gold hair pulled back in a practical braid, and her violet eyes sharp and assessing.
“She’ll be fine,” Visenya said, her tone firm and certain as she came to stand beside him.
Aegon sighed, his gaze lingering on the now-empty sky. “I know she’s capable, but I can’t help but worry. Dorne is treacherous.”
Visenya’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Worry doesn’t suit you, brother. Rhaenys chose this path because she believes in it. Trust her, as she trusts you.”
Aegon nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He glanced at Visenya, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re right.”
Visenya’s expression softened, and she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Now stop fretting over what you can’t control. You have your own mission ahead. Balerion won’t ready himself.”
Aegon straightened, the weight of his responsibilities settling over him once more. He gave her a small, appreciative nod before turning toward the deeper recesses of the pit, where Balerion awaited. “You always know what to say,” he remarked, his tone lighter.
“Of course,” Visenya replied, her smirk growing as she watched him disappear into the shadows.
She lingered for a moment, her sharp gaze following his retreating form. Then, with a purposeful stride, she turned and made her way back to the castle, leaving the dragon pit to its restless giants and the echoes of a king and queen preparing to carve their paths in fire and blood.
The morning sun rose slowly, casting long shadows over the jagged peaks of the Red Mountains as Rhaenys Targaryen prepared to leave the safety of her camp. Meraxes, her mighty silver-scaled dragon, stood like a living fortress, her wings folded but quivering slightly, eager to take flight. The air carried the sharp tang of the desert, mingling with the distant hum of wind brushing over stone.
Rhaenys wore her crimson riding leathers, reinforced with golden embroidery depicting the sigil of House Targaryen. Her silver-gold hair was braided tightly, adorned with small ruby pins that glinted under the morning light. Servants bustled around her, securing provisions, tightening the straps of her saddle, and nervously avoiding the watchful gaze of Meraxes’s molten gold eyes. The dragon’s tail flicked impatiently, creating small dust clouds that swirled around the encampment.
As Rhaenys mounted Meraxes, her violet eyes swept over her soldiers below. They looked up at her with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Some murmured quick prayers to the Seven, others simply bowed their heads, knowing they were about to witness history.
“Hold the camp,” Rhaenys commanded her captain, her voice steady despite the anticipation crackling in the air. “I’ll return when I have news.”
Meraxes roared, the sound vibrating through the ground and sending shivers down spines. With a mighty push of her hind legs, she launched into the sky, her wings unfurling like massive sails. The wind rushed past Rhaenys’s face, and the world below became a patchwork of red, orange, and brown.
The dragon soared higher, her shadow cascading over the narrow trails of the Prince’s Pass. Below, Dornish spearmen stood guard, their shields forming a gleaming line. From this height, they looked like ants, their movements deliberate but insignificant. Rhaenys’s lips curved into a faint smile as she urged Meraxes to ascend further, out of range of their weapons.
“Let them see,” she murmured, her tone tinged with quiet defiance. “Let them fear.”
The journey across the Dornish sands was marked by silence, save for the rhythmic beat of Meraxes’s wings. The air grew hotter, the sun climbing to its zenith and bathing the desert in a relentless glare. When the sandstone walls of Vaith emerged on the horizon, Rhaenys leaned forward, her sharp eyes scanning for movement.
The castle, nestled along the banks of the trickling Greenblood River, seemed lifeless. Its gates hung slightly ajar, and no banners stirred in the still air. Meraxes circled once before descending into the courtyard, her claws scraping against the cracked stone as she landed. Dust rose in faint clouds, settling slowly in the absence of wind.
Rhaenys dismounted, her boots crunching against the sand-strewn ground. The eerie silence enveloped her as she approached the main gate. She placed a gloved hand on the weathered wood, pushing it open with a low groan. Inside, the shadows of empty halls stretched long and foreboding. The faint smell of abandonment—dust, old stone, and dried herbs—hung in the air.
“They’ve left,” Rhaenys muttered, her voice echoing faintly in the emptiness. She turned back to Meraxes, who let out a low growl of discontent. “Cowards.”
The scene at Godsgrace was no different. The grand fortress, once a beacon of Dornish resilience, stood empty. Its gates were wide open, as though mocking her. Rhaenys walked through the deserted courtyard, her steps purposeful yet tinged with frustration. The Greenblood flowed nearby, its waters slow and lethargic, mirroring the lifelessness of the castle.
Meraxes roared again, her cry reverberating through the canyon walls. It was a call of dominance, but the only response was the hollow echo of her own voice.
The Planky Town came into view as Meraxes glided along the winding Greenblood River. The stilted wooden structures, precariously balanced over the water, appeared almost fragile from above. Usually bustling with traders, fisherfolk, and sailors, the town was eerily quiet.
Rhaenys landed Meraxes carefully on the outskirts, the dragon’s weight causing the wooden planks to creak and groan. She dismounted, her boots making soft thuds against the uneven boards. Her violet eyes scanned the town, noting the shuttered windows and closed doors. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of water and the occasional whisper of the wind.
As she walked through the narrow pathways, movement caught her eye. A woman, clutching a small boy to her chest, peeked out from behind a doorway. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear. Slowly, more figures emerged—women, children, and the elderly, their expressions a mixture of awe and terror.
Rhaenys approached the woman, her tone soft but firm. “Where are your men?”
The woman trembled, her voice barely audible. “Gone, my lady. To the mountains.”
Rhaenys nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. She turned and walked back to Meraxes, her frustration mounting. The Dornish were like sand slipping through her fingers—impossible to grasp and always shifting.
The golden spires of Sunspear rose from the desert like fingers clawing at the sky. The castle, a blend of Dornish elegance and unyielding strength, glowed under the relentless sun. As Meraxes descended, Rhaenys’s keen eyes took in the lack of guards and bustling activity. The castle appeared abandoned, but she knew better.
In the courtyard, a lone figure stood waiting. Meria Martell, the aged Princess of Dorne, exuded a quiet power despite her frailty. Her dark eyes, sharp and discerning, met Rhaenys’s as the dragon landed. The princess’s orange-and-gold gown fluttered faintly in the breeze, her silver-streaked hair arranged in intricate braids.
Rhaenys dismounted, her stride purposeful as she approached. “Princess Meria,” she greeted, her tone formal.
“I have been expecting you, Queen Rhaenys,” Meria replied, her voice steady despite her years.
“You’ve abandoned your lands,” Rhaenys said, her violet eyes narrowing. “Your castles stand empty, your men scattered. Is this how you meet your queen?”
Meria’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I will not fight you, nor will I kneel to you. Dorne has no king. Tell your brother that.”
Rhaenys’s jaw tightened. “You would defy the might of the dragon?”
Meria’s gaze did not waver. “Your words are fire and blood, but ours are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. You may burn us, my lady, but you will not bend us, break us, or make us bow. This is Dorne. You are not wanted here. Return at your peril.”
Rhaenys’s hand hovered near her sword, her frustration bubbling. Meraxes growled softly behind her, sensing her tension. But as she looked at Meria, something gave her pause. The princess, though aged and frail, stood resolute, her spirit unyielding.
“I shall tell my brother your message,” Rhaenys said coldly. “But know this—we will come again, and next time we shall bring fire and blood.”
Meria inclined her head, her expression calm. “You may try, my lady. But you will find only ashes.”
Rhaenys turned sharply, her crimson cloak billowing as she mounted Meraxes. As the dragon took to the skies, Sunspear grew smaller beneath her. Her heart churned with frustration and a grudging respect for the princess who had defied her without lifting a blade.
Thus, queen and princess parted, their meeting a clash of wills, leaving Dorne unbowed, unbent, and unbroken.
The skies above the Red Mountains were heavy with storm clouds, their dark shapes a stark contrast to the blinding heat of the desert below. Rhaenys Targaryen rode Meraxes in brooding silence, the rhythmic beat of the dragon’s wings doing little to soothe the anger simmering in her chest. She kept her eyes fixed on the horizon, refusing to look back at the fading silhouette of Sunspear. The Princess of Dorne’s words lingered in her mind, each syllable striking like a hammer against her pride.
"You are not wanted here. Return at your peril."
Rhaenys clenched her fists around the reins, the leather creaking under the pressure. She had descended upon Dorne with the might of a dragon, yet she felt as though she had accomplished nothing. The castles were abandoned, the people scattered, and the aged Meria Martell had faced her with unwavering defiance. It gnawed at her, a bitter taste that no fire could burn away.
As dusk settled over the desert, Rhaenys guided Meraxes to a secluded clearing near the Prince’s Pass where her camp waited. The soldiers sprang into action at the sight of the descending dragon, their hurried movements betraying their apprehension. Dust swirled as Meraxes landed with a heavy thud, her claws sinking into the dry, cracked earth. The dragon let out a low growl, her mood mirroring that of her rider.
Rhaenys slid off the saddle with practiced ease, her crimson riding leathers coated in a fine layer of sand. Her violet eyes, usually warm and inviting, were stormy and sharp. She stalked toward her tent, ignoring the salutes and murmured greetings from her men. They exchanged wary glances, unsure whether to follow or leave her be.
Inside her tent, the air was thick and stifling. The rich crimson and gold fabrics that draped the walls seemed to close in around her. Rhaenys paced, her movements quick and agitated. The silence was unbearable, her thoughts a cacophony of frustration and self-recrimination.
Rhaenys slammed her hands onto the edge of the heavy wooden table in the center of the tent, rattling the goblets and maps scattered across its surface. “Failure,” she muttered under her breath, the word tasting like bile. She had faced Meria Martell with the full weight of Targaryen power, and the Princess of Dorne had dismissed her as though she were nothing.
“Your words are fire and blood, but ours are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.”
Rhaenys repeated the phrase bitterly, her voice dripping with contempt. “She thinks she’s untouchable. She thinks Dorne is untouchable.”
Her anger burned hotter as she paced back and forth. She wanted to scream, to roar like Meraxes and set the desert aflame. How could she return to Aegonfort with so little to show for her journey? How could she face Aegon and Visenya, knowing she had been turned away without so much as a fight?
A soldier cautiously approached the tent, his shadow visible against the fabric walls. “Your Grace?” he called hesitantly.
“What is it?” Rhaenys snapped, her tone sharper than she intended.
“The men are asking for orders, Your Grace. Shall we continue to the pass at first light?”
Rhaenys drew a deep breath, forcing her tone to steady. “Yes. We’ll break camp at dawn. Dismissed.”
The soldier hesitated, sensing her turmoil, but he wisely chose not to press further. With a quick bow, he retreated, leaving Rhaenys alone once more.
The camp was quiet under the cover of darkness, the only sounds the faint rustle of the wind and the occasional snort of a restless horse. Rhaenys sat outside her tent, her arms wrapped around her knees as she gazed up at the stars. Meraxes lay nearby, her massive body curled protectively around her rider. The dragon’s steady breathing was a comfort, but it did little to quell the storm within.
For the first time in years, Rhaenys felt small. She thought of Aegon, his unshakable confidence, and Visenya, her fierce determination. They would not have let Meria Martell’s words slide so easily. Aegon would have commanded the princess to kneel; Visenya would have drawn Dark Sister and ensured she did.
But Rhaenys had walked away.
Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away, unwilling to let them fall. “I did what I thought was right,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the night breeze. “But was it enough?”
Meraxes stirred, lifting her great head to nuzzle against Rhaenys gently. The gesture brought a faint smile to her lips, and she reached out to stroke the dragon’s smooth scales. “At least I have you,” she murmured.
The next morning, Rhaenys led her small party back through the Prince’s Pass. The narrow, winding trails were flanked by steep cliffs that loomed ominously overhead. Dornish scouts watched from the heights, their presence a constant reminder of the defiance that still burned in Dorne.
Rhaenys kept her gaze forward, her posture straight and regal. She would not let them see her frustration, her doubt. Meraxes flew low, her shadow casting an imposing figure over the soldiers below. It was a silent warning: though Dorne had resisted fire, the dragons still loomed.
As they crossed the mountains and returned to the lands under Targaryen control, Rhaenys allowed herself a small sigh of relief. The weight of the desert lifted, replaced by the familiarity of the Reach’s rolling hills. Yet, the tension in her chest remained.
By the time they reached a Targaryen outpost, Rhaenys felt no closer to peace. She dismounted Meraxes, her legs aching from the long journey, and took a moment to steady herself. She turned back to her men, offering them a nod of gratitude. “Rest well,” she said simply, her voice carrying a quiet authority.
As the soldiers dispersed, Rhaenys found herself alone once more. She glanced at Meraxes, who had settled into a watchful crouch nearby. “We’ll try again,” she said softly, more to herself than the dragon. “Next time, there will be fire and blood.”
But even as she said the words, doubt lingered in her heart.
The vast expanse of night enveloped Aegonfort, the fortress standing silent under a canopy of stars. The winds howled faintly, rattling the tall, narrow windows. Within her chambers, Visenya Targaryen slept fitfully. Her brow furrowed, her breaths shallow and uneven, as she fell deeper into a dream that gripped her mind with an iron hold.
In her dream, Visenya was astride Vhagar, the great dragon’s mighty wings carrying them effortlessly across a vast, endless desert. The sands shimmered golden under an unforgiving sun, stretching in all directions like an ocean of fire. She could feel the oppressive heat seeping into her armor, but her focus was unyielding. To her left, Rhaenys flew on Meraxes, her crimson gown fluttering like flames in the wind. Aegon, majestic and steady, soared on Balerion, the Black Dread, the great shadow of his dragon darkening the sands below.
The three siblings were in perfect formation, their dragons roaring in unison, the sound reverberating across the dunes. Visenya felt a rare sense of unity, a bond so profound it seemed unbreakable. Yet, something about the scene unsettled her—a strange stillness beneath the roar of the dragons, an unnatural quiet that lingered like a shadow at the edge of her awareness.
Without warning, the sky above them darkened. The sun disappeared behind a thick, swirling storm of sand. It fell like rain, gritty and suffocating, cascading in torrents from the heavens. The sands blinded her, the sting sharp against her exposed skin. She struggled to see, calling out to her siblings.
“Rhaenys! Aegon! Where are you?”
Aegon’s voice echoed faintly through the storm. “Higher, Visenya. We must rise above it!”
Spurring Vhagar upward, she ascended into the chaos. The sandstorm grew more violent, the grains cutting through the air like shards of glass. She glimpsed Aegon on Balerion ahead, his dragon’s black wings beating furiously against the storm. But Rhaenys—Rhaenys was nowhere to be seen.
“Rhaenys!” Visenya shouted, her voice raw with desperation. The sands seemed to devour her cries, the storm’s roar overpowering all else.
Then it happened—a flash of silver streaked across the sky, a metallic bolt that gleamed with unnatural brilliance. It struck through the storm, and a blood-curdling scream followed, piercing and unmistakable. Visenya’s heart seized as she recognized the voice.
“Rhaenys!”
She turned Vhagar sharply, her eyes darting through the maelstrom. The storm seemed alive, malevolent, shifting to block her path. Her dragon roared in frustration, flames illuminating the swirling sands, but no sign of Meraxes or her sister emerged.
As she searched, a voice boomed from the heavens, deep and resonant, carrying an unearthly weight.
"The three-headed dragon is broken."
The words echoed through the storm, repeating over and over, growing louder with each iteration. The sands began to swirl faster, forming a massive vortex that threatened to pull her in. The storm itself seemed to mock her, the words ringing in her ears.
"Broken."
"Broken."
Visenya’s breathing quickened, her heart pounding as dread consumed her. She felt the weight of failure pressing down on her, the storm suffocating her resolve.
Her violet eyes snapped open, her chest heaving as she bolted upright in bed. Sweat clung to her skin, her silver-gold hair damp and tangled around her face. The dim light of her chamber did little to soothe the terror that gripped her. Her breaths were ragged, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of her bed.
The storm, the scream, the voice—they felt more than a dream. They felt like a warning.
Visenya swung her legs over the side of the bed, planting her feet firmly on the cold stone floor. Her fingers brushed against the hilt of Dark Sister, the weapon a familiar comfort in her moment of unease. She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself, but the voice from her dream lingered, haunting her.
"The three-headed dragon is broken."
For the first time in years, Visenya Targaryen felt the cold grip of fear.
Chapter 18: The Bells of Oldtown
Chapter Text
The Starry Sept stood resplendent in the midday sun, its black marble walls shimmering as though touched by the divine. For seven days and seven nights, the High Septon had remained cloistered within its sacred halls, deep in prayer and contemplation. The faithful of Oldtown gathered in the square outside, murmuring prayers to the Seven, their voices a low, rhythmic hum that rose and fell like the tide. When word of Aegon Targaryen’s landing at the mouth of the Blackwater had reached the city, the High Septon had retreated behind the great doors of the sept, seeking guidance from the Seven themselves. The Crone’s lamp, it was said, would illuminate the path forward.
On the seventh day, the great bells of the Starry Sept began to toll, their peals echoing across the ancient city. The massive bronze doors creaked open, revealing the High Septon robed in cloth-of-gold, his face pale but resolute. The crowd fell silent as he stepped forward, raising his hands in a gesture of peace and authority.
“The Seven have spoken,” he declared, his voice clear and resonant despite his apparent exhaustion. “The Crone, in her wisdom, has lifted her golden lamp and shown me a vision. Oldtown will burn if we take up arms against the dragon. The realm shall find unity under the flame and blood of House Targaryen."
A collective murmur swept through the crowd as the implications settled in. Lord Manfred Hightower, standing at the forefront, bowed his head deeply. The weight of responsibility was clear in his weathered features. He had been Lord of the Hightower long enough to recognize the wisdom in heeding omens and avoiding folly.
As this proclamation reverberated through the city, Aegon Targaryen was nearing Oldtown. He had departed Aegonfort a fortnight prior, flying atop Balerion the Black Dread, the great shadow of his dragon casting fear and awe over the lands below. His host followed by land, a disciplined force of knights, men-at-arms, and banners that seemed to stretch endlessly toward the horizon. As he approached the gates of Oldtown, the city’s skyline came into view: the towering Hightower, the spires of the Starry Sept, and the bustling port that hummed with activity even under the specter of conquest.
When Aegon and his host arrived at the gates of Oldtown, they found them open wide, a symbol of submission that was as bold as it was pragmatic. Lord Hightower himself rode forth to greet the dragonlord, his green-and-white cloak billowing in the wind. Behind him followed a retinue of knights and bannermen, their armor gleaming but their swords sheathed. Manfred Hightower’s face was solemn as he dismounted, bowing deeply before Aegon.
“Your Grace,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. “The wisdom of the Seven guides us to lay down our swords and welcome you as our king. Oldtown opens its gates to you and offers its fealty.”
Aegon inclined his head, his expression impassive but his violet eyes alight with purpose. “Your wisdom does you credit, Lord Hightower. Together, we shall build a realm that endures.”
That evening, Aegon entered Oldtown not as a conqueror but as a king received in triumph. The streets were lined with curious onlookers, their faces a mixture of awe and apprehension as Balerion’s great shadow passed overhead. The dragon’s low growls echoed through the city, a reminder of the power now held within its walls. The procession moved steadily toward the Starry Sept, where preparations had been made for Aegon’s anointing.
Three days later, the Starry Sept was alive with an energy it had not known in centuries. The gilded chandeliers and polished marble floors reflected the light of a thousand candles. The High Septon stood at the altar, his hands steady as he prepared the seven oils. Aegon Targaryen, tall and broad-shouldered, stood before him in resplendent black and red. His half-cloak, fastened with a dragon-shaped brooch, glimmered like a living ember. Beside him, the great sword Blackfyre rested, its dark blade sharp and imposing.
The anointing was solemn, every gesture heavy with ritual and significance. The High Septon dipped his fingers into the oils, murmuring prayers in the old tongue of the Faith. One by one, he anointed Aegon’s brow, hands, and chest, invoking the blessings of each of the Seven.
“With the wisdom of the Crone, the strength of the Warrior, the mercy of the Mother, the justice of the Father, the protection of the Maiden, the bounty of the Smith, and the mystery of the Stranger, I crown you,” the High Septon proclaimed, lifting a simple circlet of Valyrian steel. He placed it gently on Aegon’s head. “Aegon of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”
The crowd within the sept erupted into cheers, though the solemnity of the moment lingered in the air. Aegon inclined his head to the High Septon, his face impassive but his violet eyes gleaming with purpose. With his coronation, the Seven Kingdoms had found their unifying figure, though much work remained to bring that vision to fruition.
Back in Aegonfort, Visenya Targaryen stood alone. Her brothers and sister-wife had departed—Aegon to Oldtown for the coronation, Rhaenys to Dorne in an attempt to sway the recalcitrant desert lords. The fledgling capital felt hollow in their absence, its halls echoing with silence save for the occasional call of a steward or the hiss of a brazier.
Visenya paced the Great Hall, her footsteps sharp against the stone floor. Dark Sister rested against her hip, the blade’s familiar weight a comfort. Yet, for all her poise and strength, the dream still clung to her like a shroud. It had come to her three nights past, vivid and terrible. A dragon cloaked in shadow, its roars drowning out the screams of men. Flames consumed a great city, but they were not the warm gold of dragonfire—they were black, choking, and final.
The sound of hooves on the cobblestones below drew her gaze to the window. She moved quickly, her heart pounding. A lone rider approached, bearing the sigil of Oldtown on their cloak. Behind them was a cart covered in a thick black cloth, its shape unmistakable: swords, countless swords, bound together in submission. Aegon had made it his habit since the conquest began to collect the swords of his vanquished foes, forging them into symbols of their defeat and his growing dominion.
Visenya swept down the steps, her presence commanding as she crossed the courtyard. The rider dismounted, bowing deeply before her.
“My queen,” the rider said, their voice steady. “I bring word from Oldtown. Your brother, King Aegon, has been crowned by the High Septon. The city bends the knee, and these swords are the spoils of his victory.”
Visenya’s sharp gaze flicked to the cart. She stepped forward, gripping the edge of the cloth and pulling it back to reveal the gleaming steel beneath. For a moment, the weight of their conquest felt tangible, the swords a stark reminder of the bloodshed that had forged their kingdom.
“The realm grows,” she murmured, her voice low and resolute. “And with it, so does our power.”
The rider hesitated, then added, “The King sends his regards, my queen, and bids you know that this victory is but the first of many.”
Visenya nodded, her hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister. The dream’s shadow loomed larger now, its meaning coming into sharper focus. Trouble brewed in multiple directions, and her siblings were far from Aegonfort. For the first time, she felt the crushing weight of their ambition and the dangers it invited.
“If they will not kneel,” she said, her voice cold and deadly, “then they will burn.”
Aegon returned to Aegonfort a fortnight later, Balerion’s great wings casting an imposing shadow over the fledgling capital. The sight of the dragon and its rider descending brought the gathered court to attention. Nobles, soldiers, and servants lined the courtyard to greet their king, their faces a mixture of reverence and awe.
Visenya stood at the forefront, her silver-gold hair gleaming in the sunlight, Dark Sister sheathed at her hip. As Aegon dismounted, she stepped forward, her sharp gaze softening slightly.
“Brother,” she said, her voice steady but warm. “Congratulations on your victory. Oldtown bends the knee, and the Faith anoints you as king. The realm grows stronger under your hand.”
Aegon inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Visenya,” he replied. “Your words honor me. But tell me, where is Rhaenys? Has there been any word from her?”
Visenya’s expression darkened, her tone measured but tinged with concern. “No word has come, Aegon. She flew to Dorne weeks ago, and the sands remain silent. It is… troubling.”
Aegon’s jaw tightened, and he glanced toward the horizon, as if willing Meraxes to appear. “Troubling, indeed,” he murmured.
Visenya gestured toward the keep. “Come. We should speak further in private.”
Together, they ascended the stone steps of Aegonfort, the weight of their unspoken fears hanging heavy between them. Once inside Aegon’s chambers, Visenya closed the door, her expression turning grave.
“Aegon,” she began, “there is something you must know. I had a dream. It was unlike any I have had before.”
Aegon frowned, his violet eyes sharpening. “Tell me.”
Visenya’s voice lowered as she recounted the dream. “The three of us were in perfect formation, our dragons roaring in unison, their voices echoing across the dunes. There was a rare sense of unity, of unbreakable bond. But then the sky darkened, and a storm of sand fell like rain, suffocating and blinding. I called for you both, but only your voice answered. You told me to rise above the storm, but Rhaenys… she was gone.”
She paused, her hand gripping Dark Sister’s hilt tightly. “I searched for her, Aegon. But all I found was chaos. A flash of silver, a scream that pierced my very soul. And then a voice, deep and resonant, boomed from the heavens. ‘The three-headed dragon is broken.’ The words repeated, growing louder, mocking me.”
Aegon’s expression grew grim, his gaze darkening as he listened. “You think this dream is a warning?”
Visenya nodded. “It feels like more than a dream. It feels like an omen. And now, with no word from Rhaenys…”
Aegon stepped closer, his hand resting on her shoulder. His voice was strained, the affection he held for Rhaenys evident in his tone. “She is more than my sister. She is my heart, Visenya. If this dream holds truth…”
He trailed off, his jaw clenching as he fought to steady himself. Visenya placed her hand over his, grounding him. “We will find her,” she said firmly. “We cannot let fear consume us. She is strong, and so are we.”
Aegon nodded, though the worry in his eyes did not fade. “If there is even the slightest chance she is in danger, I will not rest until we bring her home.”
Visenya’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the weight of their shared burden brought them closer. The unspoken bond between them strengthened in the face of their worry for Rhaenys. Aegon’s hand lingered, and she squeezed it gently, a rare gesture of comfort between them.
“We will face whatever comes,” Visenya said, her voice resolute. “Together.”
Chapter 19: The Dragon's Descent
Chapter Text
Late into the night, the guards stationed atop Aegonfort’s walls spotted a familiar sight: the great wings of Meraxes cutting through the darkness, her silver scales catching the pale light of the moon. The massive dragon descended outside the keep, her size far too great to fit within the confines of the courtyard. Her landing shook the ground, and her powerful roar echoed across the night, alerting all within the keep to her arrival. Word spread quickly among the watchmen, their voices tinged with excitement and relief—Rhaenys had returned.
A young servant, barely more than a boy, was roused from his slumber and sent to deliver the news to King Aegon. His heart pounded as he sprinted through the dimly lit halls of Aegonfort, the echoes of his hurried footsteps bouncing off the stone walls. He reached the royal chambers, hesitating for only a moment before raising his hand to knock.
From within, he heard low, muffled sounds. The boy furrowed his brow, unsure of what he was hearing. He knocked again, louder this time, but the sounds continued—moans, deep and rhythmic, with no answer to his call. Emboldened by the urgency of his message, the servant pushed the heavy wooden door open.
What he saw froze him in place. King Aegon and Queen Visenya were entwined on the great bed, their movements fevered and unrestrained. The boy’s face turned as red as dragonfire, his breath catching in his throat as his wide eyes darted between the two monarchs. Visenya’s sharp gaze was the first to snap to him, her expression shifting from surprise to fury in an instant. Without hesitation, she reached for Dark Sister, the blade gleaming as she brandished it, unashamed of her unclothed state.
“What is the meaning of this?” Aegon bellowed, his voice echoing through the chamber. His tone was as sharp as the blade Visenya now pointed at the trembling boy.
The servant stammered, his words a jumbled mess as he tried to form a coherent sentence. Visenya stepped forward, her sword raised, her eyes blazing with indignation. “Speak, boy! Why have you entered without leave?”
“Meraxes!” he finally managed to blurt out, his voice cracking. “Meraxes has been spotted! Queen Rhaenys has returned!”
Both siblings froze, the weight of his words sinking in. Aegon’s expression shifted, concern and relief flickering across his face. Visenya lowered her blade but did not sheath it, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied the boy’s trembling form.
“Leave us,” Aegon commanded, his voice firm. The servant wasted no time, bolting from the room as though his life depended on it.
The two monarchs exchanged a glance, a mixture of guilt and apprehension passing between them. Quickly, they moved to dress, their earlier passion forgotten in the wake of the news. Visenya fastened her armor with practiced efficiency, while Aegon donned his cloak, his mind already racing with questions.
“No word for weeks,” Visenya murmured, her tone grim. “And now she returns in the dead of night. Something is amiss.”
Aegon nodded, his jaw tightening. “We will meet her in the courtyard. Whatever has transpired, we will face it together.”
When they descended to the courtyard, they found it alive with murmurs and movement. Rhaenys approached on foot, her steps steady but weary, flanked by a few of her men. Her armor bore the marks of a long and arduous journey, and her hair, usually immaculate, was slightly disheveled. Yet even in her weariness, Rhaenys exuded a beauty that seemed to radiate in the moonlight, her violet eyes bright with determination.
Aegon rushed to her, his long strides closing the distance between them. Without hesitation, he pulled her into a tight embrace, his hands gripping her shoulders as he leaned back to study her face. “Rhaenys,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Are you hurt? Did they harm you?”
Rhaenys managed a faint smile, though she gently pushed his hands away. “I am not hurt, Aegon,” she said softly, her tone edged with exhaustion. “The journey was long, and the sands unforgiving, but I am whole.”
Visenya stepped closer, her sharp gaze flickering over Rhaenys. “You look as though you have ridden through fire itself,” she remarked, though there was a hint of relief in her voice. “You should rest.”
Rhaenys nodded, her exhaustion finally overtaking her composure. “Rest is all I desire now,” she said. “We will speak of Dorne at dawn.”
Aegon reluctantly released her, his concern still evident. “Go to your chambers, then,” he said. “But know that your return eases my heart. We feared for you.”
Rhaenys offered a faint smile as she turned to leave, her men following her into the keep. Aegon and Visenya watched her disappear into the shadows, the weight of her return settling heavily upon them.
Rhaenys sat in a steaming bath within her chambers, the soothing heat working to ease the aches of her journey. The water was fragrant with oils, a luxury she had longed for during the harsh days in Dorne. She leaned back, her eyes closed, letting the warmth seep into her weary body. A soft knock on the door broke the stillness.
“Who is it?” she called, her voice carrying both exhaustion and annoyance.
“It is I,” came Aegon’s voice from the other side. “May I enter?”
Rhaenys hesitated for a moment before dismissing the servant attending her with a wave of her hand. “Come in, brother.”
Aegon stepped into the room, his expression shadowed with worry. His eyes softened as he saw her reclining in the bath, her skin flushed from the heat, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders. “Are you truly well?” he asked, his voice low. “I needed to see for myself.”
“I told you already,” Rhaenys replied, her tone dismissive. “I am fine.”
He moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bath, his gaze searching her face. “Then why was there no word? No raven, no sign? Do you know how terrified I was? Every day, I thought we’d lost you.”
Her composure cracked. Tears welled in her eyes as she shook her head. “I failed,” she whispered. “I failed, Aegon. The lords of Dorne… they laughed at me. They mocked our banners and our dragons. They called me the dragon queen who would bring fire and blood, and yet I left without even a promise. No one yielded, not even a whisper of surrender.”
Her voice broke as she continued. “I tried everything, Aegon. Diplomacy, threats, even fire. They retreated into their deserts, hiding behind their mountains and scorching sands, and I could do nothing. I am unworthy of the title of queen. You or Visenya would have succeeded where I failed.”
Aegon’s face softened further, his concern etched deeply into his features. Seeing her like this—broken, doubting herself—tore at him. Without hesitation, he leaned forward and pulled her into his arms, uncaring that the bathwater soaked through his clothes. “Stop this,” he said firmly, his voice trembling with emotion. “You are no less a queen because Dorne is stubborn. They have resisted everyone who has ever sought to rule them. This is not your failure.”
Rhaenys sobbed against his chest, her tears mingling with the water. “I feel so small, Aegon. So powerless. They will never respect me. I am not like you. I am not like Visenya.”
He held her tightly, stroking her damp hair. “You are Rhaenys Targaryen, rider of Meraxes, my heart and my strength. You have nothing to prove to anyone. Do you understand? Your worth is not determined by the whims of the Dornish lords.”
Her sobs began to subside, though she still clung to him. He tightened his hold, his voice soft but resolute. “We will face Dorne together, as we always do. You are not alone, Rhaenys. Never alone. They may resist today, but dragons are patient. They will bend in time.”
She pulled back slightly, her tear-streaked face lifting to meet his. “Do you mean it, Aegon? That you don’t see me as a failure?”
He cupped her face gently, his thumbs brushing away the remnants of her tears. “I could never see you as a failure. You are everything I value most in this world. Promise me you’ll never think otherwise.”
Her lips quirked into a faint smile as she nodded. “Thank you, Aegon. For always believing in me, even when I can’t believe in myself.”
He smiled back, though his clothes were thoroughly drenched. “You’re welcome, sister. But next time, send a raven. Please.”
They sat in silence for a moment longer, the warmth of the bath and his embrace easing the weight of her burdens. Finally, Aegon rose, his damp cloak clinging to him, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Rest now, Rhaenys. We will plan our next move when you’re ready.”
With that, he left her chambers, his steps lighter than they had been all night, though his heart still carried the weight of her pain.
A few weeks had passed since Rhaenys’s return to Aegonfort, and life within the burgeoning capital had grown into a rhythm of planning, fortification, and governance. The fledgling kingdom was taking shape, and with it came the challenges of ruling a land still resisting unity.
In those weeks, the Iron Throne had been completed. Forged from the melted swords of Aegon’s defeated enemies, it stood as a jagged monument to his conquest. The throne’s imposing silhouette dominated the Great Hall of Aegonfort, a reminder to all who entered of the dragon’s might. Aegon had held court daily, hearing the pleas and grievances of lords and smallfolk alike. His presence, clad in black and red, exuded authority. The lords of the Reach and the Riverlands came to pledge their fealty in person, kneeling before him and swearing oaths to House Targaryen. He also oversaw plans to establish stronger ties between the crown and the regions, assigning envoys and commanders to ensure peace was maintained.
The city itself was beginning to grow. Aegon had decreed that the land surrounding Aegonfort would become a great capital, one that would reflect the power of his rule. The people had already begun calling it King’s Landing, a name that spread quickly among the court and beyond. The docks were expanding to accommodate the influx of ships, and markets sprang up along the muddy streets, bustling with trade and life. Though still rough and unformed, the city held the promise of grandeur. Engineers and builders worked tirelessly, under Aegon’s direct orders, to ensure that roads were paved and key defenses were established to protect the growing settlement.
Rhaenys, though still recovering from her ordeal in Dorne, had found solace in music. She had taken to composing songs about the Conquerors, weaving tales of valor and dragons into melodies that captivated the court. Her presence in the Great Hall during feasts was a source of joy, her voice lifting spirits as she sang of Balerion’s flames and Meraxes’s silver wings. Yet, beneath her cheerful facade, the sting of Dorne’s defiance lingered. She also took on a more public-facing role, attending to emissaries and ensuring their integration into the fold of Targaryen rule, her grace winning hearts even when swords could not.
Visenya, ever the warrior, had thrown herself into training the royal guard. She personally oversaw the selection of knights who would serve as Aegon’s sworn protectors. Clad in armor and wielding Dark Sister, she drilled them relentlessly in the practice yard, ensuring their loyalty and skill. The sight of Visenya sparring against three men at once became a common spectacle, her ferocity unmatched. Her efforts gave rise to a fearsome unit, their silver-and-black cloaks bearing the sigil of House Targaryen. She also began drafting plans for a royal order of knights to extend the crown’s reach into the realm—a vision she shared with Aegon and which they debated long into the evenings.
News from the Stormlands had been overwhelmingly positive. Orys Baratheon, Aegon’s trusted friend and newly named Lord of Storm’s End, had proven himself an able ruler. His governance was firm but fair, earning the respect of the Stormlanders. Reports of flourishing trade and peace among the vassal houses brought relief to Aegon, who had entrusted Orys with securing the region. Orys himself had written to Aegon, detailing his efforts to rebuild after the conquest, including establishing new trade routes that linked the Stormlands with King’s Landing. His successes stood as a model for how Targaryen rule could bring prosperity, providing a stark contrast to the continued resistance in Dorne.
In private moments, the siblings discussed the future. Aegon was particularly concerned with uniting the faith under his rule. Meetings with septons and High Lords had become frequent, as Aegon sought to bridge the gap between the Faith of the Seven and his Valyrian heritage. The High Septon had sent word from Oldtown, offering cautious support but demanding concessions—particularly regarding the Targaryen tradition of marrying siblings. This was a matter that caused heated debate among the siblings, with Visenya insisting they hold firm and Rhaenys advocating for compromise to avoid alienating their new subjects. Aegon, torn between practicality and principle, began exploring ways to preserve their traditions without risking the crown’s legitimacy in the eyes of the Faith.
One evening, Aegon stood before the map table in his chambers, its surface marked with the borders of his growing kingdom. Visenya joined him, her eyes scanning the pieces representing their armies and dragons. “The Stormlands are thriving under Orys,” she remarked. “He has proven your trust in him was well placed.”
“Indeed,” Aegon replied, his tone approving. “His success is a testament to what loyalty and strength can achieve. If only all the kingdoms could follow his example.”
“And Dorne?” Visenya asked, her tone sharp. “Rhaenys’s setback cannot be ignored.”
“It was not a setback,” Aegon said, his voice rising slightly. “She planted the seeds of doubt among them. Dorne will fall, but it will take time.”
Meanwhile, Rhaenys had taken to the skies once more, flying Meraxes above the Riverlands to ensure their continued loyalty. The sight of the great silver dragon was enough to keep the bannermen in line, though Rhaenys’s heart ached as she soared over the lands, the memory of her struggles in Dorne still fresh. Her efforts, however, were met with success, as key houses reaffirmed their loyalty to the crown, bolstering her confidence.
In the evenings, the three siblings often gathered in the Great Hall. Aegon would sit upon the Iron Throne, his sisters flanking him as they discussed their vision for the realm. Their laughter, though rare, echoed through the hall, a reminder of the bond that united them. The scars of conquest were healing, but the path ahead was fraught with challenges. Together, the three-headed dragon forged onward, determined to shape the Seven Kingdoms in their image.
Amidst these weeks of activity, news arrived from Dragonstone. Their mother, Lady Valaena Velaryon, had sent word that she intended to visit Aegonfort. Accompanying her would be her Velaryon cousins, Aethan and Corlys, who were eager to see the Targaryens’ achievements firsthand. The letter was full of warmth and pride, praising Aegon for his leadership, Visenya for her strength, and Rhaenys for her grace. She promised to arrive within a week, bringing with her gifts from Dragonstone and tales of the Velaryon fleet’s successes, including its triumphs in securing key shipping lanes and deterring pirates.
The announcement was met with mixed emotions. Rhaenys was overjoyed at the thought of seeing her mother again, her spirits lifting at the prospect of a family reunion. Aegon, while pleased, felt a pang of apprehension. He knew their mother’s visit would bring scrutiny, especially as she had always been a sharp observer of their ambitions and decisions. Visenya, as always, remained composed, though she quietly began preparing to host Lady Valaena with the dignity befitting their lineage. She ordered additional training sessions for the royal guard, ensuring their presentation during the visit would be flawless.
The news of their mother’s impending visit spread quickly through the keep, adding an air of anticipation to an already bustling Aegonfort. Servants began preparing chambers, polishing every surface, and ensuring the keep was ready to receive the Lady of Dragonstone. The siblings, despite their burdens, looked forward to the reunion, knowing that even amidst the challenges they faced, the bonds of family would provide strength and purpose.
The day had finally arrived. Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys stood at the docks of King’s Landing, the sea breeze carrying the faint brine of saltwater. Behind them, the bustling city was alive with activity—the shouts of dockworkers unloading goods, the hum of markets, and the distant clang of smiths at their forges. Before them, the sleek Velaryon ships glided into view, their silver and blue sails gleaming in the sunlight. The sight was striking, a reminder of the power of House Velaryon’s fleet.
As the ships anchored, the gangplanks were lowered, and the figures of their mother, Lady Valaena Velaryon, and her retinue came into view. Valaena stepped onto the docks first, her movements graceful despite her age. Her silver-gold hair, streaked with touches of white, was braided intricately, falling over one shoulder. She wore a gown of deep ocean blue, embroidered with silver thread that shimmered like the waves. Though her face bore faint lines from the passing years, her violet eyes were as sharp and commanding as ever, and her beauty remained undeniable.
Behind her came Aethan, now a young man in his early twenties. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his features strikingly similar to their late father—the strong jawline, piercing eyes, and a quiet confidence in his stride. He wore a fitted tunic of silver and black, the Velaryon seahorse emblazoned on his chest. His hair, a rich silver-blonde, was cut shorter than Aegon’s but no less impressive.
Corlys followed closely, now in his late teens. Though not yet fully grown, he stood with the promise of height and strength. His boyish face had begun to take on the angular features of adulthood, though his eyes—bright and lively—still carried a youthful mischief. His tunic, a shade of sea green, contrasted with the dark blue of his brother’s, and his silver hair fell in waves to his shoulders. He glanced around with awe at the city, his curiosity barely contained.
The royal siblings stepped forward to greet them. Aegon, ever the composed king, inclined his head to their mother. "Lady Valaena," he said, his deep voice carrying over the din of the docks. "It is good to have you here in King’s Landing."
Valaena’s lips curved into a warm smile. "Aegon," she replied, reaching out to touch his arm briefly. "You have built much since last I saw you. This city… it holds promise."
Rhaenys stepped forward next, her face lighting up as she embraced her mother. "It has been too long," she said, her voice soft with emotion.
Valaena studied her for a moment, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. "You look a little different, Rhaenys," she observed, tilting her head. "More… mature."
Rhaenys laughed, a musical sound that brought a smile to her mother’s face. "It has been some time," she said. "And time changes us all."
Corlys, unable to wait any longer, broke from his brother’s side and pulled Rhaenys into a tight hug. "You’ve changed, but you’re still you," he said, his voice filled with affection. "I’ve missed you."
Rhaenys laughed again, returning the hug. "And you’ve grown, Corlys. Nearly as tall as Aethan now."
Visenya, standing slightly apart, greeted Valaena with a respectful nod. "Mother," she said. "Your journey was safe, I trust?"
"It was," Valaena replied, her tone fond but direct. "The seas were calm, and your cousins ensured our passage was swift."
As they began their walk through the docks and into the city, the Velaryons marveled at how much had changed. The once-muddy streets were now lined with wooden walkways, and the markets bustled with goods from across the realm. The air was filled with the scent of spices, freshly baked bread, and the occasional waft of salt from the sea. Merchants called out their wares, and children darted through the crowds with laughter.
"You have done well here," Valaena said to Aegon as they walked. "I see your vision taking shape."
"It is only the beginning," Aegon replied. "Much remains to be done, but the foundation is strong."
As they approached the Great Hall, Valaena fell into step beside Visenya. "And you, my fierce daughter?" she asked. "How fares the kingdom’s sword?"
Visenya’s expression softened slightly, a rare moment of vulnerability. "The guard is strong, and the realm begins to settle," she said. "Though there is always work to be done."
"There always is," Valaena agreed, her tone laced with pride. "But if anyone can bear the weight, it is you."
Aethan and Corlys, meanwhile, lagged slightly behind, their attention caught by every detail of the bustling city. Corlys’s questions came rapid-fire, directed at anyone who would answer, while Aethan observed quietly, a small smile playing at his lips. Rhaenys stayed close to them, pointing out landmarks and regaling them with stories of the city’s growth since the conquest.
The tour concluded at the Iron Throne. As they entered the Great Hall, the Velaryons fell silent, their eyes drawn to the jagged monument of power. Valaena stepped forward, her expression unreadable as she took it in.
"It is… formidable," she said at last, her voice thoughtful. "A fitting seat for a king."
Aegon inclined his head. "It is a symbol of what we have built and what we protect."
Rhaenys caught Valaena’s gaze, a slight smile tugging at her lips. "The stories do not do it justice, do they, Mother?"
"They do not," Valaena admitted, her lips curving into a smile of her own. "You three have achieved much. Your father would be proud."
The siblings exchanged a glance, a rare moment of shared pride. The reunion, though just beginning, had already brought a sense of warmth and renewal to the halls of Aegonfort.
Later that evening, Aegon and Valaena sat in a private solar, the warm glow of the hearth casting flickering shadows across the room. Aegon, dressed in a simple black tunic with the red dragon of Targaryen embroidered on his chest, leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.
"You have done much in a short time," Valaena began, studying her son with a mixture of pride and curiosity. "But the realm is vast, and its challenges greater still. How do you plan to rule it all?"
Aegon inclined his head slightly. "With help," he said simply. "I am forming a small council. My sisters will sit upon it, each bringing their strengths to the governance of the realm. Visenya’s insight into military matters is unparalleled, and Rhaenys has a way with people that no one can match."
Valaena’s eyes glinted with approval. "And beyond your sisters?"
"I have chosen Orys Baratheon as my Hand," Aegon continued. "He is loyal, capable, and understands the needs of the Stormlands. He has already proven his worth there, and I trust him to help manage the affairs of the realm."
Valaena nodded slowly, her expression contemplative. "A wise choice. His loyalty is unshakable, and his success in the Stormlands speaks volumes. And the rest of your council?"
"It will include high lords from across the realm," Aegon said. "Men and women who understand their regions and can speak for them. I want a council that reflects the Seven Kingdoms, not just one voice."
"And the laws?" Valaena asked, leaning forward slightly. "How will you maintain order?"
Aegon’s gaze sharpened. "Through the King’s Peace," he said firmly. "Conflict within the realm is forbidden without the leave of the Iron Throne. Those who defy this will face the consequences. However, I have treated the defeated lords with respect. Each region retains its own laws and customs, and the lords maintain their rights—including the right of pit and gallows and, reluctantly, the first night."
Valaena’s expression flickered at that, but she did not interrupt.
"I travel the realm often," Aegon continued. "I bring six maesters with me, each educated in the customs and history of the regions. They ensure I understand the people I rule, their needs, and their grievances. I do not wish to be a distant king, issuing decrees from a high seat."
Valaena’s lips curved into a smile, pride evident in her gaze. "You have thought this through," she said softly. "Your father would be proud of the king you have become."
Aegon inclined his head. "It is not an easy task, but it is one I will see through. The realm deserves peace, and I will ensure it endures."
Valaena reached across the table, placing a hand on his. "And with your sisters and your council by your side, I have no doubt you will succeed. You were born to do this, Aegon. Never forget that."
Aegon met her gaze, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "I won’t, Mother."
The late afternoon sun cast a warm golden hue through the windows of Rhaenys’s chambers, illuminating the richly embroidered drapes and the faint scent of lavender that lingered in the air. Rhaenys sat reclined on a cushioned chair near the hearth, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders, while Visenya stood near the window, her sharp violet eyes scanning the horizon. The sisters, though often differing in temperament, shared a rare moment of quiet conversation.
“Orys will arrive in a few days,” Rhaenys said, her voice light but tinged with anticipation. “It will be good to have him here. Aegon’s decision to name him Hand is a wise one. He understands the people, and they trust him.”
Visenya nodded, her fingers drumming idly on the windowsill. “Orys has always been loyal,” she replied. “And his success in the Stormlands proves his capability. But the task of Hand will weigh heavily. Loyalty is not enough; he will need to wield strength and diplomacy in equal measure.”
Rhaenys smiled softly, her gaze drifting to the flames in the hearth. “He has those qualities, Visenya. I’ve seen it. And besides, he has us to guide him. He won’t carry the burden alone.”
Visenya’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “You have more faith in people than I do, sister. But perhaps that’s why you win their hearts.”
Rhaenys’s laughter filled the room, light and musical. “And you, dear sister, win their fear. Together, we balance each other.”
As the words left her lips, Rhaenys’s expression faltered. Her hand drifted to her forehead, and her eyes fluttered shut. Visenya, quick to notice, stepped forward, her armor clinking faintly as she moved. “Rhaenys?” she called, her voice laced with concern.
Rhaenys’s head lolled to the side, her body going limp as she slipped from the chair. Visenya darted forward, catching her before she hit the floor. Her sharp cry echoed through the chamber. “Guards! Fetch the maesters! Now!”
Her voice carried the authority of a queen, and the guards stationed outside burst into action, their heavy boots thundering down the corridor. Visenya cradled Rhaenys in her arms, her usually stoic expression cracking into one of panic. “Rhaenys, wake up,” she murmured, shaking her gently. “Sister, open your eyes.”
The moments stretched endlessly as Visenya tried to rouse her sister. The golden light from the windows seemed colder now, the warmth of the chamber replaced by a chilling silence.
Across the keep, Aegon and Valaena were seated in the solar, discussing the plans for the upcoming council meeting. Their conversation was interrupted by the distant sound of shouting. Aegon stiffened, his brow furrowing. “What is that?” he asked, rising from his seat.
Valaena, already on her feet, placed a hand on his arm. “We should go,” she said, her tone urgent.
The two moved swiftly through the corridors, their footsteps echoing against the stone walls. Servants and guards stepped aside, their faces pale with worry. As they neared Rhaenys’s chambers, the sounds grew louder—Visenya’s commanding voice cutting through the air.
Aegon pushed the doors open with force, his heart pounding. The sight that met him froze him in place. Rhaenys lay on the floor, her silver hair spread around her like a shimmering halo. Visenya knelt beside her, her hands gently patting Rhaenys’s cheeks as she tried to wake her.
“What happened?” Aegon demanded, striding into the room and falling to his knees beside his sisters. His violet eyes darted between Visenya and Rhaenys, his usual composure replaced by raw fear.
“She fainted,” Visenya said, her voice tight with worry. “We were talking, and then she just… fell. The maesters are on their way.”
Valaena entered the room, her face pale but calm. She knelt on Rhaenys’s other side, her hand brushing her daughter’s forehead. “She’s warm,” Valaena murmured. “But her breathing is steady. That’s a good sign.”
Aegon’s hands clenched into fists against the floor. “She’s never fainted before,” he said, his voice strained. “What could have caused this?”
Visenya shook her head, frustration flashing in her eyes. “I don’t know. She seemed fine until moments before it happened.”
The door burst open again, and the maesters hurried in, their robes trailing behind them. They carried satchels of herbs and instruments, their faces set with determination. One of them, an older man with a steady demeanor, knelt beside Rhaenys and began his examination.
“We will do everything we can, Your Grace,” the maester assured them, his voice calm. “Please, step back and give us room to work.”
Reluctantly, Aegon and Visenya moved aside, though their eyes never left Rhaenys. Valaena lingered a moment longer, her hand brushing her daughter’s cheek before she, too, stepped away.
The chamber fell into a tense silence as the maesters worked, their whispered exchanges and the rustle of their tools the only sounds. Aegon stood near the hearth, his jaw tight, while Visenya paced the room, her frustration palpable. Valaena watched quietly, her hands clasped before her as she murmured a prayer to the Seven.
The seconds felt like hours, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on them all.
Chapter 20: Echoes of Love and Legacy
Chapter Text
Aegon paced outside Rhaenys’s chamber, his boots echoing against the stone floor as his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. The usually composed king was anything but calm. His violet eyes darted toward the door every few seconds, as if willing it to open and bring news. Servants and guards stationed nearby stood stiffly, their expressions carefully neutral, though they exchanged the occasional uneasy glance at their king’s obvious distress. His thoughts were a tempest, filled with fear for Rhaenys and helplessness at not being able to do anything.
Inside the chamber, Rhaenys lay propped up on the large bed, her silver hair spilling over the pillows. The maester hovered beside her, his hands gently checking her pulse and the warmth of her forehead. Visenya stood at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her sharp gaze fixed on the maester. Valaena sat close to Rhaenys, her hand clasping her daughter’s reassuringly, though her own worry was evident in the tension of her jaw.
“I’m fine,” Rhaenys insisted, her voice firm despite the faintness that lingered in her tone. “I don’t know why everyone is making such a fuss.”
The maester’s brow furrowed slightly as he looked at her. “It is my duty to ensure that your well-being is not in question, my lady. Now, I must ask: when was your last moon blood?”
Rhaenys blinked at the question, her expression faltering for a moment. She glanced at her mother, then at Visenya, before looking back at the maester. “Over half a month ago,” she said slowly. “I… missed it this month.”
The maester’s quill scratched lightly against the parchment as he made notes. “Have you felt nauseous recently? Perhaps more than usual?” he asked.
Rhaenys hesitated before nodding. “Yes, but only in the mornings. I didn’t think much of it.”
At that, Valaena gasped softly, her hand tightening around Rhaenys’s. Visenya’s brows knitted together as she glanced sharply at the maester. “What is it?” she demanded. “Is she ill?”
The maester straightened, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Ill? No, my lady. Not ill. Queen Rhaenys is with child.”
The room fell silent, the weight of the revelation settling over them. Valaena’s lips parted in surprise, her gaze darting to her daughter’s face. Visenya, ever composed, looked momentarily stunned before her eyes narrowed slightly, as if recalculating everything in an instant.
Rhaenys’s eyes widened, her hand instinctively going to her abdomen. “With child?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.
The maester nodded, his tone gentle. “Yes, my lady. The symptoms you describe are consistent with early pregnancy. There is no cause for concern; you appear to be in good health. But you will need rest and care as the child grows.”
Valaena’s expression softened, a smile spreading across her face as she leaned forward to kiss Rhaenys’s forehead. “My sweet girl,” she murmured, her voice filled with both wonder and pride. “A child. The future of our house.”
Visenya stepped closer, her sharp gaze softening as she studied her sister. “You should have said something sooner,” she said, though there was no reproach in her tone. “We could have spared you the worry.”
Rhaenys shook her head, a faint laugh escaping her lips as the shock began to fade. “I didn’t know,” she admitted. “I thought it was just exhaustion from everything that has happened.”
Visenya exchanged a quick glance with the maester, then turned and left the chamber. Her footsteps were brisk and purposeful as she pushed the door open and strode into the corridor, where Aegon still paced. His head snapped toward her, his expression a mixture of fear and anticipation.
“What news?” he demanded, stepping closer to her.
Visenya’s stern expression softened, a rare smile tugging at her lips. “She’s fine, Aegon,” she said gently. “And… she is with child.”
Aegon froze, her words sinking in. “With child?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. When Visenya nodded, a grin broke across his face, wide and unrestrained. Before he moved, he grabbed Visenya’s shoulder, surprising her. “Thank you,” he said, his voice filled with rare emotion. “For being with her.”
Visenya’s lips quirked, her usual sharpness giving way to something softer. “Go to her,” she said, nodding toward the chamber door. “She’ll want to see you.”
Without another word, Aegon turned and rushed into the chamber.
“Rhaenys,” he breathed as he entered, his gaze immediately finding her on the bed. Relief and joy lit up his violet eyes as he crossed the room and knelt beside her. Taking her hand gently, he searched her face. “Are you truly well?”
Rhaenys nodded, her smile soft but radiant. “I am, Aegon. And… it’s true. I’m with child.”
Aegon’s smile widened, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “This is a joyous occasion,” he said, turning to the maester. “Are you certain?”
The maester nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Grace. The symptoms are clear, and she appears in good health.”
Aegon turned back to Rhaenys, his expression softening further as he gently kissed her hand. “You have given us a gift beyond measure,” he said quietly. “You’ve always been the heart of this family, Rhaenys. And now you’ll be a mother.”
Valaena rose from her chair, her voice warm but firm. “We should leave them,” she said, glancing at Visenya and the maester. “They deserve a moment to themselves.”
Visenya hesitated briefly, her eyes lingering on her sister. Then, with a final nod, she gestured for the maester to follow. Valaena gave Rhaenys one last reassuring squeeze of her hand before stepping out of the room, the door closing softly behind them.
Aegon sat on the edge of the bed, still holding Rhaenys’s hand. For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of the news settling between them.
“Are you truly happy?” Rhaenys asked softly, her violet eyes searching his.
Aegon leaned closer, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. “More than you can know,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “This child will be the future of our house, a symbol of everything we have built together.”
Rhaenys smiled, leaning into his touch. “I only hope I can be the mother they deserve.”
“You will be,” Aegon assured her. “You are strong, Rhaenys. Stronger than you know.”
He shifted closer, wrapping his arms around her as they sat together, the flickering light of the hearth casting a warm glow over them. For now, the burdens of the realm were forgotten, replaced by the quiet joy of their shared moment.
It had been several days since the joyous news of Rhaenys’s pregnancy, and the atmosphere in Aegonfort was lighter than it had been in months. The corridors seemed less burdened by the weight of governance, and even the guards at the gates noticed the subtle shift in their king’s demeanor. Word had arrived that Orys Baratheon, freshly summoned to King’s Landing to assume his duties as Hand of the King, was approaching the capital. Aegon, eager to see his oldest friend, stood at the top of the steps leading into the courtyard, watching for the first sign of his arrival.
The courtyard buzzed with activity as servants and soldiers prepared to receive Orys’s party. Banners fluttered in the breeze, and the midday sun bathed the scene in golden light. When the sound of hooves and the sight of the crowned stag banner appeared beyond the gates, Aegon’s heart lifted. Without waiting for the formal procession to finish, he descended the steps in long strides, his black tunic emblazoned with the three-headed dragon billowing slightly in the wind.
Orys Baratheon entered the courtyard at the head of his party, a formidable figure on horseback. His dark blue cloak bore the sigil of his house, and his sturdy traveling leathers were dusted from the journey. As his keen eyes scanned the scene, they landed on Aegon. A wide grin broke across his rugged face, and he quickly dismounted, handing his reins to a waiting retainer.
Before Orys could take more than a step forward, Aegon closed the distance between them, pulling his oldest friend into a firm embrace. The two men clasped each other tightly, their camaraderie evident in the unrestrained warmth of their greeting.
“It’s good to see you, brother,” Orys said, his deep voice resonating with affection as he clapped Aegon on the back. “You look better than the last time I saw you. What’s put this spring in your step?”
Aegon stepped back, his grin wide and genuine. He placed both hands on Orys’s shoulders, his violet eyes bright. “Rhaenys is with child,” he announced, his voice brimming with pride.
For a moment, Orys stared at him, stunned. Then his face split into a broad smile, and a booming laugh echoed through the courtyard. “By the gods, that’s the best news I’ve heard in years!” he exclaimed, gripping Aegon’s arm tightly. “A little dragon on the way! No wonder you’re glowing like a lantern.”
Aegon laughed, the sound carrying across the courtyard. “It’s true,” he said. “I haven’t felt this light in years. The realm has a future now, Orys. My child… our legacy.”
Orys’s expression softened, his usual bravado giving way to sincerity. “You deserve this joy, Aegon. After everything you’ve built, after all we’ve fought for, this is the reward.”
The two men stood there for a moment, their bond evident as they shared in the happiness of the moment. The rest of Orys’s party entered the courtyard, but the attention of both men remained fixed on their conversation.
“This changes everything,” Aegon said, his tone more contemplative. “I want this realm to be worthy of them, Orys. I want my child to inherit a kingdom united, not fractured by old grudges.”
Orys nodded firmly. “And we’ll make it so. Together.”
Aegon clapped his friend on the shoulder, his smile returning. “Come,” he said. “Rhaenys will want to see you, and there’s much to discuss. But first, we’ll raise a toast to this new chapter.”
Orys’s grin returned. “Aye, and perhaps a feast as well,” he said with a wink. “I’ve missed the hospitality of Aegonfort.”
“You’ll have it,” Aegon promised as they walked together toward the steps. The two men laughed and spoke as they entered the keep, their bond and shared vision for the realm stronger than ever.
As Orys entered the Great Hall, the grandeur of the space struck him. The banners of House Targaryen hung from the walls, and the light from the tall windows reflected off the polished stone floors. Awaiting him stood the royal family: Visenya, her imposing figure clad in black and silver; Rhaenys, radiant despite her recent exhaustion; Lady Valaena, her serene beauty undiminished by the years; and Aethan and Corlys Velaryon, standing tall and proud beside their Targaryen kin.
Rhaenys stepped forward first, a warm smile lighting her face. “Orys,” she said, her voice filled with affection. “It is so good to see you.”
Orys’s grin widened as he embraced her carefully. “And you, my queen,” he said, his tone teasing but sincere. “You look as radiant as ever. Though I hear you’ve been keeping secrets.”
Rhaenys laughed, her hand resting lightly on her abdomen. “It seems the news travels quickly. Yes, there will soon be another dragon in our family.”
Corlys, standing beside her, couldn’t hold back his excitement. “A baby dragon!” he exclaimed, his youthful energy filling the room. “I can’t wait to meet them. Will they ride a dragon, too?”
Rhaenys chuckled, ruffling Corlys’s silver hair. “In time, perhaps,” she said. “But for now, they’ll need to learn to walk first.”
Visenya approached next, her expression softer than usual. “Orys,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “Welcome back. The realm needs a steady hand, and you are well-suited to the task.”
Orys bowed his head to her, his respect evident. “Thank you, Visenya. It’s an honor to serve alongside you all.”
Lady Valaena stepped forward last, her smile warm. “Orys, it’s been too long,” she said, taking his hands in hers. “You are as much a part of this family as anyone here. It is good to have you home.”
Orys’s voice softened. “It is good to be here, my lady. And to see this family stronger than ever.”
Aethan, standing near Corlys, added with a grin, “It seems we’ll have to start preparing for more seats at the table soon.”
The group laughed, the warmth of the reunion filling the hall. Aegon, who had stood back to watch the greetings, stepped forward, clapping Orys on the shoulder. “Let’s celebrate properly,” he said. “This is a day for joy and for family.”
With that, the royal family and Orys made their way to the long table, their laughter echoing through the Great Hall as preparations for the feast began.
In Rhaenys’s chambers, sunlight poured through the open windows, illuminating the delicate furnishings and casting a warm glow on the polished wooden floors. Rhaenys stood before a large mirror, her hands adjusting the leather straps of her riding gear. The familiar comfort of the attire brought a smile to her lips as she imagined the wind on her face and the rush of clouds beneath her as she soared on Meraxes.
The sound of the door opening broke her reverie. Lady Valaena stepped inside, her violet eyes narrowing as she took in her daughter’s attire. “Rhaenys,” she said sharply, closing the door behind her. “What are you doing?”
Rhaenys turned, her expression calm but firm. “I’m going for a ride. I need to feel the clouds, Mother. To be with Meraxes.”
Valaena’s brows knitted together, her voice rising slightly. “You cannot. Not in your condition. You have responsibilities now—to yourself, to the child, and to the realm. Flying is too dangerous.”
Rhaenys sighed, her patience thinning. “I am not an invalid, Mother. I know my body and my limits. Meraxes and I have been flying together for years. This child changes nothing about who I am.”
“You are not just yourself anymore,” Valaena countered, stepping closer. “You are carrying the future of this house, of this realm. What if something were to happen? Do you think Aegon or Visenya would forgive such recklessness?”
The tension in the room grew, the air thick with unspoken words. Before Rhaenys could respond, the door opened again, and Visenya entered. She took in the scene at a glance, her piercing gaze moving between mother and daughter.
“What’s going on here?” Visenya asked, her tone cool but commanding.
“Your sister,” Valaena said, gesturing toward Rhaenys, “thinks it wise to ride her dragon despite her condition. I am trying to make her see reason.”
Visenya’s expression shifted, her lips curving into a rare, almost mischievous smile. “And why shouldn’t she?” she said, her voice firm. “Rhaenys is her own woman. She is a dragon in a woman’s form, as free and fierce as any of us. You cannot cage that, Mother.”
Valaena stared at her eldest daughter, stunned by the unexpected support. “You cannot be serious, Visenya. This is not a matter of freedom—it’s a matter of safety.”
“Safety?” Visenya countered, her tone sharp. “Rhaenys has been flying since she could climb a saddle. She knows Meraxes better than anyone. And if you think being with child makes her any less capable, then you underestimate her strength. Let her fly, Mother. She will know when it is time to stop.”
Rhaenys glanced at Visenya, her eyes softening with gratitude. “Thank you, sister,” she said quietly.
Valaena sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly as she looked between her daughters. “I only want what’s best for you, Rhaenys. For you and the child.”
“And I will keep myself safe,” Rhaenys promised. “But I need this, Mother. Just a short flight to clear my head.”
Valaena nodded reluctantly, stepping back. “Very well. But promise me you will be careful.”
“I promise,” Rhaenys said with a small smile before turning back to finish adjusting her gear. Visenya lingered a moment longer, her gaze meeting Rhaenys’s in a silent show of solidarity before leaving the room.
The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over Aegon’s study, the large map table at its center cluttered with parchments and miniature figures representing the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon and Orys sat on either side, the fire crackling in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. The atmosphere was relaxed, their goblets of wine reflecting the light of the flames.
“So,” Orys began, leaning back in his chair. “You’re going to be a father. How does it feel?”
Aegon chuckled softly, swirling the wine in his goblet. “Strange,” he admitted. “And wonderful. The thought of a child—my child—walking these halls, learning to rule… it’s daunting, but it fills me with purpose.”
Orys studied him closely, his grin fading into something softer. “You’ve changed, Aegon,” he said thoughtfully. “We both have.”
Aegon raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Have we?”
Orys nodded, gesturing toward the fire. “Look at us. You’ve lines on your face that weren’t there before, and I’ve found a few white hairs in my beard. War, rulership, they take their toll, even on dragons.”
Aegon chuckled at that, leaning back in his chair. “And yet here we are. Still standing. Still building.”
“You’ve built more than I ever imagined,” Orys admitted, glancing around the study. “And now, a family. A child. I’m proud of you, Aegon.”
Aegon’s gaze softened, his violet eyes fixed on his friend. “And I of you, Orys. You’ve been more than a brother to me. You’ve stood by me through every fire and storm. Now, as my Hand, I trust you to help shape this realm for the next generation.”
Orys raised his goblet, a small smile playing on his lips. “To duty, then. And to brothers who didn’t need blood to be bound.”
Aegon clinked his goblet against Orys’s, the warmth of their bond evident. They drank in companionable silence for a moment before Orys set his goblet down, his expression turning thoughtful. “And how is Argella?” Aegon asked, leaning forward slightly.
“She’s well,” Orys said, a fond smile spreading across his face. “She’s stronger than ever. Always has her thoughts on something, always planning, always keeping me in line.”
Aegon’s smile widened. “She’ll make a fine mother one day, Orys. You both will. The two of you were made for it.”
Orys laughed, his deep voice filling the room. “If you say so. Though I imagine Argella would insist on being the one to name the child and probably everything else besides.”
“And she would do it well,” Aegon replied, raising his goblet again. “To Argella and to you. To family—ours and the ones we are building.”
Before Orys could respond, the door opened, and Visenya entered. Her stride was purposeful, her expression unreadable. She paused just inside the room, her sharp eyes taking in the scene.
“Visenya,” Aegon said, motioning for her to join them. “Sister, join us. We were just discussing the realm—and the child.”
Visenya hesitated, then stepped closer to the table. “I’d much rather be here than with our mother,” she said curtly, her tone carrying a rare note of irritation.
Orys raised an eyebrow. “Trouble with Lady Valaena?”
Visenya huffed, crossing her arms. “Not with her, precisely. She and Rhaenys had a… disagreement. Over Rhaenys’s decision to ride Meraxes.”
Aegon straightened in his chair, his expression sharpening. “Rhaenys is flying?” he asked, concern evident in his voice.
“Yes,” Visenya replied firmly. “She’s flying. And before you say anything, Aegon, do not try to cage her. She is no less capable because she carries your child. She is still a dragon—a force to be reckoned with.”
Aegon’s jaw tightened, his concern battling with understanding. “Visenya—”
“She knows her limits,” Visenya interrupted, her tone unyielding. “You cannot strip her of who she is because you’re afraid. That fear will only make her feel trapped—and that is something she will not forgive.”
Orys, watching the exchange, leaned back with a thoughtful expression. “She’s got a point, Aegon. Rhaenys isn’t one to be caged. Let her be herself.”
Aegon exhaled deeply, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I understand,” he said quietly. “I just worry. For her, for the child.”
“And she knows that,” Visenya said, her tone softening slightly. “But trust her. She won’t let anything happen to herself—or your heir.”
The room fell into a contemplative silence, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Finally, Aegon nodded, his resolve strengthening. “Very well. I will trust her.”
Visenya’s lips curved into the faintest smile as she took a seat beside them, the tension easing as the siblings and their trusted friend returned to their discussions of the realm, their bond unshaken.
High above King’s Landing, the wind rushed past Rhaenys like an endless river, cool and bracing against her skin. Perched atop Meraxes, her silver hair streamed behind her like a banner, catching the sunlight with an almost ethereal glow. Each powerful beat of Meraxes’s wings sent a rush of exhilaration through her, the rhythm resonating in her very bones. The vast sky stretched around her, a boundless expanse of blue and white, where she felt more free than anywhere else in the realm.
The great dragon’s body was warm beneath her, the scales smooth and familiar beneath her gloved hands. She leaned forward, one hand resting gently on the saddle, the other absently brushing her midsection. Though her pregnancy was still too early to show, the thought of the life growing within her filled her with a quiet, profound joy. She smiled to herself, her eyes closing briefly as she let the wind and the moment wash over her.
“Feel this,” she murmured softly, as if speaking to her unborn child. “This is freedom. This is what it means to be a dragon.”
Meraxes let out a low, rumbling growl, almost as if responding to her words. The great beast tilted slightly, and Rhaenys guided her higher, soaring through a break in the clouds. The sunlight poured over them as they emerged, the golden light scattering across the dragon’s silver scales like fire on water. Rhaenys laughed, the sound bright and carefree, carried away by the wind.
Below, the land stretched out like a tapestry. She could see the Red Keep rising proudly, the bustling streets of King’s Landing teeming with life, and the winding Blackwater Rush glinting like a silver ribbon. For a moment, she felt utterly untouchable, as if no earthly burden could reach her here.
When she felt the familiar pull of the Dragonpit’s hill in the distance, she gently patted Meraxes’s neck. “Let’s take it slow, my friend,” she said. “The clouds can wait another day.”
Meraxes responded with a graceful descent, the wind shifting to a softer hum as they glided downward. The hill by the Dragonpit rose to meet them, its grassy expanse dotted with wildflowers swaying in the breeze. Meraxes landed with a controlled, deliberate thud, his massive claws sinking slightly into the earth. The air around them was filled with the scent of grass and soil, mingling with the faint sulfuric tang of the dragons that resided nearby.
Sliding down from the saddle, Rhaenys placed a hand on Meraxes’s snout, gazing into the beast’s massive eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, stroking the smooth scales. The dragon let out a low rumble of contentment, his eyes half-closing as he leaned into her touch.
For a moment, Rhaenys stood there on the hill, the wind playing with her hair as she looked out over the city. The sense of freedom lingered, a reminder of who she was—a queen, a dragonrider, and soon, a mother.
As Rhaenys strode into the courtyard, her riding boots crunching against the gravel, the exhilaration of her flight still lingered in her expression. The sun had begun its descent, casting a warm, golden glow over the stones. Visenya stood near the fountain, her sharp eyes catching sight of her sister almost immediately. She approached with her usual confident stride, her silver hair gleaming like spun steel.
“How was the ride?” Visenya asked, her tone neutral but her gaze sharper, as if searching for something deeper in Rhaenys’s expression.
Rhaenys let out a soft laugh, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “It was glorious. The sky, the wind… it reminded me of who I am. It reminded me of freedom.”
Visenya tilted her head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile playing on her lips. “And who are you, sister?” she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with curiosity.
“A dragon,” Rhaenys said simply, her voice carrying quiet pride. “Always a dragon.”
The two began walking side by side, the gentle hum of the courtyard bustling around them, but for the sisters, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them. For a moment, neither spoke, their silence filled with understanding. Then, softly, Rhaenys broke it.
“I’m scared, Visenya.”
Visenya paused mid-step, turning to face her sister fully. Her piercing violet eyes softened, the edges of her normally impenetrable demeanor melting away. “I know,” she said quietly, her tone free of judgment. “You’d be a fool not to be.”
Rhaenys took a deep breath, her gaze dropping as her fingers brushed her abdomen. “We all know the stories,” she murmured, her voice trembling slightly. “How women die in childbirth. Queens, commoners—it makes no difference. What if—”
Visenya reached out, cutting her off with a firm grip on her shoulder. “Stop,” she said, her tone commanding yet gentle. “I won’t let that happen. Do you hear me? You are stronger than you think, Rhaenys. And if strength alone isn’t enough, I will be by your side every moment. Nothing will harm you. I swear it on my life.”
The raw intensity in Visenya’s voice made Rhaenys’s lip tremble, her emotions threatening to spill over. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the gratitude in her eyes spoke volumes.
Visenya nodded, her composure returning like a shield snapping back into place. “Enough of this,” she said briskly, though her tone held a note of affection. “We’re having a small dinner in your honor tonight.”
Rhaenys rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a faint smile. “A small dinner? That sounds suspiciously like a feast.”
Visenya smirked, her amusement barely concealed. “Call it what you will. The lords will soon hear the good news, and tonight is only the beginning. Ravens will fly at dawn.”
“So, I’m a show pony now?” Rhaenys teased, a glint of mischief returning to her eyes.
Visenya’s laugh was low and genuine, a rare sound. “Yes. A burden I refuse to bear,” she said dryly, the corners of her lips curling as she glanced ahead.
The sisters continued their walk, their laughter mingling with the hum of the keep. In that moment, the bond between them felt unshakable, as steadfast as the dragons they rode.
The evening was cool, the sky a tapestry of deep purples and oranges as the sun dipped below the horizon. Inside the grand hall of Aegonfort, the atmosphere was warm and intimate. A long wooden table, adorned with candles and modest yet flavorful dishes, was the centerpiece of a small gathering. Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya sat with their mother, Lady Valaena, while Orys Baratheon, Aethan, and Corlys Velaryon completed the circle.
Laughter and the clink of goblets echoed softly through the room. The fire crackling in the hearth cast a golden glow on their faces, making the moment feel timeless. Rhaenys, seated beside Aegon, took a quiet moment to look around. Her siblings, their closest kin, and her oldest friends—all gathered here, together. A warm pride swelled in her chest, and when Aegon noticed, he reached for her hand under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She smiled, a gesture meant for him alone.
“You remember the time,” Orys began, his voice carrying the tone of a man about to recount something mischievous, “when Daemon dared me to sneak into the armory at Dragonstone to steal a sword we weren’t even big enough to carry?”
Aegon laughed, shaking his head. “And we got caught before we even touched the door. The steward chased us halfway to the cliffs.”
“And Daemon?” Orys added with a chuckle. “He just stood there, arms crossed, acting like he wasn’t involved.”
“‘What are you going to do about it?’” Aegon quoted, deepening his voice to mimic Daemon’s signature defiance. The table erupted into laughter, the sound filling the hall like music.
Corlys, who had been quietly listening, leaned forward, his voice steady. “He always said we had to be brave enough to face trouble, even if we caused it. That it was better to stand tall than run and hide.”
Aethan nodded, his expression thoughtful. “He said the same to me the day I fell trying to climb the cliffs. I was crying, and he told me that fear was like a storm—you had to face it to see the sun again.”
Rhaenys’s smile faltered slightly, a shadow crossing her features. “He was bold, sometimes too bold,” she said softly, her gaze dropping to her goblet. “But he loved us fiercely. I see him in both of you, more than you know.”
Lady Valaena, who had remained quiet until now, placed a hand on Rhaenys’s arm. “Daemon would be proud of you all,” she said, her voice steady but tinged with emotion. “His fire burns in you. In your courage, your unity. He would have wanted this—a family, together.”
Aegon raised his goblet, his violet eyes glinting in the firelight. “To Daemon,” he said, his voice steady. “And to the bonds that hold us together.”
“To Daemon,” the others echoed, their voices a mix of reverence and warmth.
The table fell silent for a moment, the weight of memory settling over them. Then Visenya, ever practical, broke the silence. “Enough brooding. Do you remember when Aegon tried to train that wild hawk and it ended up stealing the roast chicken off the table?”
Rhaenys burst into laughter, covering her mouth. “He chased that bird for hours! And when he finally caught it, it bit him!”
“It bit me because Orys was laughing so hard he scared it,” Aegon retorted, pointing his goblet at his friend.
Orys held up his hands defensively, grinning. “I wasn’t the one who thought you could tame it by yelling at it.”
“You’ve always had a way with beasts, brother,” Visenya said dryly, earning another round of laughter.
“You were always the daring one,” Valaena teased Aegon, her tone lighter now. “Do you remember the time you tried to command Meraxes to fly before you could even walk properly?”
Aegon chuckled, shaking his head. “And I ended up with a broken arm for my troubles. Father was furious, but Mother—she just laughed.”
“Father always wanted us to be disciplined,” Rhaenys said quietly, her tone more reflective. “He believed in the strength of family, even when he was hard on us.”
“And it worked,” Aegon said, his voice filled with conviction. “His discipline, his vision—it built the foundation for everything we’ve accomplished.”
As the night wore on, the conversation turned lighter. Tales of childhood mischief, shared dreams, and hopes for the future flowed freely, drawing laughter from everyone. Rhaenys found herself laughing until her sides ached, the joy of the evening chasing away her earlier fears.
As the candles burned low and the wine flowed freely, Aegon raised his goblet once more. “Tonight, we celebrate family. Tomorrow, we continue building the future—for us, and for those who come after.”
“To the future,” they all toasted, their voices strong and united.
Rhaenys, her heart full, leaned against Aegon’s shoulder. In that moment, surrounded by laughter and love, she felt ready to face whatever lay ahead.
The chamber was dimly lit, the glow of the dying fire casting a warm, flickering light across the room. Aegon and Rhaenys lay together on the large bed, their bodies entwined beneath the soft, fur-lined blankets. The cool night air brushed against their exposed skin, but they didn’t mind. Aegon’s arm was draped protectively over Rhaenys, his hand resting lightly on her still-flat stomach.
They were both quiet for a moment, content to simply exist in the comfort of each other’s presence. Aegon broke the silence first, his voice low and warm. “Have you thought about names?”
Rhaenys smiled softly, tilting her head to look up at him. “A little,” she admitted. “But it feels strange, doesn’t it? Naming someone we haven’t met yet.”
Aegon chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Strange, but exciting. What about a boy’s name?”
She considered for a moment, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “I’ve always liked the name Aenys. It’s strong but not harsh.”
“Aenys,” Aegon repeated, testing the name on his tongue. “I like it. It feels… regal.”
Rhaenys laughed softly. “Regal? Of course, you’d want our child to sound like they’re destined for a throne.”
“And aren’t they?” he teased, his violet eyes glinting with mischief. “What about a girl’s name?”
“Visenya,” she said without hesitation. “Not after our sister, necessarily, but the name carries such strength.”
Aegon’s smile softened, his hand moving to brush a strand of silver hair from her face. “Strength suits you,” he said quietly. “Our child will inherit that, no matter their name.”
Rhaenys’s eyes shone with emotion as she turned fully toward him, her hand resting over his. “Do you think we’ll be good parents?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I know we will,” Aegon replied without hesitation. “You’ll be the kind of mother who inspires stories, Rhaenys. The kind they’ll sing about for generations.”
“And you?” she asked, her smile returning. “What kind of father will you be?”
“The kind who loves them fiercely,” he said, his voice firm
Chapter 21: A Royal Day
Chapter Text
The weeks since the last gathering had seen Aegonfort transform from a fortress into the heart of a burgeoning kingdom. Once a solitary stronghold atop a hill, it was now the center of a city that seemed to grow larger with every passing day. Around its base, timber and stone buildings rose in neat rows, replacing the ramshackle huts of earlier settlers. The streets were bustling with activity—merchants peddling their wares from colorful stalls, laborers hauling stone and timber for new constructions, and children weaving through the crowds, their laughter echoing through the narrow alleys.
The air was filled with a mix of aromas: the yeasty scent of freshly baked bread, the salty tang of fish brought from the nearby docks, and the sharp bite of hot iron from the blacksmiths’ forges. Ships from across the realm docked at the harbors, their banners fluttering in the breeze—the golden rose of House Tyrell, the kraken of House Greyjoy, and the crescent moon of House Arryn among them. Trade was thriving, and the city’s economy flourished with the influx of goods and coin.
Atop the hill, the Red Keep loomed over the city like a sentinel. Though still under construction, its walls of red-hued stone gleamed in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the wooden structures below. The towers rose steadily toward the sky, promising a seat of power unlike any the realm had seen before. Nearby, the framework for the Dragonpit was taking shape—a vast domed structure designed to house the mighty beasts that symbolized Targaryen strength. Workers swarmed over it like ants, their hammers and chisels ringing out as they toiled to bring Aegon’s vision to life.
Beyond the city, the Blackwater Rush meandered lazily toward the horizon, its shimmering surface reflecting the golden light of the sun. Fields of wheat and barley stretched along its banks, tended by farmers who had flocked to the crownlands in search of opportunity and protection. The capital, now christened King’s Landing, was alive with promise, a testament to Aegon’s ambition and the Targaryen dynasty’s growing might.
Within the newly established council chamber of Aegonfort, the air was thick with the mingling scents of parchment, ink, and the faint smoke of the hearth. The room was sparsely adorned, functional rather than lavish, yet its significance was palpable. Around the heavy wooden table sat the pillars of the new kingdom’s governance: Aegon, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of Blackfyre at his side; Orys Baratheon, his closest friend and newly appointed Hand of the King; Visenya, her silver hair braided back, her keen eyes scanning the room; and Rhaenys, her expression serene but thoughtful.
Aethan and Maester Ollidar rounded out the gathering. Aethan, still youthful but growing into his role as a trusted advisor, sat straight-backed, taking in every word with quiet intensity. The maester, with his chain glinting in the firelight, shuffled a stack of parchments, ready to record the proceedings.
Aegon’s voice was steady as he began, addressing the room. “The kingdom grows, but so do its challenges. We must ensure that what we build here does not falter. Orys, begin with the updates from the Stormlands.”
Orys leaned forward, his voice deep and authoritative. “The Stormlands remain secure, though there are whispers of unrest among minor lords. Argella has done well to keep them in line, but there’s work to be done to ensure their loyalty to the crown. Trade routes are stable, and the harvest has been bountiful this season.”
“And Dorne?” Visenya interjected, her tone sharp.
Aegon’s expression darkened slightly, but it was Rhaenys who spoke. “Dorne remains silent, elusive as ever. They retreat into their sands, and their lords refuse even our ravens. They’ll not bend easily.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the Dornish defiance hanging heavy.
“They will bend in time,” Aegon said, his tone resolute. “But not through bloodshed alone. We must find a way to bring them into the fold without tearing the kingdom apart.”
Maester Ollidar cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “Your Grace, news from the Reach has been promising. The lords there are eager to align with the crown, particularly with the promise of trade and protection. Their harvests are abundant, and they’ve pledged support in provisions and levies.”
Aegon nodded. “Good. The Reach will be vital in sustaining this realm. What of the North?”
Visenya’s gaze hardened slightly. “Lord Stark remains distant but respectful. He’s pledged no open rebellion, but his silence speaks volumes. He’s watching, waiting to see if this kingdom of ours endures.”
“Then we must ensure it does,” Aegon said firmly, his eyes sweeping the room. “This council is the foundation of that endurance. Each of you has a role to play in shaping this kingdom.”
Aethan, quiet until now, leaned forward. “What of the crownlands themselves? The people flock to King’s Landing, but we need more infrastructure—roads, aqueducts, housing. The city grows faster than we can manage.”
Rhaenys smiled faintly. “A good problem to have, but a problem nonetheless. We’ll need to allocate funds and labor to ensure the city can sustain its growth.”
Orys chuckled. “And where will those funds come from, my queen? The coffers aren’t bottomless.”
“They’ll come,” Aegon said, a hint of a smile touching his lips. “Through trade, through alliances, and through unity. We’re building something greater than gold.”
The room quieted for a moment, the gravity of their mission settling over them. Then Visenya spoke, her voice cutting through the silence. “Unity doesn’t come easily. It must be fought for, earned, and maintained. Each of us must be willing to make sacrifices to ensure this kingdom’s survival.”
Her words hung in the air, a challenge and a promise all at once.
Aegon met her gaze, his expression unwavering. “And we will.”
The meeting adjourned with the scrape of chairs on stone as the council members rose to their feet. One by one, they bowed to Aegon, murmuring their farewells. The king acknowledged each with a nod, his demeanor composed and regal. Visenya and Orys were the first to leave, their footsteps echoing down the hall as they began discussing the finer details of trade routes.
Rhaenys lingered, her hand resting lightly on the table as she slowly rose. Though she was only three months pregnant, her body was already beginning to change. Her figure remained slender, but her breasts had begun to swell, a visible sign of the life growing within her. Aegon’s gaze softened as he watched her, admiration and affection clear in his violet eyes.
He stepped toward her, extending a hand. “Let me help you,” he said softly.
Rhaenys smiled, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “I’m not so fragile, Aegon.”
“I know,” he replied with a smirk, his hand still outstretched. “But indulge me, will you?”
She relented, placing her hand in his, and he gently guided her up. They began to walk together toward the chamber doors, their pace unhurried. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the walls, and the quiet between them was warm and companionable.
As they reached the corridor, a servant approached, bowing deeply. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice steady but deferential. “There are letters awaiting you in your study. They’ve just arrived.”
Aegon nodded, glancing briefly at Rhaenys. “I’ll see to them. I’ll join you later.”
Rhaenys smiled, her expression soft. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, husband.”
He gave her a fond look before turning to follow the servant, his steps purposeful as he made his way to the study. Rhaenys watched him disappear around the corner, a quiet contentment settling over her before she turned to head toward her chambers.
In the training grounds below, the clash of steel rang out sharply. Visenya moved with the precision of a predator, her silver braid whipping behind her as she circled a young guard holding a sword with trembling hands. Her strikes were fast and merciless, her blade connecting with his shield in a series of rapid, bone-jarring blows.
“Hold your stance!” she barked, her voice cutting through the air like a whip. “If you falter, you’re dead before you can draw breath.”
The guard gritted his teeth, his legs trembling as he tried to steady himself. Another swing from Visenya sent him staggering backward, his shield arm sagging from the force.
From the edge of the yard, Orys Baratheon stood with his arms crossed, watching the scene with a mixture of amusement and admiration. “You’ll break the poor man in half if you keep at it like that,” Orys called out, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Visenya straightened, her sword lowering slightly as she turned toward him, her expression unrelenting. “Better I break him here than some Dornishman on the battlefield,” she retorted sharply, though her lips quirked in a faint smirk.
Orys approached, his boots crunching against the dirt. “You’ve got a point,” he conceded. “But the lad might need a moment to remember his name before you send him back into the fray.”
The young guard, pale and sweating, glanced between them nervously, his shield still trembling in his grip. Visenya waved him off with a flick of her hand. “Go. Find your strength, and when you do, come back ready to fight.”
The guard nodded hastily, retreating with a mixture of relief and determination. As he disappeared into the barracks, Visenya turned her sharp gaze back to Orys. “I’ve no patience for mediocrity,” she said, her tone firm. “If they’re to wear the crown’s sigil, they must be worthy of it.”
Orys chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. But even the strongest blade needs tempering, Visenya. Not everyone is born a dragon.”
“Then they must learn to become one,” she replied, her voice like steel.
For a moment, the two stood in silence, the sounds of training continuing around them. Orys broke it, his tone softer. “You push them hard because you care, don’t you?”
Visenya’s expression flickered, a hint of something more vulnerable beneath her usual stoicism. “This realm is built on our strength. If we falter, so will everything we’ve built.”
Orys nodded, his admiration for her evident. “And that’s why they’ll follow you, Visenya. Because they see it, too.”
Her lips curved slightly, though she said nothing more. Turning back to the training field, she gestured to another guard. “Your turn,” she commanded, her voice carrying over the yard. “Show me if you’ve learned anything.”
Orys remained at the edge of the training ground, watching her with a mixture of respect and amusement. As the clash of steel resumed, he couldn’t help but marvel at the unwavering force that was Visenya Targaryen—a dragon in human form.
Elsewhere in Aegonfort, the sound of laughter and music drifted from Rhaenys’s chambers. Within the room, a small gathering of singers and dancers surrounded the queen, their voices and movements vibrant with joy. Rhaenys herself sat in the center, her cheeks flushed with laughter as she clapped along to the lively tune of a lute.
Some of the servants in the room smiled warmly, caught up in the infectious energy of the celebration. Others, however, exchanged uneasy glances, their disapproval thinly veiled. It was unheard of for a queen to host such a gathering within her private chambers, especially one that included men among its ranks. Yet Rhaenys, ever defiant of convention, paid them no mind.
A man with a rich baritone began to recite poetry, his words weaving a tale of love and valor that drew murmurs of appreciation from the group. When he finished with a dramatic flourish, Rhaenys clapped enthusiastically, her silver hair catching the firelight as she threw her head back in laughter.
“Marvelous!” she exclaimed, her voice bright. “You must share another before the night is through.”
The man bowed deeply, a playful grin on his face. “As my queen commands.”
The dancers twirled again, their skirts flaring like blossoms in the wind, and the singers raised their voices in harmony. Rhaenys leaned back in her chair, a contented smile on her lips. For a moment, the weight of her duties and her pregnancy faded away, replaced by the simple joy of music and camaraderie.
But even in this moment of levity, the undercurrent of judgment lingered. A servant standing near the doorway shot a pointed glance at another, their whispered words lost beneath the music. Rhaenys caught the movement out of the corner of her eye but chose to ignore it, her focus remaining on the warmth and vitality that filled the room.
This was her sanctuary, her escape from the formality of court. And for now, she would embrace it fully.
As the song came to an end, the door opened slightly, and Corlys Velaryon stepped inside. His dark eyes scanned the lively scene, a broad smile spreading across his face at the unexpected sight. “Well, this is a celebration,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the din.
Rhaenys looked up and waved him over, her grin widening. “Corlys! Come join us!”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’d only ruin the harmony. Besides, I came to steal you away. Fancy a walk in the gardens?”
Rhaenys tilted her head thoughtfully, then nodded. “Why not? I’ve been sitting too long as it is.” Rising gracefully, she excused herself from the gathering, earning a few playful protests from the performers. “I’ll be back,” she promised, before following Corlys out of the room.
The evening air was cool and fragrant as they strolled through the gardens. The paths were lit by soft lanterns, their glow casting shadows over the carefully tended flowers and shrubs. Rhaenys tucked her arm into Corlys’s as they walked, her steps light.
“You seem to be enjoying court life,” she said, glancing up at him with a teasing smile. “Word has it you’ve been seen with a few ladies of note.”
Corlys laughed, the sound rich and unguarded. “And here I thought my brother had spies, not my queen.”
“The walls have ears, dear Corlys,” she replied with mock seriousness. “And I hear quite a bit.”
They both laughed, their voices mingling with the night. As they continued their walk, their conversation turned more reflective. Corlys spoke of his aspirations and his longing to carve out his own legacy, while Rhaenys shared stories of her own struggles and triumphs, offering him gentle guidance.
Aegon sat at the heavy oak desk in his study, the room illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of ink and parchment, and the faint crackle of the hearth offered a comforting backdrop to the quiet. The desk was cluttered with scrolls, correspondence from across the realm, and a half-finished map detailing trade routes. He rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of rulership settling deeper into his bones.
A knock at the door broke the stillness. Aegon straightened, his eyes flicking toward the entrance. “Enter,” he called, his tone even.
The door creaked open, and Orys Baratheon stepped inside, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His usual confident demeanor was softened by a hint of hesitation. “Aegon,” he greeted with a small nod. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Never,” Aegon replied, leaning back in his chair. “What brings you here at this hour?”
Orys closed the door behind him and approached the desk, his boots thudding lightly against the stone floor. “I’ve come to inform you that I’ll need to depart for Storm’s End tomorrow. Only for a week or two,” he added quickly, seeing the flicker of concern in Aegon’s eyes. “There’s some business to attend to, and I wish to check on Argella and the state of my lands.”
Aegon nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Of course. Your presence there will reassure your people, and Argella will be glad to see you.”
Orys’s face softened at the mention of his wife. “She’s been managing well in my absence, but I know the burden isn’t easy. Besides,” he added with a grin, “she’ll no doubt have a list of things I’ve neglected to address.”
Aegon chuckled, the sound breaking through the solemnity of the room. “A capable woman with a sharp mind. She’s an asset, Orys, as are you. Storm’s End is lucky to have you both.”
Orys shifted slightly, his tone turning more reflective. “And what of here? Things seem… steady, for now. But the kingdom is vast, and the challenges never cease.”
“Steady for now,” Aegon agreed. “But we’re building something meant to last, Orys. Every decision, every alliance, every battle won—it’s all part of a foundation. And having you as my Hand makes it stronger.”
“I’ll always serve you, Aegon. You know that.”
The king’s gaze softened. “I do. And I’m grateful for it. When you return, we’ll continue to shape this kingdom together. Until then, I’ll hold things here.”
Orys’s grin returned, though it was tinged with affection. “I’ll hold you to that. And when I return, perhaps we can finally tackle that blasted trade agreement with the Reach.”
“Deal,” Aegon replied with a smirk.
The two men stood in silence for a moment, the bond between them unspoken but deeply felt. Finally, Orys inclined his head. “I’ll take my leave, then. There’s much to prepare.”
“Safe travels, Orys,” Aegon said, watching as his oldest friend exited the room. Alone once more, he turned back to the desk, his thoughts lingering on the conversation as he prepared to delve back into the night’s work.
In one of the quieter chambers of the Red Keep, Rhaenys reclined on a plush chair near the hearth, her hands absently stroking the fabric of her gown. The faint flicker of firelight reflected in her silver hair, giving her an ethereal glow. Across from her, Visenya sat stiffly, her posture as sharp and commanding as ever, though her expression softened in the intimate setting.
“You seem preoccupied, sister,” Visenya remarked, her keen eyes watching Rhaenys closely.
Rhaenys sighed, her gaze drifting to the flames. “I’ve been thinking about the birth. About what lies ahead.”
Visenya’s expression remained unreadable, though she leaned forward slightly. “It’s natural to worry. Childbirth is no small thing. But you’re stronger than most, Rhaenys. You’ll endure.”
“I want you there,” Rhaenys said suddenly, her voice tinged with vulnerability. She met Visenya’s gaze, her own filled with unspoken fears. “When the time comes, I want you by my side.”
Visenya’s brows lifted slightly, a rare moment of surprise flickering across her face. “Of course I’ll be there,” she said, her tone softening. “I would never leave you to face this alone.”
Rhaenys smiled faintly, though her hands tightened in her lap. “I’ve heard too many tales, Visenya. Of women lost in childbirth, of babes who never draw breath. I can’t help but think…” She trailed off, her voice breaking slightly.
Visenya reached out, her hand firm as it covered Rhaenys’s. “Stop. You’ll drive yourself mad with such thoughts. I won’t let anything happen to you, Rhaenys. You’re not just my sister; you’re part of this kingdom’s heart. And if I must call upon every ounce of strength and knowledge I possess, I will ensure you and the babe come through safely.”
Rhaenys nodded, her eyes glistening. “Thank you, Visenya. That gives me some comfort.”
After a moment of quiet, Rhaenys’s expression shifted, her brows furrowing slightly. “There’s something else. Around the halls, I see the looks. I hear the whispers. Some disapprove of how I carry myself, how I host gatherings or include those they deem unworthy of my company. It’s… exhausting.”
Visenya’s lips thinned, and her voice was sharp but reassuring. “Let them whisper. Let them stare. It’s the nature of small minds to be threatened by greatness. You are a queen, Rhaenys. You owe them nothing. Walk your path, and they will either fall silent or be left behind.”
Rhaenys let out a soft laugh, though it was tinged with relief. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is,” Visenya said with a small smirk. “You’re a dragon, Rhaenys. Let them see your fire if they dare stand too close.”
Rhaenys smiled back, the tension in her shoulders easing. For a moment, the two sisters simply sat in the warmth of the firelight, their bond as unyielding as the dragons they rode.
The castle at night was a place of hushed stillness, broken only by the faint murmur of wind against the stone walls and the occasional flicker of torchlight in the corridors. Aegonfort, though grand, held an eerie quiet after dark, its halls and chambers cloaked in shadows. Outside, the faint cries of distant nightbirds mingled with the gentle rustle of leaves, while within, the castle’s heartbeat seemed to slow.
In her chambers, Rhaenys lay beneath a canopy of sheer, silver-threaded drapes, her skin glowing faintly in the moonlight that filtered through the windows. Her hair, loose and cascading, shimmered like liquid starlight against the pillows. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the room, a soothing balm to her restless mind.
She had been drifting in and out of a light sleep when the faint creak of her chamber door stirred her. Her eyes fluttered open, her senses sharp despite her fatigue. Past the gauzy drapes, she caught sight of a figure silhouetted in the faint glow of the corridor. The figure moved with deliberate quiet, and as he stepped closer, the firelight revealed him fully.
It was Aegon, his broad frame unmistakable. He was shrugging off his cloak, the heavy fabric pooling soundlessly onto a nearby chair. His fingers moved deftly to unfasten the clasps of his tunic, his movements careful as if he were trying not to wake her.
“You’re not as quiet as you think,” Rhaenys said softly, her voice laced with warmth and amusement.
Aegon froze for a moment, then turned toward her, a sheepish smile breaking across his face. “Sorry for waking you,” he murmured, stepping closer. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
She watched him as he climbed onto the bed, his movements unhurried. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he settled beside her. He reached for her instinctively, his arm sliding around her waist as he pulled her close. His hand rested lightly on the curve of her hip, his touch grounding and familiar.
“It’s been a long day,” he said simply, his voice low and tired.
Rhaenys turned to face him, her hand brushing against his cheek. “You’re carrying so much, Aegon. You need to rest too.”
“I rest best when I’m here with you,” he replied, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. The warmth of his lips lingered, and for a moment, the burdens of the day seemed to melt away.
They lay there in silence, their breaths syncing in the quiet of the room. Aegon’s fingers traced idle patterns on her side, and Rhaenys felt a deep sense of calm wash over her. The world outside might have been filled with challenges and uncertainties, but here, in this shared space, there was only peace.
Visenya Targaryen knelt before a stone altar adorned with ancient runes. The faint glow of moonlight filtered through the high windows, casting an eerie, shifting light over the room. The air was heavy with the scent of burning herbs, a mix of sage and something darker, something old.
Her hands moved in precise, deliberate gestures over a shallow bowl filled with shimmering liquid. The water rippled unnaturally, as if responding to her whispered incantations. Her silver hair gleamed in the dim light, her violet eyes fixed on the shifting images forming within the bowl.
Visenya’s voice was low and melodic as she chanted, calling upon forces older than men’s kingdoms. The water within the bowl stilled, then began to swirl, colors bleeding together to form shapes and shadows. A vision took shape—a child, no more than a boy, with silver hair and eyes like amethysts. He was radiant, full of life and promise.
But the vision darkened. From the shadows emerged a monstrous figure, its features grotesque and twisted, its very presence exuding malevolence. The creature struck the child down with terrifying speed, and the boy’s cries echoed in Visenya’s mind, piercing and unbearable. The monster’s form shimmered and shifted, and Visenya’s breath caught as she recognized its essence—a creation born of her own magic, twisted and corrupted.
“No,” she whispered, her voice breaking as the vision dissolved into darkness. She staggered back from the altar, her heart pounding in her chest. The air in the room felt colder, the shadows deeper.
Shaking her head, she rose to her feet, her hands trembling. “This cannot be,” she murmured to herself, her voice filled with a rare note of fear. She turned away from the altar, her mind racing. Whatever she had seen, whatever the spirits had shown her, it could not come to pass.
She moved to the window, staring out at the moonlit expanse of King’s Landing below. The city was peaceful, its streets quiet under the watchful eyes of the stars. But within her, a storm churned.
Chapter 22: Crushing A Rebellion
Chapter Text
A couple of weeks had passed, and the castle had settled into a tranquil rhythm. Aegon’s chambers were bathed in the golden glow of the hearth, its gentle crackle a soothing counterpoint to the silence of the night. The heavy drapes were drawn tightly, insulating the room from the cool autumn air outside. The faint scent of lavender lingered, mingling with the warmth of burning wood.
Rhaenys lay reclined on the grand bed, her body partially wrapped in silken sheets that shimmered faintly in the firelight. Her silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the light with an almost ethereal glow. Though only a few months along, her figure had begun to change, her form slightly fuller, her features softened by the glow of impending motherhood.
Beside her, Aegon propped himself on one elbow, his violet eyes drinking her in. The faintest of smiles tugged at his lips as he watched her. The fire’s glow danced across his face, highlighting the weariness etched into his features, though his expression was serene in her presence.
“You’re staring,” Rhaenys said softly, a playful lilt in her voice as she turned her head toward him, her lips curving into a smile.
Aegon chuckled, reaching out to brush a loose strand of hair from her face. “Can you blame me?” he replied. “You’re radiant.”
Rhaenys laughed lightly, resting a hand on the soft curve of her belly. “Radiant? I feel more tired than anything. These days, it’s hard to tell the difference.”
“Both can be true,” Aegon teased, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “But no less beautiful for it.”
She sighed, her smile growing softer as her eyes met his. “It’s strange to think that soon there will be another life here. Another Targaryen. A new dragon.”
Aegon reached out, his hand resting gently on her belly, his touch warm and reverent. “Not just any dragon. Our dragon. A legacy.”
His words hung between them, heavy with pride and hope for the future. Rhaenys placed her hand over his, their fingers intertwining as they shared the quiet moment.
“Are you scared?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Aegon’s gaze didn’t waver. “No,” he said firmly, though a flicker of vulnerability softened his tone. “Maybe a little. But I know you, Rhaenys. You’re strong. You’ll be an extraordinary mother.”
She smiled, her eyes glistening with unshed emotion. “And you, Aegon, will be an incredible father. I already see it in the way you care for everyone else. This child will be lucky to have you.”
Aegon leaned down, capturing her lips in a deep, tender kiss. She melted into him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as he shifted to position himself carefully above her, mindful of her growing belly. Their kisses deepened, slow and passionate, as their connection consumed the moment. Aegon’s lips eventually trailed from hers to her jawline and down to her neck, where he pressed soft, lingering kisses, drawing quiet sighs from her as his touch sent warmth through her.
He pulled back slightly, his violet eyes locking with hers, searching for unspoken permission. She met his gaze, her breath hitching as she nodded softly, giving him all the assurance he needed. His hand moved gently, sliding along her side before resting on her breast, his touch reverent and careful. She gasped softly, her heightened sensitivity drawing a new depth to their connection.
Aegon’s lips followed, trailing kisses down her collarbone and further, lingering at her breast before continuing lower. He paused briefly at the gentle curve of her stomach, pressing a tender kiss there as if honoring the life they had created together. The intimacy of the moment was profound, filled with love and a bond that seemed unbreakable.
Aegon continued his trail of kisses, moving lower with deliberate tenderness, his every touch filled with reverence. As his lips brushed over her soft skin, Rhaenys let out a quiet moan, her hands instinctively tangling in his hair. Her breath quickened, each sound she made an unspoken testament to the trust and love they shared.
The firelight danced across the room, casting golden hues over them as they were lost in each other. Every kiss, every touch spoke volumes, a silent conversation of devotion and connection that needed no words. Rhaenys's soft moans filled the chamber, mingling with the crackle of the fire, creating a harmony of intimacy that bound them together in a moment they would both hold close forever.
The castle lay cloaked in the stillness of night, its halls silent save for the occasional murmur of a passing guard or the faint rustle of the wind against the stone walls. Aegon’s chambers were dark, illuminated only by the dim embers of the hearth, their orange glow casting faint, flickering shadows on the walls. The king lay beside Rhaenys, her body curled into his, her breathing soft and steady as she slept. Her silver hair spread out over the pillow like a cascade of moonlight, and her hand rested lightly on the gentle curve of her belly, a quiet symbol of the life they had created together.
A sudden knock at the door broke the tranquility. It was firm but controlled, loud enough to stir Aegon but not so forceful as to disturb the entire wing. His violet eyes flickered open, narrowing slightly as he adjusted to the darkness. He glanced at Rhaenys, who remained undisturbed, her breathing still deep and even.
Careful not to wake her, Aegon leaned over and tucked the sheets more securely around her form. He placed a tender kiss on her forehead, lingering for a moment before quietly slipping out of bed. He reached for his breaches and a simple tunic, pulling them on with swift efficiency, the chill of the stone floor biting at his bare feet.
Another knock came, more insistent this time, though still measured. Aegon crossed the room and opened the heavy wooden door to find one of his guards standing at attention. The man’s face was taut with urgency, his armor catching the faint glow of a nearby torch.
“Your Grace,” the guard said, his voice low but steady. “A messenger has arrived with word for the king. It’s urgent.”
Aegon’s brow furrowed, his mind immediately running through the possibilities. He straightened, his demeanor shifting to one of command. “Have the messenger wait for me in my study,” he instructed. “And wake Visenya. She should be present for this.”
The guard nodded sharply. “At once, Your Grace.”
As the guard turned and hurried away, Aegon closed the door behind him, sparing one last glance at Rhaenys. She remained undisturbed, the soft rise and fall of her breathing a small comfort against the weight of whatever news awaited him. With a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and moved toward his study, the quiet of the castle now filled with an undercurrent of unease.
The study was dimly lit, the faint glow of the hearth casting long shadows on the stone walls. Visenya stood before a large wooden table strewn with maps and letters, her silver hair gleaming in the firelight. Across from her was Aegon, seated with his fingers steepled in thought. The messenger who had delivered word of the rebellion stood to the side, his posture stiff as he awaited further orders.
Visenya tapped the map with a gloved finger, her violet eyes sharp as they scanned the marked islands of the Three Sisters. “This rebellion cannot be allowed to fester,” she said, her voice like tempered steel. “They must be reminded that their defiance will not go unanswered.”
Aegon nodded, his gaze fixed on the map. “The Sistermen have always been a troublesome lot, but they’ve chosen a poor time to test us. We need the northern fleet, but with the Arryn ships still rebuilding, our reach is limited.” He turned his eyes to Visenya. “You will lead this effort. Vhagar alone can end this before it begins.”
Visenya smirked. “Fear is a powerful weapon, and no one fears more than those who see a dragon overhead. I will ensure this rebellion is crushed swiftly.”
The door opened with a creak, and another messenger entered the study, bowing deeply. His clothes bore the signs of a long journey, mud caked at the hem of his cloak, and his face was pale with exhaustion. “Your Grace,” he began, his voice hoarse. “I bring word from Lord Torrhen Stark. He requests guidance on the Sistermen rebellion and awaits your commands.”
Aegon’s expression hardened as he exchanged a glance with Visenya. “The North moves swiftly, as expected,” he said, his tone approving. He gestured to the map. “You will return to Winterfell immediately with our plans. Inform Lord Stark that the fleet will be led by Ser Warrick Manderly, reinforced by galleys from Braavos. Visenya will join the effort with Vhagar. Tell him to prepare his forces to meet us at the Bite.”
The messenger nodded, scribbling notes onto a piece of parchment. “It shall be done, Your Grace.”
“And tell him this,” Aegon added, his voice firm. “This rebellion must be crushed without mercy. The Sistermen will either yield or face annihilation. Torrhen’s leadership will be crucial, and his loyalty will not be forgotten.”
Visenya stepped forward, her gaze as sharp as the edge of Dark Sister. “Ensure that Stark knows I will arrive with fire and blood if needed. The mere sight of Vhagar should be enough to remind the Sistermen of their place.”
The messenger bowed once more. “I will deliver your message without delay.” He left the room quickly, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud.
Aegon turned back to Visenya, his expression contemplative. “This rebellion must be ended decisively. The realm watches every move we make. Let them see the consequences of defiance.”
Visenya nodded, her confidence unwavering. “They will see, brother. By the time this is over, no one will dare rise against the Iron Throne.”
The fleet cut through the choppy waters of the Bite, the spray of the sea glinting under the pale winter sun. The galleys hired from Braavos sailed in perfect formation, their sleek hulls cutting through the waves with practiced ease. At the head of the fleet was Ser Warrick Manderly, his ship’s banner bearing the white merman of House Manderly flapping in the brisk wind. Behind them, the icy shores of the North faded into the horizon as they pressed toward the rebellious islands of the Three Sisters.
Overhead, the unmistakable shadow of Vhagar darkened the waves. The dragon’s massive wings churned the air, creating gusts that rippled the sails of the ships below. Atop her, Visenya Targaryen sat astride her saddle, clad in dark armor that gleamed with the faint sheen of dragonfire. Her silver hair whipped around her face as she urged Vhagar higher, the beast’s roar echoing across the waters like a thunderclap. It was a sound designed to strike fear into the hearts of any who dared defy the crown.
On the lead ship, Ser Warrick Manderly watched the display with a mixture of awe and grim satisfaction. Beside him, Lord Torrhen Stark stood stoic, his fur-lined cloak shielding him from the biting cold. The Warden of the North had a reputation for calculated decisions, and today was no exception.
“They’ll see her before they see us,” Torrhen remarked, his sharp eyes following Vhagar as she circled the distant islands. “That alone may end this rebellion.”
“If it doesn’t, we have the steel to remind them of their place,” Ser Warrick replied, gripping the hilt of his sword. “The Manderly fleet is ready.”
As they approached the shores of the Three Sisters, the island strongholds of the Sistermen came into view. Smoke rose from small fishing villages, and the faint outlines of defensive barricades could be seen on the beaches. The Sistermen were preparing for a fight, but their resolve would be tested soon enough.
Visenya directed Vhagar to descend, the dragon’s massive form blotting out the sun as she came lower. The Sistermen’s forces on the shore faltered, their eyes fixed on the dragon with a mixture of terror and awe. Some dropped their weapons, while others stood frozen in place, unable to look away from the monstrous beast now circling above their heads.
Visenya’s voice boomed from atop Vhagar, carried by the wind and amplified by the sheer size of the dragon. “People of the Three Sisters! You stand accused of rebellion against the Iron Throne! Surrender now, and you will be spared. Defy us, and you will face the wrath of fire and blood!”
On the beach, a young soldier’s trembling hands dropped his spear, the clatter echoing in the tense silence. Around him, more followed, their will to fight crumbling under the weight of the dragon’s shadow. At the head of the Sistermen’s ranks stood Marla Sunderland, her jaw set as she watched her forces falter. Her defiance had carried her this far, but now it wavered.
From the sea, the galleys reached the shores, their hulls scraping against the sand as northern soldiers poured out. Ser Warrick led the charge, his blade gleaming in the sunlight as he moved with practiced precision. Lord Torrhen followed close behind, his presence commanding and unyielding. The combined might of the North and Braavosi reinforcements overwhelmed the Sistermen without a single swing of a sword. The sheer sight of the fleet and Vhagar’s looming presence had broken their spirit.
Marla Sunderland was brought forward under guard, her once-defiant expression replaced by reluctant resignation. She knelt before Visenya as Vhagar landed with a ground-shaking thud, the dragon’s golden eyes fixed on her.
“You will relinquish your title and your claim,” Visenya said coldly, dismounting from Vhagar. She strode forward, her presence as commanding as the dragon behind her. “Your rebellion ends here.”
Marla hesitated, then bowed her head. “I yield. The Three Sisters yield.”
With Marla deposed, her younger brother, Steffon Sunderland, was brought forth. He knelt immediately, swearing fealty to the Iron Throne and vowing to uphold the peace. To ensure his loyalty, House Manderly took one of his sons as a hostage, while House Arryn claimed the other.
The rebellion was over. The Three Sisters were pacified, their leaders replaced, and their forces broken without a single drop of blood spilled in battle. Visenya mounted Vhagar once more, her gaze sweeping over the humbled islanders.
“Let this be a lesson to all who would defy the Iron Throne,” she declared. “The cost of rebellion is far greater than the cost of loyalty.”
With that, Vhagar took to the skies, her roar echoing across the Bite as the fleet began its journey back to White Harbor, carrying the weight of their victory and the iron will of House Targaryen.
The council chamber in King’s Landing was filled with an air of expectancy as sunlight streamed through the high-arched windows, casting golden patterns on the polished stone floor. Aegon Targaryen sat at the head of the long table, his violet eyes calm but commanding as he addressed the gathered lords and advisors. The room buzzed with quiet murmurs until Aegon raised his hand, bringing silence.
“Word has arrived from the North,” Aegon began, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “The Sistermen have surrendered. Their rebellion is no more.”
A murmur of approval swept through the chamber. Orys Baratheon, seated to Aegon’s right, leaned forward with a satisfied nod. “A swift and decisive victory, Your Grace. Visenya’s presence on Vhagar surely sealed their fate.”
“Indeed,” Aegon agreed. “The combined might of Ser Warrick’s fleet and the northern forces ensured their surrender without bloodshed. Marla Sunderland has been deposed, and her younger brother Steffon now rules under our authority.”
One of the lords, seated further down the table, raised a cautious question. “And the hostages, Your Grace? Have they been secured?”
Aegon nodded. “House Manderly has taken one of Steffon’s sons as a ward, and House Arryn has claimed the other. Their loyalty is assured.”
As the lords began discussing the logistics of consolidating control over the Sisters, Orys leaned slightly toward Aegon, his voice low enough to be heard only by the king. “Where is Rhaenys? I would have thought she’d want to be here for such news.”
Aegon’s expression softened as he replied, equally quiet. “She’s resting. The pregnancy has made her mornings difficult, and I’d rather she conserve her strength.”
Orys gave a faint nod, a small smile playing on his lips. “A dragon growing another dragon,” he mused. “You’ll have an heir to stand beside you soon enough.”
Before Aegon could respond, the High Maester cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the room back to him. “Your Grace,” he began, his tone measured but firm. “The Sistermen’s rebellion may have ended, but the realm requires visible strength. A royal tour, visiting the six great houses, should commence without delay. Establishing your presence in their halls will secure their loyalty and reaffirm your rule.”
Aegon’s brow furrowed slightly as he considered the suggestion. “The importance of such a tour is not lost on me, Maester, but I will not leave King’s Landing until my heir is born. The birth of my child is a moment I will not miss.”
The High Maester’s expression tightened slightly, though he pressed on with care. “Your Grace, every day of delay risks unrest. The lords of the realm must see their king, particularly in these early days of your reign.”
Aegon’s gaze sharpened, his voice steady but unyielding. “The lords will wait. This tour will proceed after the birth of my heir. That is my decision.”
The chamber grew tense, the lords exchanging uneasy glances. Orys broke the silence, his tone calm but supportive. “It is the king’s prerogative to decide the timing of such matters. The realm’s unity depends on strength, yes, but also on wisdom. No one will question your resolve, Aegon.”
Aegon nodded slightly toward his friend before addressing the room again. “You will all receive a full report on the Sistermen rebellion once Visenya returns. Until then, this meeting is adjourned.”
The lords rose and bowed deeply as they exited the chamber, leaving only Aegon and Orys behind. The weight of silence filled the room until Orys leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression softening. “You seem torn, Aegon.”
Aegon exhaled slowly, his shoulders easing as the tension of the meeting dissipated. “I am. This tour is important. I need to show the realm its king, to cement the unity we fought so hard to achieve. But leaving Rhaenys here, alone, with the child so near…” He trailed off, his gaze distant.
Orys leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “If the tour is too important to delay, I will stay behind. Rhaenys will not be alone. You have my word.”
Aegon glanced at his friend, gratitude flickering in his violet eyes. “What of Argella? She would expect you at Storm’s End.”
Orys smiled faintly. “Argella understands the responsibilities I carry as Hand. The Stormlands will manage in my absence. She’s more than capable of keeping our lands in order until I return.”
Aegon nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve always been a loyal friend, Orys. I will consider your offer, but I hope the tour can wait. For now, my place is here.”
Orys rose from his chair, clapping a hand on Aegon’s shoulder. “Whatever you decide, you do it as king. That is what matters most.”
The two men stood in silence for a moment, a bond of trust and camaraderie passing between them. Finally, Orys inclined his head and left the chamber, leaving Aegon to ponder the delicate balance between duty and family.
In the quiet of her chambers, Rhaenys knelt hunched over a wooden bucket, her body trembling with the effort of emptying her stomach. A thin robe clung to her, damp with perspiration, as one of her ladies-in-waiting held back her silver hair, murmuring soothing words. Another dipped a cloth into cool water and gently pressed it to Rhaenys’s flushed forehead.
“My queen, you must try to breathe,” the lady with the cloth urged softly, her voice calm despite the worry in her eyes. “This will pass, as it always does.”
Rhaenys coughed lightly, her body shuddering as she pushed the bucket away. She leaned back against the chair they had positioned behind her, closing her eyes as the damp cloth was moved to her cheeks.
“It feels like it’s getting worse,” Rhaenys murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “The mornings never seem to end.”
The lady holding her hair smiled faintly. “It means the babe is strong, my queen. That is all. Soon, these days will be a memory.”
Rhaenys sighed, her hand instinctively resting on her slight belly. Though the curve was barely noticeable, her body already felt the strain of the new life within. As she opened her eyes, she gave the faintest of smiles, though weariness clung to her features.
“Let’s hope you’re right,” she whispered, her voice carrying a mix of exhaustion and quiet determination.
A sharp knock at the door broke the stillness. One of the ladies moved to answer it, opening it just enough to reveal Corlys Velaryon standing tall, his silver-gold hair catching the light. He offered a polite nod. “I came to see the queen.”
The lady hesitated. “Her Majesty is indisposed at the moment.”
“It’s fine,” Rhaenys called weakly from her chair, her voice soft but steady. “Let him in.”
Corlys stepped into the room, his sharp eyes immediately taking in her disheveled appearance. She gave him an apologetic smile, brushing at her damp robe. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”
He smiled warmly, his demeanor easy and reassuring. “It’s quite all right. You look as regal as ever, my queen.”
Rhaenys let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You’re too kind, Corlys.”
He approached her, offering a steady hand to help her stand. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
She took his hand, rising slowly. “Carry this child for me,” she joked lightly, a faint twinkle in her eyes despite her exhaustion.
Corlys chuckled. “I’ll get the king,” he offered. “He should be here.”
Rhaenys shook her head quickly. “No, don’t trouble him. How about you give me some time to look like a queen again, and then we take a walk to the Dragonpit?”
Corlys nodded, his smile widening. “As you wish, my queen. I’ll await you outside.”
With a respectful bow, he exited, leaving Rhaenys to gather her strength and prepare for the day ahead.
The afternoon sun bathed King’s Landing in golden light as Rhaenys and Corlys walked together toward the Dragonpit. The streets were quieter this time of day, and their path led them to the cave-like entrance of the great structure that housed the dragons.
Rhaenys was dressed in a regal gown of deep violet, her silver hair intricately pinned atop her head. Though her figure had changed with her pregnancy, her beauty was undiminished. At four months along, her belly had begun to show prominently, and there was a softness to her features that gave her an ethereal glow, even if faint shadows under her eyes betrayed the toll of carrying a child. Corlys, walking beside her, offered a steadying arm whenever the path grew uneven.
The air within the cave leading to the pit grew cooler as they stepped inside, the sounds of dragon handlers calling commands echoing faintly in the vast space. The faint roar of dragons vibrated through the stone walls, a sound both thrilling and humbling.
As they entered the main chamber, Rhaenys’s eyes immediately sought Meraxes. The immense dragon rested in a far corner, her shimmering silver scales catching the light from the torches that lined the cavern walls. Without hesitation, Rhaenys broke into a light run, her steps sure despite her condition.
Corlys followed more cautiously, his gaze flickering between the dragon and the queen. Though he was no dragonrider, his Valyrian blood gave him a certain reverence for the creatures. Still, standing so close to the massive beast sent a shiver down his spine.
“Meraxes,” Rhaenys cooed as she approached, her voice filled with affection. The dragon’s great head turned toward her, and a low rumble reverberated through the chamber. Rhaenys placed her hands on the dragon’s scaled snout, her touch gentle but confident. “I’ve missed you, my girl.”
Corlys stopped a few paces away, watching in awe as the queen embraced her dragon. “She’s magnificent,” he murmured.
Rhaenys turned to him with a smile. “She is, isn’t she?” Her gaze softened as she added, “Meraxes is more than a dragon to me. She’s family.”
After a moment, she moved toward one of the handlers standing nearby. “The eggs,” she asked, her tone curious. “How are they?”
The handler bowed slightly. “They’re safe, Your Grace. Resting in the chambers as you instructed. Strong and showing signs of vitality.”
Corlys’s brows rose. “Eggs?” he asked, surprised.
Rhaenys’s smile widened as she glanced at him. “Yes. Meraxes and Vhagar have laid eggs. I’ve ensured they’re kept secure and warm. One of them will be for my child, when they are born.”
Corlys’s expression shifted to one of admiration. “A dragon for the heir to the Iron Throne. That will be quite a sight.”
Rhaenys nodded, her love for the creatures evident in her expression. “Dragons are more than weapons, Corlys. They’re part of our legacy, a bond that ties us to Valyria. I want my child to know that bond, to grow with it.”
As they exited the Dragonpit, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the city. Rhaenys, with Corlys and a small retinue of guards, directed their path toward the lower town. The bustling streets became narrower and more crowded as they descended into the heart of King’s Landing, where the sounds of merchants haggling and children laughing filled the air.
Corlys glanced at her curiously. “The lower town, Your Grace? It’s unusual for the queen to come here. Why?”
Rhaenys smiled faintly. “Because it is good for the smallfolk to know they matter. A kingdom is not just its lords and castles, but its people. If we treat them as equals, they will serve with loyalty.”
As they walked, the group passed a cluster of beggars huddled near a crumbling wall. Rhaenys’s gaze softened as she slowed her steps. One of the beggars, a frail woman with a child clinging to her, raised pleading eyes toward the queen.
Rhaenys turned to one of her guards. “Give them coin. Ensure they have food and shelter by sundown. And make certain they are cared for properly.”
The guard hesitated only a moment before bowing. “At once, Your Grace.”
Corlys observed the interaction with quiet respect. “You have a kind heart, my queen. Not all rulers would show such care for the smallfolk.”
Rhaenys shrugged lightly, her hand instinctively resting on her belly. “Kindness is not a weakness, Corlys. It is strength. And when my child is born, I want them to inherit a realm that values every life within it.”
Corlys smiled, his admiration for her clear. As they continued their walk through the lower town, the queen’s presence drew the attention of onlookers, some bowing deeply while others whispered in awe. For Rhaenys, the moment was not about grandeur but connection—a reminder of the people she would one day entrust her child to lead.
The evening had settled quietly over King’s Landing, the warm glow of candlelight illuminating Aegon’s chambers. Aegon and Rhaenys dined alone at a small, elegantly set table near the hearth. The faint crackle of the fire provided a comforting backdrop to their soft conversation.
Rhaenys leaned back in her chair, her silver hair catching the flickering light. Her hand rested lightly on her growing belly, and a contented smile graced her lips. She looked at Aegon, who had been recounting the day’s happenings with a calm authority that belied the complexity of his role as king.
“I miss Visenya,” Rhaenys said suddenly, her voice carrying a wistful tone. “I can’t wait for her to return.”
Aegon smiled softly, nodding. “She should be here in a few days. I’m sure she’ll have quite the tale about quelling the rebellion. She always does.”
Rhaenys chuckled lightly, her hand absently smoothing the fabric of her gown. “It will be good to have her back. Things always feel... fuller when she’s here.”
“She keeps us all grounded,” Aegon agreed, his violet eyes glinting with warmth. “And her presence will make the next steps of our reign much stronger.”
They shared a moment of comfortable silence, each sipping from their goblets. Then Rhaenys leaned forward slightly, her expression brightening. “The eggs. I saw them today with Corlys. They look healthy, and I’m so excited to think one of them will belong to our child.”
Aegon’s gaze softened as he set his goblet down. “A dragon for our heir. It’s fitting. They will grow up knowing their heritage and the power of our bloodline.”
Rhaenys’s smile grew as she rested her chin on her hand, watching him. “You’re already thinking about the future. I knew you would be an incredible father.”
He reached across the table, his larger hand covering hers. “And you’ll be an incredible mother, Rhaenys. There’s no one I’d rather share this with.”
She laughed softly, leaning into his touch. “You’re biased.”
“I’m honest,” he countered with a smirk.
A comfortable silence fell between them again as they finished their meal. As Rhaenys shifted slightly in her seat, she let out a light-hearted sigh. “I feel huge already. What will I be like in a few months?”
Aegon’s eyes traveled over her form, filled with admiration. “You look beautiful, Rhaenys. More radiant than ever.”
She flushed slightly, a rare moment of bashfulness crossing her face. “You always know the right thing to say.”
“It’s easy when it’s the truth,” he replied simply, his voice filled with sincerity.
They lingered at the table, their laughter and quiet conversation filling the chamber. For a moment, it felt as though they were just Aegon and Rhaenys, not king and queen. The weight of their crowns was momentarily lifted, leaving only the bond between them, stronger and brighter than any dragon’s flame.
Chapter 23: A Queen’s Homecoming
Chapter Text
The sun blazed high in the sky as the gates of King’s Landing swung open to welcome Visenya Targaryen. She rode atop Vhagar, the massive dragon casting a long shadow over the gathered court. The beast’s great wings stirred the air as it descended, landing with a thunderous impact in the courtyard of the Red Keep. A crowd of nobles, council members, and servants had assembled, their faces a mixture of awe and reverence.
Visenya dismounted with practiced ease, her silver hair glinting in the sunlight. Her armor, still bearing the soot and scratches of recent battle, added an air of majesty and command. Her sharp violet eyes scanned the crowd, searching.
Aegon stood at the forefront, flanked by Orys Baratheon and the lords of the council. He stepped forward, a proud smile softening his otherwise commanding expression. “Visenya,” he greeted, his voice carrying across the courtyard. “You have returned victorious, as we knew you would.”
The assembled court erupted into applause, their cheers echoing against the walls of the Red Keep. Visenya inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the praise without letting it linger. Her gaze shifted to Aegon, who approached her, arms outstretched. They embraced briefly, a gesture of familial pride and unity.
“The Sistermen are no longer a threat,” Visenya said, her voice firm and steady. “Their banners now fly for House Targaryen.”
“A swift and decisive campaign,” Orys added, stepping forward. “Your presence on Vhagar made all the difference. The realm owes you its gratitude.”
Visenya’s expression softened slightly, though she remained composed. “It was necessary to show them the strength of dragons. Peace cannot be forged without power.”
As the lords murmured their approval, Visenya turned to Aegon. “Where is Rhaenys?” she asked, her voice quieter but tinged with concern.
Aegon’s expression grew tender. “She is resting. The pregnancy has taken much of her strength. She wanted to be here, but I insisted she remain in her chambers.”
Visenya nodded, her face momentarily unreadable. “I will visit her soon,” she said, her tone carrying a hint of resolve.
“She’ll be glad to see you,” Aegon replied warmly. “Your return has been long awaited by us all.”
As the court continued to offer their congratulations, Visenya’s sharp eyes took in the changes around her. The Red Keep bustled with activity, the signs of Aegon’s growing reign evident in every corner. Yet her thoughts remained on her sister, and a flicker of worry crossed her otherwise stoic face.
After a time, Aegon raised his hand, signaling for the gathering to disperse. “We shall convene in the council chamber later to hear your full report, Visenya,” he said. “For now, rest and take your ease. You have more than earned it.”
Visenya nodded, her armor glinting as she turned toward the steps of the keep. As she ascended, her mind was already turning to Rhaenys, eager to ensure her sister’s well-being in the midst of these momentous times.
Visenya walked through the corridors of the Red Keep with purpose, her boots echoing softly against the stone floors. When she reached Rhaenys’s chambers, she found the door slightly ajar. Pushing it open, she stepped inside to see a maester bent over Rhaenys, examining her carefully as she reclined on a cushioned chaise.
Visenya’s sharp gaze immediately fell on the maester. “Is everything all right?” she asked, her tone brisk and commanding.
The maester straightened quickly, bowing his head. “Yes, Your Grace. I was merely ensuring everything is in order.”
“And is it?” Visenya pressed, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.
“Yes, Your Grace. The queen and her child are both well,” the maester replied with a slight tremor.
“Good,” Visenya said firmly. “Now leave us.”
The maester hastily gathered his tools, bowed deeply to both queens, and exited the chamber, leaving the sisters alone.
Rhaenys’s face lit up as she saw Visenya approaching. “You’re back,” she said warmly, her voice tinged with relief.
Visenya sat beside her, taking Rhaenys’s hand in her own. “Of course I am. Did you think I’d let the realm keep me from you for too long?”
Rhaenys chuckled softly, leaning back. “You look tired, sister. I hope Aegon didn’t keep you too busy with his grand plans.”
Visenya smirked faintly. “The rebellion was quick to crush. Vhagar saw to that. And Aegon’s plans, as always, are grand, but manageable.” Her expression softened. “And you? How are you feeling?”
Rhaenys’s hand instinctively rested on her belly. “Better, though the days are long and the nights restless. This little one already knows how to make a queen’s life difficult.”
Visenya squeezed her hand. “You’re strong, Rhaenys. Stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
The sisters sat together, their conversation weaving between fond memories and the challenges ahead. In the quiet of the chamber, their bond was a source of strength, a reminder that even in the weight of their crowns, they were never truly alone.
The council chamber was filled with the soft murmur of conversation as Visenya entered, her stride purposeful and her presence commanding immediate silence. The lords and advisors around the table rose as she approached, acknowledging her recent victory.
Aegon sat at the head of the table, his violet eyes lighting up as he saw her. “Visenya,” he said warmly. “Let us hear your account of the rebellion.”
Visenya inclined her head and began, her voice clear and authoritative. “The Sistermen were swift to surrender once Vhagar descended upon them. Their fleet was no match for dragonfire, and their banners were lowered without significant bloodshed. Marla Sunderland has been deposed, and her brother Steffon now rules under our banner. Hostages have been taken by House Manderly and House Arryn to ensure their continued loyalty.”
The lords murmured their approval, nodding at the efficiency of the campaign.
“A decisive victory,” Orys said with a proud nod. “The realm owes you a debt, Visenya.”
As Visenya finished detailing the logistics of the campaign, the High Maester cleared his throat, drawing attention. “Your Grace,” he began, directing his words to Aegon, “while the rebellion’s resolution is a triumph, the question of the royal tour remains. It is imperative that the king visits the great houses without delay to solidify their loyalty.”
Aegon’s expression tightened, his tone calm but firm. “I have made my decision. The tour will commence after the birth of my heir. I will not leave King’s Landing until my child is born.”
The High Maester’s face betrayed a flicker of unease. “Your Grace, the realm’s stability—”
Before he could finish, Visenya’s voice rang out sharply, cutting through the chamber. “Do you question the king?” she demanded, her tone icy and dangerous. “He has spoken. You forget your place.”
The High Maester immediately bowed his head, his voice trembling slightly. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I am but a servant, offering counsel.”
Visenya’s piercing gaze lingered on him for a moment before she looked to Aegon. “The king has made his decision. Let no one here forget that.”
Aegon’s expression softened slightly as he glanced at his sister. “Your counsel is noted, Maester,” he said, his tone measured. “But the timing of the tour will remain as I have decreed.”
The chamber fell silent, the tension dissipating as Aegon shifted the discussion back to the logistics of governance. The lords resumed their deliberations, but the message was clear: the king’s word was final, and his sister’s defense of his authority left no room for dissent.
The council chamber’s tension lingered in the air long after the lords had departed. Aegon stormed through the corridors of the Red Keep, his strides long and forceful, the frustration radiating from him palpable. His violet eyes burned with a mix of anger and disappointment as he flung open the doors to his chambers, the heavy wood slamming against the stone walls. He paced the room like a caged dragon, his cloak falling unceremoniously to the floor.
It wasn’t long before Visenya’s deliberate footsteps echoed outside, the sound sharp and measured. She entered without hesitation, closing the door behind her with a firm hand. Her silver hair, still tied back from her time in the council, gleamed in the firelight, and her piercing gaze locked onto Aegon immediately.
“How dare you?” she began, her voice low but seething with fury.
Aegon turned to face her, his brow furrowing deeply. “How dare I what, Visenya?” he shot back, his voice hard. “Defend my decisions? Hold my temper while my own council questions me?”
“You let that maester speak as if he had the right to challenge your authority!” she snapped, stepping closer. “You are the king. They should fear questioning you, not be emboldened to do so in your presence.”
Aegon’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight. “And what would you have me do, Visenya? Burn him alive in the council chamber? Show the realm that I’m no better than a tyrant?”
“If it sends a message, yes,” Visenya replied without hesitation, her voice rising. “A king’s strength lies in his ability to command respect, not tolerate insolence.”
“And a king must also show restraint,” Aegon countered, his voice growing louder. “A ruler who strikes down every dissenting voice rules with fear, not loyalty.”
Their words ricocheted off the stone walls, the heat of their argument filling the chamber. Aegon’s frustration clashed with Visenya’s unwavering conviction, neither willing to yield.
“You forget yourself, Visenya,” Aegon growled, his voice low and dangerous. “I am the king. I decide what is strength and what is restraint.”
“And I am your queen,” she shot back, her tone sharp and defiant. “It is my duty to ensure you wield that strength without hesitation. A dragon who hesitates is no dragon at all.”
The argument reached its boiling point, their voices a storm of anger and pride. The tension in the room was electric, their eyes locked in a fierce battle of wills. Visenya stepped closer, her voice rising with every word. “You can’t afford weakness, Aegon. Not now, not ever.”
“And you think striking down anyone who dares to speak out is strength?” Aegon snapped, his voice thunderous. “That’s not strength, that’s fear!”
“Better to rule with fear than to be seen as feeble,” Visenya shot back, her fists clenched. “You sit on the Iron Throne, brother, and you must act like it. Show them what it means to be a Targaryen!”
Aegon’s chest heaved with frustration. “I am king! Do not presume to tell me how to rule!”
Visenya’s fury ignited fully. “If you were truly a king, you wouldn’t need me to remind you!” Her voice was a roar now, and she shoved him backward. Aegon stumbled but didn’t falter, his face twisted in anger.
“Do that again,” he growled, his tone low and dangerous.
“You’ll do nothing,” she sneered. “You’re all words, Aegon. And words are wind.”
Something snapped. Aegon moved like a dragon unleashed, closing the space between them in a heartbeat. His hand grasped her arm, his grip firm but not brutal. “Enough,” he said, his voice a growl.
But Visenya wouldn’t back down. She yanked her arm free, her nails scraping against his skin. Her violet eyes burned as she stepped forward, and before Aegon could react, her palm struck his cheek. The slap echoed like a thunderclap in the chamber.
Aegon froze, his jaw tightening. For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the tension thick enough to choke on.
Then, without warning, Aegon seized her by the shoulders, his strength overwhelming. His lips crashed onto hers in a kiss that was anything but tender. It was rough, desperate, a release of all their fury and passion in one violent motion.
Visenya stiffened for a moment, her hands raised as if to push him away. Then something shifted. Her fingers curled into his tunic, pulling him closer. The fire between them raged, uncontained. They stumbled, their feet tangling as their movements grew more frenzied. Armor clattered to the floor, the sound sharp against the stone.
They fell together in a tangle of limbs, hitting the cold stone floor with a force that should have hurt but didn’t register. The room was a storm of harsh breaths, growls, and the scrape of nails against skin. There were no soft words, no gentle touches—just the raw, untamed connection of two dragons who refused to yield.
When it ended, they lay sprawled on the floor, their chests heaving. Neither spoke. The silence that followed was primal, heavy, not born of comfort but of exhaustion and a shared understanding that could never be put into words.
Visenya finally moved, her voice cutting through the stillness. “Never show them you are weak.”
Aegon’s gaze flicked toward her. Her face was turned away, her silver hair cascading over her shoulder. Her words hung in the air, a command, a lesson, and a warning all at once.
They remained there on the floor, bound by their fire, their fury, and the unbreakable blood that coursed through their veins.
The evening air was cool, a welcome relief from the day’s heat. The garden paths wound gently under the darkening sky, the scent of jasmine and roses lingering. Rhaenys walked beside Orys, her hand resting lightly on her swelling belly. Their steps were slow, unhurried, as the day’s tensions began to fade.
“I have to ask,” Rhaenys began, a playful smile on her lips. “How is Argella?”
Orys chuckled softly. “She’s well. We write often, and she tells me all about the happenings at Storm’s End. She’s as stubborn as ever, but I miss her stubbornness. The castle feels less lively without her.”
Rhaenys laughed, her voice light and genuine. “I imagine she misses you too. But it’s good to hear she’s doing well.”
“She sends her regards,” Orys added with a grin. “She said I should tell you she admires your strength. And that she expects me to come back with more stories.”
“Stories you’ll have,” Rhaenys said, her eyes sparkling. “Though I hope they’re of peace, not war.”
They walked in companionable silence for a moment, their footsteps crunching softly on the gravel. Fireflies began to appear, their tiny lights flickering in the growing dusk.
“You know,” Rhaenys said quietly, “I sometimes miss Dragonstone. It’s where I feel most at home, where the winds carry the salt and the sea stretches endlessly.”
Orys glanced at her, his expression thoughtful. “It’s not easy, is it? Being here, away from what’s familiar.”
She nodded. “I know this is where we need to be, where Aegon needs to be. But sometimes I think of the cliffs and the sounds of the waves, and I long for it.”
Orys smiled gently. “It’s a strength, you know. To miss something so deeply and yet remain steadfast. You carry the memory of home, but you also carry this kingdom on your shoulders.”
Rhaenys looked at him, a hint of gratitude in her gaze. “Thank you, Orys. You always know what to say.”
They continued their walk, the conversation light and flowing, their shared laughter mingling with the gentle rustle of the leaves. The garden seemed a world away from the weighty decisions of court, a brief moment of peace under the evening sky.
The High Maester walked briskly through the dimly lit halls of the Red Keep, the faint shuffle of his robes the only sound. He carried a stack of scrolls in his hands, his head slightly bowed as though the weight of his duties rested heavily on his shoulders. Turning a corner, he froze at the sight of Visenya Targaryen standing in the corridor, her silver hair catching the flickering torchlight. She stood as still as a statue, her sharp violet eyes fixed on him with an intensity that stopped him in his tracks.
“Your Grace,” he began, his voice quivering slightly as he bowed. The scrolls trembled in his hands.
Visenya took a single step toward him, the faint clink of her boots on stone ringing out. “I want a word,” she said, her tone low and deliberate. It was not a request.
The High Maester swallowed hard, the air suddenly feeling heavier. “Of course, Your Grace. How may I be of service?”
Her gaze bore into him, and for a long moment, she said nothing. Then, her voice dropped further, soft yet cutting. “I will not tolerate you undermining the king again.”
“I did not mean—” he began, but she raised a hand, silencing him instantly.
“No excuses,” she said sharply. “You are here to serve. Your counsel is given at his pleasure, not as a challenge to his authority.”
The High Maester inclined his head, his face pale. “I only sought to advise—”
“And that is all you will do,” Visenya interrupted. “You will advise, and you will remember your place. If you ever step out of line again, I will ensure that the king no longer needs your services.”
Her words were measured, yet there was no mistaking the warning in them. The High Maester’s grip on the scrolls tightened. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said quietly.
Visenya’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, then she stepped aside, gesturing for him to continue on his way. “Go,” she said simply.
He bowed deeply and moved past her, his steps quickening as though eager to put distance between himself and her commanding presence. When he was out of sight, Visenya turned and walked away, the shadows of the corridor swallowing her figure.
Aegon walked quietly into Rhaenys’s chambers, the late hour making the Red Keep seem almost ghostly. Candlelight flickered, casting warm shadows on the walls. He paused in the doorway, his violet eyes adjusting to the dim light. Inside, Rhaenys stood before a maid who was measuring her with a length of cord. Rhaenys’s robe fell loose around her, her growing belly visible through the fabric.
Aegon’s voice was soft but carried a note of concern. “It’s late. The queen should be resting.”
Rhaenys turned her head to him, her silver hair shining faintly in the candlelight. She rolled her eyes with a small, tired smile. “That’s all I seem to do these days,” she said lightly. “But soon, I’ll have no need for gowns. I grow larger by the day.”
Aegon leaned against the doorframe, watching as the maid continued her work, carefully noting the measurements. He said nothing more, his gaze following the maid’s methodical movements as she recorded every detail. When the maid finished, she folded the cord, curtsied, and quietly left the chamber.
Now alone with Rhaenys, Aegon crossed the room. Her keen eyes quickly took him in. “You look tired,” she commented with a faint smirk. “And yet you tell me I need rest.”
Aegon chuckled softly. “Let’s rest together,” he said, his tone warm and tender.
Rhaenys smiled, and the tension of the day seemed to lift. In the quiet of the chamber, under the flickering candlelight, they found a moment of peace together.
She reached out and placed a hand on his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s strange,” she said softly. “I feel like I’ve been carrying this child forever, but then I think about how much longer we have to go. It feels both endless and fleeting.”
Aegon settled into a chair beside her, his gaze never leaving her face. “Every day is one step closer,” he said with quiet reassurance. “One step closer to meeting our child. I think about that constantly.”
“Do you ever get nervous?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not just for the child, but for… us. For how everything will change?”
He smiled faintly, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m not ready. We’ll face it together, Rhaenys. We’ve faced so much already. This is just a new challenge—one we can handle.”
Her eyes glistened in the candlelight, and she nodded. “I know. It just feels so overwhelming at times.”
He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “You don’t have to carry that burden alone. I’m here, always.”
She smiled again, this time more brightly. “You’re very good at reminding me of that. And I suppose I should listen to you, even if I find it hard to sit still and rest.”
Aegon chuckled. “You’ll have plenty of time to be busy soon enough. For now, just let yourself enjoy these quiet moments.”
As the night deepened, the two of them remained close, the bond they shared only growing stronger as they prepared for the journey ahead.
Chapter 24: A Queen's Conduct
Chapter Text
It had been months since Rhaenys had last set foot in the dragon pit. Now, over seven months into her pregnancy, her belly was round and heavy, her movements slower and more deliberate. She wore one of Aegon’s old tunics, the fabric stretching comfortably over her growing form, paired with worn riding breeches that no longer quite fit the same. Her silver hair was gathered loosely at her nape, stray tendrils framing her face. The dragon pit’s cavernous interior was dimly lit by torches, their flickering light casting shadows on the massive, scaled form of Meraxes.
Rhaenys stood beside her dragon, her hands resting gently on the great beast’s scaled face. The warmth of Meraxes’s breath washed over her, and she closed her eyes for a moment, feeling a sense of calm she had missed. She murmured softly to her dragon, stroking the familiar ridges above Meraxes’s nostrils. The connection between them was undeniable, and Rhaenys took comfort in the bond they shared.
Behind her, a young maid stood near the entrance to the cavern. The girl’s nervous glances toward the massive dragon betrayed her unease, and she fidgeted with the hem of her gown. A dragon handler stood nearby as well, his stoic expression hiding his thoughts, though his posture suggested a readiness to act if the dragon became agitated. The maid, however, could not contain her worry. She stepped forward hesitantly, her voice trembling as she spoke.
“Your Grace,” she said, her hands clutching one another tightly. “Please, forgive me, but this isn’t safe. The heir—” She faltered, casting a quick, terrified glance at Meraxes. “You must come away, my queen. The dragon pit is no place for someone in your condition.”
Rhaenys opened her eyes, turning her head to look at the maid. Her expression was calm but firm. “Enough,” she said, her voice carrying the quiet authority of a queen. “Go back to the Keep. I am perfectly fine, and I do not need to be coddled.”
“But—” the maid began, only to falter under Rhaenys’s sharp gaze.
“Go,” Rhaenys repeated. “Now.”
Reluctantly, the maid curtsied, her face pale, and hurried away. The dragon handler remained where he was, still as stone, as if not daring to interfere further. Rhaenys turned back to Meraxes, resuming her gentle strokes along the dragon’s jaw. “Don’t mind her,” she murmured softly. “She doesn’t understand. You’re not dangerous to me.”
Moments later, the maid reached the High Maester’s chambers. Flustered and pale, she knocked hastily before being ushered inside. The High Maester looked up from his writing, his brows knitting at her breathless appearance.
“Your Grace,” the maid began, her voice shaky, “The queen is in the dragon pit. She’s—she’s with Meraxes. I begged her to come back, but she wouldn’t listen. I fear it’s not safe for her… or the heir.”
The High Maester rose, his expression grave. “This is unacceptable,” he said firmly. “I will see to it at once.”
As the High Maester strode purposefully through the halls, Visenya caught sight of him. She had been making her way back to her own chambers when she noticed his hurried pace and the unusual tension on his face. Curiosity piqued, she turned and began following him at a distance. The High Maester’s steps led him directly to the dragon pit.
Visenya’s brows furrowed as she entered the cavernous space. The scene before her was unusual—Rhaenys stood calmly with Meraxes, her hand resting on the dragon’s mighty jaw, while the High Maester, his expression disapproving, approached cautiously.
“Your Grace,” the High Maester said, his voice strained, “this is not advisable. You should be resting. You should be in your chambers—”
“Master,” Rhaenys interrupted, her tone edged with steel, “I am quite capable of deciding where I should be.”
“You must think of the heir—” he began, but before he could finish, Visenya’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.
“Enough,” Visenya said sharply, her silver hair catching the torchlight as she stepped forward. “You’ve delivered your warning. Now leave us.”
The High Maester hesitated, clearly caught off guard by Visenya’s sudden appearance. He opened his mouth to protest, but the look she gave him brooked no argument. “Go,” she commanded. “Now.”
He nodded stiffly, his lips pressed into a thin line, and turned to leave. The maid, still hovering nervously near the entrance, received a withering glance from Visenya. “And you,” Visenya added, her voice colder than the wind over the Narrow Sea, “if you dare look at my sister like that again, I’ll ensure you never see the inside of the Red Keep again. Now gather your things and leave King’s Landing.”
The maid’s face went pale as parchment. She quickly curtsied and fled, not daring to say another word. The chamber grew quiet once more, save for the low rumble of Meraxes’s breath.
Rhaenys sighed, her hand resting on her growing belly. “I miss flying,” she admitted, her voice soft as she looked at her sister. “I miss feeling the wind against my face, the way the world looks from above. I feel so… grounded here.”
Visenya stepped closer, her expression softening slightly. “I know,” she said quietly. “But you’ll fly again. After the heir is born, you’ll be back in the skies.”
Rhaenys managed a faint smile, though her gaze lingered on Meraxes. “I hope so,” she said. “I hope they’ll know this feeling too, what it means to soar above the world and be free.”
Aegon sat in his study, poring over correspondence by the firelight. The late hour cast long shadows on the walls, and the warm glow from the hearth bathed his silver hair in soft, shifting light. His face was calm, but his violet eyes bore the weight of endless responsibilities. Maps and documents lay scattered across the massive wooden desk, their edges curling slightly from the heat of the room. His hands, strong and steady, rested lightly on a letter from Orys, its seal broken. A rare softness touched his features as he read of Argella’s pregnancy. The thought of his old friend becoming a father brought a fleeting warmth to his otherwise stoic demeanor.
Aegon leaned back in his high-backed chair, rolling his shoulders slightly as he reached for his quill. The pen scratched gently over the parchment as he began drafting a reply. He wrote of his congratulations, his joy for Orys and Argella, and his hope for the smooth arrival of their child. For a moment, the heavy burdens of kingship seemed lighter.
A sharp knock interrupted the tranquil moment. Aegon’s hand paused mid-sentence, his expression darkening. “Enter,” he called, his voice even but carrying the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
The door creaked open, and the High Maester stepped into the chamber. His robes were slightly disheveled, his face lined with concern. He looked up at Aegon with an air of urgency, his hands folded tightly in front of him.
“Your Grace,” he began, his tone carefully measured, “I bring news of the dragon pit.”
Aegon’s brow furrowed, his quill still poised above the parchment. “What news?” he asked, his voice edged with irritation.
“Queen Rhaenys visited Meraxes today,” the High Maester said cautiously. “Despite her condition, she spent a considerable amount of time there. Her maid and one of the dragon handlers approached me afterward, deeply concerned for her safety.”
Aegon set the quill down and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. His sharp gaze locked onto the High Maester. “And what did you do?”
“I went to speak with her,” the High Maester admitted, his voice growing more nervous under Aegon’s scrutiny. “I urged her to return to her chambers and rest. I explained that the risks—”
“You explained the risks to her?” Aegon’s voice hardened. “Without consulting me first? You thought it was your place to lecture the queen?”
“Your Grace, I only wished to ensure her safety—”
“Her safety?” Aegon rose from his chair, the fluid motion smooth and commanding. “She knows Meraxes better than any of you know your own horses. Do not presume to tell a Targaryen queen how to handle her dragon.”
“But her condition—” the High Maester pressed, his voice faltering slightly under Aegon’s intensifying glare.
Aegon’s voice turned cold. “You will not speak of her condition as though it weakens her. She is not some fragile flower to be caged. She is Rhaenys Targaryen, and she will decide what she can and cannot do.”
The High Maester hesitated, his hands twisting in his robes. Then, after a tense pause, he said, “Your Grace, there are… other concerns. Rumors have begun to spread. Whispers among the courtiers.” He shifted uneasily. “Some question whether the child she carries is truly—”
Aegon’s violet eyes flashed with fury, and before the High Maester could finish, the king’s chair scraped harshly against the stone floor as he shot to his feet. “Do not finish that sentence,” he warned, his voice low and deadly.
“Your Grace, these rumors undermine your reign,” the High Maester said hastily. “They must be addressed—”
“Enough!” Aegon bellowed, his voice reverberating off the stone walls. In two swift strides, he crossed the room, seized the High Maester by the collar, and slammed him against the wall. The man let out a strangled gasp, his hands instinctively clutching at Aegon’s wrists.
Aegon’s expression was no longer calm. His face was taut with rage, his lips curled back slightly as he glared into the High Maester’s panicked eyes. He drew his sword, the blade gleaming menacingly in the flickering firelight. Pressing the edge lightly to the man’s throat, he spoke in a low, furious tone. “You will resign today,” he growled. “You will leave King’s Landing before the sun sets. If I ever hear another word—another breath—of these lies, I will burn you alive.”
The High Maester’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his pale face slick with sweat. He nodded frantically, his entire body trembling.
Aegon released him abruptly, and the man crumpled slightly, stumbling as he tried to regain his balance. “Get out,” Aegon snarled.
The High Maester didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled out of the room, nearly tripping over his robes as he fled.
Aegon stood still, his chest heaving, the blade of his sword still bared in his hand. Slowly, he sheathed it with a sharp metallic hiss. He turned back to his desk and sank heavily into his chair. The letter from Orys was still there, the ink now dry, its warm and cheerful tone a stark contrast to the fiery confrontation that had just taken place.
His hands gripped the armrests of his chair as he stared into the fire, his jaw tight and his mind churning. The whispers might be silenced for now, but the mere thought of them gnawed at him. Aegon swore to himself that Rhaenys would never hear of them. And should anyone dare speak them again, he would make certain they were silenced for good.
Hours later, the Red Keep was cloaked in an eerie stillness, save for the occasional echo of footsteps along the stone corridors. Orys, searching for Aegon, walked briskly through the keep’s many passages. He had checked the king’s study, the council chamber, even the royal solar, but Aegon was nowhere to be found.
Finally, Orys ventured into the Queen’s Gardens—a place Rhaenys had lovingly designed. The gardens were tranquil under the moonlight, the flowers’ colors muted but still vibrant in the cool night air. As Orys stepped along the path, he spotted Aegon sitting alone on a low stone bench, his shoulders slightly hunched, his head bowed. The faint scent of jasmine and lavender lingered in the air.
Orys approached carefully, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice gentle. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Aegon raised his head slightly, the moonlight catching his profile. His face was set, his eyes shadowed, but the flicker of anger that had dominated him earlier had softened into something more subdued. He gestured for Orys to sit beside him.
Orys complied, lowering himself onto the bench. He waited a moment, letting the silence stretch before he asked, “What troubles you?”
Aegon exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on a cluster of pale roses that seemed to glow under the night sky. “The High Maester,” he said finally, his voice low. “He spoke of Rhaenys. Of her visit to the dragon pit. And then he dared to repeat the rumors.”
Orys’s brow furrowed. “Rumors?”
Aegon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That the child she carries… may not be mine.”
Orys’s jaw tightened, and his voice took on a reassuring tone. “And what did you do?”
“I made it clear he would no longer serve as High Maester,” Aegon replied, a hint of steel returning to his voice. “I told him to leave the Keep before sundown. If he breathes another word of these lies, he won’t breathe again.”
Orys nodded, his expression firm. “You did the right thing, Your Grace. The High Maester had no place questioning the queen’s conduct, let alone spreading such filth.”
Aegon leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting to the heavens. The stars above King’s Landing sparkled faintly, their light weak against the glow of the castle’s many torches. “It still eats at me,” he admitted. “Not because I doubt her—never that. But because of the damage such rumors can do. I don’t want her to know. I don’t want her to hear even a whisper of it.”
“She won’t,” Orys said firmly. “Not if I have any say in it.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the garden—the rustle of leaves, the soft chirp of distant crickets—filling the void. Orys placed a reassuring hand on Aegon’s shoulder.
“She’s stronger than they give her credit for,” Orys said. “Stronger than all of them. You both are.”
Aegon nodded slowly, the tension in his frame easing slightly. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
The two men sat in the stillness of the Queen’s Gardens, the flowers swaying gently in the night breeze, their presence a quiet reminder of Rhaenys’s love for beauty and life. For a moment, the burdens of kingship seemed just a little lighter.
Later that evening, Visenya entered Rhaenys’s chambers, her arms full of fresh herbs and steaming water. Rhaenys sat on the edge of a cushioned chair near the hearth, her face pale but serene. She smiled faintly when she saw her sister.
“Come, lie back,” Visenya said softly, setting down the basin and arranging the herbs on a small table. “This will help you relax.”
Rhaenys shifted carefully to the edge of her bed, leaning back against the thick, embroidered pillows. Visenya dipped a cloth into the warm, herb-scented water and wrung it out. Gently, she dabbed at her sister’s temples, letting the soothing aroma fill the air.
“You don’t need to fuss,” Rhaenys murmured, though her body relaxed at the touch. “I’m fine.”
“I know you’re fine,” Visenya replied, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “But a queen deserves to be cared for now and then, especially when she carries an heir.”
Rhaenys chuckled softly, a sound both weary and amused. “He’s not even born yet, and you’re already treating me like a delicate flower.”
“You are many things, sister,” Visenya said, dipping the cloth back into the basin. “Delicate is not one of them.”
Rhaenys smiled faintly but then sighed. “I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl. They keep saying it doesn’t matter, but I can’t help wondering.”
Visenya squeezed the cloth, letting the warm water run back into the basin. “It doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “You’re their mother, and that will always matter most.”
They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Visenya’s hands moved methodically, her every gesture steady and purposeful. The lines of tension that had crept into Rhaenys’s posture began to soften, her breathing growing steadier.
When the herbs had steeped fully in the warm water, Visenya cupped her sister’s chin gently, tilting her head so she could better cleanse her neck and shoulders. The rhythmic motions, combined with the fragrant steam, worked their magic. Rhaenys sighed, the weight of the day slipping from her.
“You’re good at this,” Rhaenys said after a long pause, her voice soft with drowsiness. “I almost feel human again.”
Visenya chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Rhaenys closed her eyes, her expression content. “Thank you, Visenya. Truly.”
Her sister leaned in and kissed her forehead lightly. “Rest now. I’ll stay until you’re asleep.”
Later that night, Visenya walked through the silent halls of the Red Keep. The flickering torchlight played off the dark stone walls, casting long, shifting shadows. She had just left Rhaenys’s chambers, satisfied that her sister was finally resting peacefully. The soothing herbs and warm water had worked their magic, and Rhaenys had drifted into a deep, much-needed sleep.
As Visenya approached the main corridor leading to her own chambers, she saw a familiar figure coming toward her. It was Aegon, his expression tense, his steps measured. His usual calm demeanor seemed strained, and as he drew closer, she noted the tightness around his mouth and the flicker of something dark in his violet eyes.
“Rhaenys is resting,” Visenya said without preamble. “She’s well.”
Aegon nodded, his gaze briefly flicking toward the direction of Rhaenys’s chambers. “Good.”
“You look troubled,” she added, her tone softening. “What is it?”
Aegon hesitated for a moment, then sighed, the weight of the day pressing visibly on his shoulders. “The High Maester is no longer in King’s Landing.”
Visenya’s brows lifted slightly in surprise. “No longer in King’s Landing? Why?”
“Because I sent him away,” Aegon said simply, his voice steady but heavy. “I dismissed him. I made it clear he would not return.”
Visenya stopped, her gaze sharpening. “What did he do?”
Aegon’s jaw tightened, and his hand clenched into a fist at his side. “He overstepped. He questioned Rhaenys’s conduct. He dared to imply—” Aegon’s voice faltered for a moment before he continued, his tone like tempered steel. “He dared to suggest that the child she carries might not be mine.”
Visenya’s eyes flashed with fury. “He said what?” Her voice rose, echoing slightly in the empty corridor. “And you let him leave? You let him walk away after speaking such filth?”
“Visenya,” Aegon began, but she interrupted, stepping closer, her face a mask of anger.
“He insulted our house! He insulted Rhaenys! How could you let him live?”
“I dealt with him,” Aegon said firmly. “He is gone. He will not return, and if he breathes another word of it—”
“If?” Visenya’s voice was sharp. “If he breathes another word of it? He should never have had the chance to speak again! I cannot believe you—”
“Enough, Visenya!” Aegon barked, his voice echoing in the hallway. The tension between them was palpable, and for a moment they simply stared at one another, two forces of nature clashing in the dim light.
Finally, Visenya let out a slow, angry breath and looked away, her jaw still tight. “You should have killed him,” she muttered. “This is our family. Our blood.”
“I know,” Aegon said quietly, his tone calmer now. “Believe me, I know.”
After a moment, Visenya nodded stiffly. “Fine. But if I hear even a whisper of his lies again, I will deal with him myself.”
Aegon met her gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. “You won’t have to.”
Under the cover of darkness, the former High Maester hurried through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep. He gave terse orders to a nervous servant, who scurried to the stables to ready a horse. Outside, the streets of King’s Landing were quiet, the only sounds the distant murmur of waves against the city’s wharves and the occasional clatter of hooves on cobblestones.
The High Maester’s movements were frantic. He wrung his hands and glanced over his shoulder, as though expecting a shadow to rise from the darkness and drag him back to face the king’s wrath. The stable boy led out a sturdy horse, and the High Maester wasted no time in mounting. His robes bunched awkwardly as he sat, but he paid it no mind. All that mattered was distance—putting as much space as possible between himself and King’s Landing.
As he urged the horse through the city gates and onto the darkened road, the chill of the night bit through his clothes. He glanced back once more, relieved to see no pursuit. The road to Oldtown stretched ahead, long and empty. For the first time since the confrontation with Aegon, he allowed himself to breathe deeply.
But the calm was short-lived. The distant sound of hoofbeats reached his ears, faint at first but growing louder. He glanced over his shoulder again, his heart sinking as he saw a cloaked figure on horseback closing in at an alarming speed. The figure rode with a purpose, the glint of a drawn sword catching the pale moonlight.
Panic surged through the High Maester. He spurred his horse, urging it faster, but his mount was not bred for speed. The cloaked rider gained ground rapidly, the thundering hooves now echoing in his ears. The High Maester’s pulse raced as he looked back one final time, seeing the blade raised high.
The last thing he heard was the whistling of the sword cutting through the air before it struck him down.
The late-night air was thick with tension as the cloaked figure approached King’s Landing’s main gates. The guards stationed there exchanged wary glances as the lone rider slowed, the horse’s hooves muffled against the dirt. Even under the cover of darkness, the faint torchlight illuminated a faint gleam of metal beneath the heavy folds of the cloak.
“Who goes there?” one of the guards called, stepping forward with his spear raised. The figure said nothing at first, drawing the moment out, the silence heavy and deliberate. The guards stiffened, their hands gripping their weapons more tightly.
Finally, a deep voice responded, “A loyal servant of the crown.” The tone was steady, but the words did little to ease the unease hanging in the air.
The guards hesitated before signaling the gates to open. As the heavy wooden doors creaked apart, the figure rode through, vanishing into the labyrinth of King’s Landing’s winding streets. The shadows of the buildings loomed high on either side, creating narrow corridors that swallowed sound. Only the faint clink of metal and the soft fall of hooves on cobblestone hinted at the rider’s presence.
Within the Red Keep, the night felt heavier still. The hallways were nearly empty, the occasional flicker of torchlight casting fleeting glimpses of the figure’s silhouette. Their path was deliberate but unhurried, a quiet confidence in each step.
Reaching the base of the stone staircase leading to the royal quarters, the figure paused. A voice cut through the stillness. “Halt! Reveal yourself,” a guard demanded, stepping from the shadows with a hand on his sword hilt.
The cloaked figure stopped and slowly reached up to lower the hood. The guard’s eyes widened at the sight of Corlys’s familiar face.
“My lord,” the guard said quickly, straightening and stepping back. “Apologies. I did not know it was you.”
Corlys nodded once, his face calm but stern. “No matter. Carry on.”
Without waiting for further response, he continued up the stairs, his boots making faint echoes on the worn stone. As he ascended, the silence around him grew thicker, the walls seeming to press closer. When he reached the corridor leading to Visenya’s chambers, the torches burned lower, their flames casting restless shadows that danced across the walls.
Corlys stopped before the heavy wooden door and took a steadying breath. He raised his hand and knocked twice, firm but not loud. A moment passed before the door opened to reveal Visenya, her expression as sharp and unreadable as ever. Her piercing gaze met his, and for a moment, no words were spoken.
“Is it done?” she asked, her voice low but edged with something dangerous.
“Yes,” Corlys replied simply, his tone calm, as if they were discussing an ordinary task.
Visenya stepped aside, letting him enter. The door closed behind them with a faint click, sealing them away from the quiet, shadowed halls.
Chapter 25: A Cradle of Grief
Chapter Text
Morning sunlight streamed through the high windows of the council chamber, casting golden rays on the polished stone floor. Aegon sat at the head of the long table, his fingers lightly drumming
the carved wood. Around him, the members of his council were already engaged in discussion.
“We must fill the position of High Maester,” one of the lords said, his voice tinged with urgency. “Without someone of standing in Oldtown’s order, our connections to the Citadel are weak.”
“Indeed,” agreed another. “The High Maester’s counsel is essential, especially in these early years of your reign.”
Aegon leaned forward slightly, his expression calm. “And yet, we cannot rush into this decision. The wrong choice could cause more harm than good. I would hear all nominations and weigh them carefully.”
Orys spoke next, his voice steady. “Your Grace, we’ve received word from Oldtown. The previous High Maester, Ollidar, never arrived at the Citadel. This decision must be made before Queen Rhaenys goes into labor.”
A moment of silence followed, the council members exchanging puzzled glances. Visenya, seated to Aegon’s left, raised a single brow, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “The old fool must have run into trouble on the road,” she said, her tone laced with dry amusement. “These things happen.”
Aegon’s expression remained neutral, but his mind turned. Trouble on the road? He thought briefly of the late hour when Ollidar had been sent away, of the shadows that moved through the Keep’s corridors after dark. Still, he chose not to voice his suspicions. Instead, he nodded once and returned his focus to the council.
“We have no certainty as to his fate,” Orys continued, his gaze steady. “But his absence complicates matters. The Citadel may view this as a slight if we delay appointing a new High Maester for much longer.”
“Do we have any likely candidates in mind?” asked one of the older lords.
Aegon shook his head slightly. “We need more time. I will not be rushed into a decision that affects the realm so deeply.”
The council murmured their agreement, though some looked frustrated by the lack of resolution. Aegon raised a hand, signaling the end of the discussion.
“We shall reconvene once more names have been put forth,” he said firmly. “Until then, continue gathering information. This matter is not to be taken lightly.”
With that, the council began to rise, the scrape of chairs and the murmur of voices filling the chamber. Visenya stood last, casting a brief glance at Aegon before turning on her heel and leaving the room. Aegon watched her go, his face unreadable, and then turned his attention back to the morning light spilling through the windows, illuminating the map of his realm spread out before him. The matter of the High Maester would remain unresolved for now, and his thoughts lingered on the path yet ahead.
Rhaenys stepped out of her chambers, her heavily pregnant form swathed in a flowing lavender gown that draped over her growing belly. The fabric shimmered faintly in the early light, but it was the loose fit of Aegon’s old riding tunic, worn beneath the gown, that offered her the most comfort. Her silver hair, usually swept into intricate styles, was simply braided today, and her pale face showed faint shadows of restless nights. Yet, even in this state, she exuded the quiet grace of a queen.
Her steps were slow but purposeful, each one accompanied by a soft shuffle of her slippers against the stone floor. She carried herself with determination, though her breaths were a touch labored, her hand occasionally pressing into her lower back for relief. The Red Keep was quiet at this early hour, the usual bustle muted as the castle stirred awake.
Rhaenys reached the door to the old High Maester’s chambers and paused, gathering herself before lifting her hand to knock. The wooden door creaked slightly as it opened, revealing a cluttered room that smelled faintly of old parchment and medicinal herbs. Stacks of books and scrolls lay haphazardly on the desk, and small glass jars filled with dried flowers and powders lined the shelves. The faint morning light filtered through a narrow window, casting a muted glow over the scene.
Inside, a young man sat at the desk, his head bent over a ledger. He looked up as she entered, and she noticed his strikingly bright blue eyes, set against fair skin that still held the softness of youth. His mousy brown hair was slightly tousled, and he wore the modest robes of a maester-in-training. As his gaze met hers, he smiled warmly and rose from his seat.
“Your Highness,” he greeted, dipping his head. “How may I help you?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you so early,” Rhaenys began, her voice kind but weary. “I’m just… looking for a book on childbirth. Something that might help me understand what to expect.”
The young man’s smile remained, but his expression turned thoughtful. “I am Maester Lyonce. I was the High Maester’s apprentice. Since his sudden departure, everything is a bit chaotic. I’ve been trying to maintain some order here and tend to the most immediate needs. As for books on childbirth—” he gestured to the cluttered room “—there probably is something, but I wouldn’t know where to look in this mess just yet.”
Rhaenys glanced around at the scattered volumes, a faint smile touching her lips. “I didn’t care much for the last High Maester,” she admitted. “He never approved of me. It was as though every question I asked was foolish.”
Lyonce nodded sympathetically. “He was not everyone’s first choice, that’s true. But he did know his craft. Still, you are not wrong to seek clarity. If there’s a specific concern, perhaps I can help.”
Rhaenys hesitated before speaking, her hand resting lightly on her belly. “My ankles have started to swell. The old maester said it was normal, but I wanted to be certain.”
“Was it sudden, or did it happen gradually?” Lyonce asked, his tone gentle and professional.
“Over time,” she replied.
“Then it sounds like something to monitor, but not a cause for alarm,” he reassured her. “Pregnancy is…” He paused, searching for the right words. “It’s a strange and wondrous thing. We often say what’s happening is normal, but truthfully, it’s a new normal. Your body is doing something extraordinary. It’s only fair to ask questions and seek answers.”
His honesty brought a genuine smile to Rhaenys’s lips. “You have a kind way about you, Lyonce. Thank you.”
He bowed his head slightly. “It’s you who carries the heir, Your Highness. My role is only to help where I can.”
She took a step toward the door, her movements slow but more relaxed. “How long do you plan to stay?”
“Until they appoint a new High Maester,” he said. “Or until the old maester’s remaining patients are stable.”
Rhaenys nodded thoughtfully. “Then it seems we’ll be seeing more of each other. Thank you, Lyonce.”
“Any time, Your Highness.” He inclined his head, watching as she left the room. As the door closed softly behind her, Lyonce returned to his desk, his expression contemplative, the morning’s brief exchange still fresh in his mind.
As Rhaenys left the maester’s chambers, she made her way down the long, stone corridors of the Red Keep. Her steps were deliberate, each shuffle of her slippers echoing faintly in the quiet of the early hour. Her path took her toward Aegon’s study, her mind turning over the advice she’d received. She reached up to smooth a stray silver hair from her face, a small smile playing on her lips as she thought of Lyonce’s kind words.
As she approached a fork in the corridor, the sound of familiar footsteps drew her attention. She turned to see Corlys emerging from another hall, his expression lightening when he saw her. He quickly closed the distance between them, bowing his head slightly.
“Your Highness,” he said, his voice warm. “You’re up early. May I escort you?”
Rhaenys chuckled softly, resting a hand on her belly. “I think I can still walk on my own, Corlys.” Her tone was teasing, but there was a note of genuine amusement in her voice.
“Of course,” Corlys replied, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “But perhaps you’ll let me accompany you anyway.”
She nodded, and together they continued down the corridor toward Aegon’s study. The air was still cool, the sunlight barely peeking through the narrow windows. When they reached the study, Rhaenys opened the door to find the room empty. The large desk was neat, the maps and letters placed carefully in stacks, but there was no sign of Aegon.
Corlys glanced around, then turned to her with a suggestion. “Perhaps we could take a stroll through the gardens? It’s a fine morning.”
Rhaenys hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “That sounds lovely.”
He smiled. “I’ll arrange for some musicians to play while we walk. It would be a shame not to enjoy such a peaceful morning.”
She agreed, and together they left the study, making their way toward the lush greenery of the royal gardens. The sun climbed higher in the sky, casting a gentle warmth over the castle grounds as they strolled among the blooming flowers and manicured hedges. The sound of soft music followed them, blending with the rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds.
It was midday, the sun high and warm in the sky, casting long golden rays across the castle grounds. Aegon stepped out into the training yard, the clink of steel and the sharp bark of commands meeting his ears. The recruits, clad in simple armor, moved in unison as Visenya circled them, her keen eyes taking in every flaw and hesitation.
She was dressed in fitted leathers, a sword at her hip and her silver hair braided back tightly. Her presence alone demanded respect, and the young men and women before her pushed themselves harder, sweat dripping from their brows under her watchful gaze.
Aegon leaned against a wooden post, his arms crossed as he observed. He made no move to interrupt, watching as Visenya corrected a recruit’s stance with a sharp word and a quick demonstration. Her movements were fluid, practiced, and she moved through the yard with the confidence of someone born to command.
After a while, Visenya looked up and caught Aegon’s eye. She gave a sharp gesture, calling for a break, and the recruits sagged in relief, retreating to the edges of the yard to catch their breath.
Visenya approached, her expression sharp but not unkind. “What troubles you, brother?” she asked, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity.
Aegon shrugged, his gaze moving to the recruits as they drank from barrels of water. “The roads are dangerous when one travels alone.”
Visenya studied him for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly. “That old fool must have come into trouble on the way,” she said. Her tone was clipped, matter-of-fact. “The roads aren’t safe for someone traveling without proper guards.”
Aegon nodded slowly, his expression giving nothing away. “I suppose so.”
Visenya tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
Aegon said nothing more, just watched as the recruits began to return to their positions. Visenya clapped her hands sharply, calling them back to order. Aegon turned and walked away, his mind already shifting to the next task at hand.
As Aegon left the training yard, the clang of swords faded behind him. The warm sun bathed the castle grounds as he followed the stone paths back toward the inner keep. On his way, he heard the distant strains of music. He paused for a moment, then continued toward the sound, a faint smile playing on his lips. He knew that wherever there was music, he would likely find Rhaenys.
He found her in the queen’s garden, a tranquil retreat filled with flowering bushes, fragrant herbs, and shaded benches. The music came from a small group of musicians stationed nearby, their soft tunes blending perfectly with the peaceful atmosphere. Rhaenys sat on a cushioned bench beneath a canopy of blooming wisteria, her silver hair glowing in the sunlight. Corlys sat beside her, his expression relaxed as he gestured for the musicians to continue playing.
Rhaenys looked up as Aegon approached. Despite the heaviness of her pregnancy, she still possessed a serene beauty, her smile warm and inviting. Aegon stepped closer, bowing his head slightly in greeting. “Rhaenys, Corlys,” he said warmly. His eyes softened as they settled on his wife. “How are you feeling? You were quite sick this morning.”
Rhaenys waved a hand dismissively, though her smile remained. “I feel better now. Corlys has been keeping me company.”
Corlys chuckled, inclining his head. “I do what I can, Your Grace.”
Aegon smiled in return. “Your absence is felt in council,” he added gently.
Rhaenys rolled her eyes playfully. “I’m sure you manage without me.”
They shared a quiet laugh, the moment lightened by her good-natured teasing. But as she shifted to rise from the bench, a sudden jolt of pain crossed her face. She froze, her hand shooting to her belly. Aegon immediately stepped forward, concern flashing across his face.
“Are you all right?” he asked urgently, his voice steady but laced with worry.
Rhaenys winced, her breathing quickening. “I—I’m not sure.”
Before she could say more, a warm, wet sensation spread across her gown. Her waters had broken. Her wide eyes met Aegon’s, and fear flickered in her gaze. Another sharp wave of pain struck her, and her knees buckled. Aegon caught her, holding her carefully as she gasped in pain.
“Guards! Maids! Anyone!” Corlys shouted, his voice ringing through the garden. “Get help!”
The musicians stopped playing, their instruments falling silent as they rushed to summon aid. The peaceful garden was suddenly alive with movement, yet Aegon’s world narrowed to the woman in his arms. He murmured words of reassurance, his heart pounding as he held her close, determined not to let her go.
Rhaenys’ chambers were a crucible of anguish, the air saturated with the sharp tang of sweat, blood, and fear. The flickering candlelight cast trembling shadows on the stone walls, turning the room into a cage of restless, dancing phantoms. Rhaenys lay sprawled on the bed, her body arching and convulsing as wave after wave of pain overtook her. Her cries were raw, guttural—the kind of sound that scraped at the very edges of the soul, each one sending ripples of dread through everyone present.
Aegon knelt at her side, his hands trembling as he clutched hers. His grip was almost too tight, his knuckles white, as if sheer force alone could tether her to him. His voice, roughened by desperation, fell into a litany of whispered reassurances. “You’re strong, my love. My heart, I’m here. Hold on. Hold on for me.” The words spilled out over and over, a prayer as much as a plea, though his eyes betrayed the growing fissures of panic and helplessness. He felt utterly useless, his role reduced to little more than a spectator to his wife’s suffering.
Visenya stood rigid on the other side of the bed, her posture one of defiance against the chaos consuming the room. Her lips moved in silent, fervent prayers, her hand brushing damp hair from Rhaenys’ sweat-soaked face. Each of Rhaenys’ screams seemed to carve lines of anguish deeper into Visenya’s face, her stoicism threatening to crack with every passing second. The blood pooling beneath her sister painted her hands crimson, a macabre reminder of how fragile life was in this moment.
Beyond the heavy oak doors, Corlys Velaryon paced like a caged lion, his boots echoing on the stone floor in an uneven rhythm. Aethan and Orys leaned heavily against the walls, their faces pale and drawn. The muffled sounds of Rhaenys’ torment reached them, each cry twisting their stomachs into knots. None of them spoke; no words could capture the oppressive weight of what was unfolding.
A sudden knock on the chamber door shattered the fraught silence outside and startled everyone within. Aegon’s head snapped up, his face a mixture of hope and dread, while Visenya’s eyes narrowed like drawn daggers. The door creaked open, revealing three maesters who entered with grim purpose. Two were elder, their faces etched with age and gravity, and the third, Lyonce, was younger, his expression betraying equal parts determination and unease. His earlier meeting with Rhaenys had left an impression of quiet confidence, but now his boyish features were tight with tension as he rushed to her side.
The elder maesters were introduced as Maester Gorlan, the eldest with a sharp, hawk-like nose and a severe demeanor, and Maester Torvin, shorter and stouter but no less grim. Their experience was evident, but their approach exuded cold detachment. Lyonce, in contrast, was a storm of energy and compassion, his hands immediately reaching for Rhaenys’ wrist to check her pulse.
“What took you so long?” Visenya’s voice was sharp enough to cut through the air, her fury palpable.
Gorlan bowed slightly but offered no excuse. “Your Grace, it is time for the king and queen to leave the chamber.”
“No,” Aegon said, his voice firm and final, cutting through the maester’s attempt at authority. “I will not leave her.”
“Nor will I,” Visenya added, her voice like tempered steel, each word a weapon.
Gorlan’s expression tightened with exasperation. “Your Grace, childbirth is perilous work. It is messy, unpredictable, and dangerous. We cannot concentrate with loved ones present—shouting, judging… interfering.”
Aegon’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He turned back to Rhaenys, his hand smoothing over her damp brow. “I’ll be right outside, my love,” he whispered, though his voice wavered. “Be strong. Please, be strong.”
Her fingers gripped his desperately, her eyes wide with fear and pain. “Aegon, don’t leave me,” she begged, her voice barely a whisper over her labored breaths.
“I’ll be just outside,” he promised, the words heavy with guilt as he gently pried her hand from his.
Visenya was less willing. She fought Aegon as he pulled her from the room, her body taut with resistance. Even in the hallway, Rhaenys’ screams pierced through the door like arrows, each one driving deeper into Aegon’s chest. He slumped against the wall, his head buried in his hands. “Please,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking under the weight of his plea. “Any god who will listen, spare her. Spare her, and I’ll give anything.”
Inside, the chamber had become a battlefield. Rhaenys writhed, her body wracked with pain so intense it stole the breath from her lungs. The sheets beneath her were soaked through with blood, the coppery tang saturating the air. Gorlan and Torvin moved with grim efficiency, their hands steady but their expressions distant, as if they had seen this countless times before. Lyonce, however, stayed close to Rhaenys, his voice calm and steady despite the chaos. “Breathe, Your Grace. You’re doing so well. Trust them.”
But Rhaenys’ trust was faltering. Her eyes darted between the maesters as they whispered among themselves. She caught fragments of their words. “Wrong way,” Gorlan muttered, his voice low but unmistakable.
Her eyes widened in terror. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?” she cried, her voice rising as panic took hold.
Lyonce hesitated for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. She grabbed his wrist, her nails digging into his skin. “Tell me! Tell me what’s wrong!”
He swallowed hard, his voice low but steady. “The babe is turned the wrong way. It’s making the birth more difficult, but we will figure it out.”
Her sobs were ragged, her strength ebbing as the pain consumed her. “Please,” she whispered. “Do something.”
Gorlan barked a command at Lyonce. “Administer the milk of the poppy. Now.”
Lyonce’s hands shook as he brought the cup to her lips. “Your Grace, this will help,” he said gently. Rhaenys hesitated, fear flashing in her eyes, but finally, she drank. The tension in her body began to ease, her cries softening to weak moans, though her face remained pale and taut with strain.
The tension between Lyonce and the elder maesters began to boil over as Gorlan turned to Torvin. “The babe is the priority. If we do not act, we may lose him.”
Lyonce’s voice rose, uncharacteristically sharp. “And what of the queen? Are we to let her bleed to death while you dither?”
Gorlan’s face darkened. “Do not question my experience, boy. We’ve delivered more heirs than you have years in this world.”
“And yet here she is, slipping away under your care!” Lyonce snapped back, stepping closer to Rhaenys. “If you won’t save her, I will.”
Torvin’s voice cracked through the room. “Enough! The king must decide.”
When Gorlan emerged into the hallway, Aegon and Visenya straightened, their eyes snapping to him with desperate intensity. “Your Grace,” he began, his voice heavy, “the babe is turned. It is very dangerous.”
Aegon’s face went ashen, his chest tightening. “And for my queen?” Visenya demanded sharply.
“The risk to her is great,” Gorlan admitted, “but our priority must be the babe. Sometimes, in such cases, we must… cut the babe from the mother.”
Aegon’s world tilted. He stepped forward, his eyes blazing with fury. “No,” he growled, his voice trembling with rage. “That is not an option.”
Visenya’s blade was in her hand before anyone could react, the steel glinting in the dim light. “You will not touch her,” she hissed, her voice like a blade itself. Orys lunged forward, grabbing her arm and pulling her back.
A commotion erupted from the chamber, drawing all eyes to the door. Aegon and Visenya pushed past Gorlan, rushing inside to find Lyonce kneeling over Rhaenys, his hands pressing firmly against her abdomen. His face was pale but determined, his voice cutting through the chaos. “I’ve almost turned the babe!”
Blood soaked the sheets, pooling beneath the bed. Rhaenys’ face was deathly pale, her breaths shallow and uneven. Even under the influence of the milk of the poppy, her body twitched with pain. Aegon fell to his knees beside her, his hand cupping her cheek. “Rhaenys,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “My love, my heart, you have to push. Please, you must push.”
Her eyelids fluttered open, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I can’t,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“If she doesn’t,” Lyonce said, his voice tight with urgency, “both she and the babe will die.”
Visenya dropped to her knees on Rhaenys’ other side, gripping her hand tightly. “Come on, sister,” she urged, her voice fierce. “You can do this. You must.”
With a cry that tore through the room, Rhaenys pushed. Her body trembled with effort as Aegon and Visenya shouted encouragement, their voices desperate and raw. “You’re so close,” Lyonce said, his voice rising with hope. “Just a little more!”
At last, the babe emerged, but the room fell silent. The child did not cry. Rhaenys’ eyes widened in horror. “Why isn’t he crying? What’s wrong?”
Tears streaked down Visenya’s face as Aegon roared, “Do something!”
“Sometimes the gods have other plans,” Torvin muttered under his breath.
“No!” Rhaenys screamed, her voice breaking with despair.
Lyonce worked frantically, rubbing and tapping the babe’s back. Each second felt like an eternity. Finally, a small, wailing cry pierced the air. Lyonce’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Your Grace, you have a son.”
Aegon took the babe into his trembling hands, his eyes wide with awe and terror. He turned to show Rhaenys, but her head lolled to the side, her eyes fluttering closed.
Visenya’s scream was primal, her hands shaking Rhaenys as if sheer force could rouse her. “Rhaenys, wake up! Please!”
Blood gushed from between her legs, pooling on the floor. Gorlan’s face was grim. “The afterbirth hasn’t come,” he said, his tone bleak.
Lyonce turned to Aegon, his voice steady despite the chaos. “Your Grace, take the prince outside. Let me save your queen.”
Aegon hesitated, his eyes locked on Rhaenys’ pale, lifeless face. Visenya placed a hand on his shoulder, her voice breaking. “Go,” she whispered. “Let him work.”
With a final, anguished look, Aegon clutched his son tightly to his chest and stepped into the hallway. The door closed behind him with a finality that echoed in his heart, leaving Lyonce and Visenya to fight against the encroaching shadow of death.
The hallway outside Rhaenys’ chambers was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional muffled cry of the babe in Aegon’s arms. His steps were slow, heavy, as though the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. Each step seemed to echo, the sound reverberating in the oppressive stillness. Orys watched him carefully, his sharp eyes catching the tremor in Aegon’s hands and the faint glisten of unshed tears pooling in his eyes.
Corlys, unable to contain his nervous excitement, spoke first, his voice trembling. “We heard them call. You have a son!” There was a fragile, unsteady joy in his tone, as though he were trying to force hope into a moment laden with grief. His voice wavered, half-laughter, half-sob.
Aegon barely nodded, his gaze fixed on the small, fragile form nestled against his chest. The babe cooed softly, the sound cutting through the tension like a lifeline. Orys stepped closer, his brows furrowing, his normally steady voice touched with worry. “What’s wrong, my king?” he asked, low and cautious.
Aegon opened his mouth, but no words came. His throat constricted, and for a moment, he looked as though he might crumble under the weight of his grief. Finally, he managed, “Rhaenys... she is...” but he couldn’t finish the sentence. His voice cracked, and his head bowed over the babe, his tears falling silently onto the child’s blanket.
The door to the chamber creaked open, and one of the elder maesters stepped into the hallway. His face was grave, his tone clinical and devoid of comfort. “She is close to death,” he said simply, the words landing like a hammer.
Orys’ strong hand found Aegon’s shoulder, his grip firm and grounding. “We are here for you, my king,” he said, though his own voice wavered. Tears swelled in his eyes, betraying the depth of his emotions. His usual unshakable demeanor cracked under the weight of the moment.
Corlys, usually so composed, staggered back a step, his hands trembling. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head as if to dispel the words. “Not Rhaenys. She’s stronger than that!” His voice rose in desperation, but it faltered as his own tears began to fall. Aethan, standing nearby, let out an audible gasp, his face ashen, his hand gripping the wall for support.
“Your Grace,” one of the maesters interjected, his tone firm but not unkind. “The heir must be tended to.”
Aethan immediately stepped forward, his hands outstretched. “Allow me, my king. I will care for the prince.”
But Aegon shook his head sharply, clutching the babe closer to his chest. “No,” he said, his voice hoarse but resolute. “He is mine.” His protective instincts flared, and for a moment, the grief in his eyes was replaced with a fierce determination.
Orys nodded, understanding the unspoken need in Aegon’s stance. “I will escort you to the nursery, my lord,” he said softly.
Wordlessly, Aegon followed. The corridors seemed endless, the echo of their footsteps hollow and heavy. The flickering torches cast shifting shadows, their light dancing across the stone walls like specters. As they approached the nursery, a memory struck Aegon like a blade to the heart. He saw Rhaenys in this very room, her laughter ringing out as they debated the decor. “The walls should be crimson, like dragon fire,” she had said, her eyes alight with excitement. “No, silver and black,” Aegon had countered, “for the house he will lead.” They had laughed, their love woven into every choice they made for their child. Now, the memory was a torment, a reminder of what he might lose.
When they stepped inside, Aegon froze. The nursery was perfect, every detail a reflection of Rhaenys’ love and care. The walls were a deep crimson, with intricate silver dragon motifs curling along the edges, their scales catching the flickering candlelight. Banners of House Targaryen hung proudly, their sigils shimmering with a faint metallic sheen. The cradle, carved from dark wood and inlaid with obsidian and ruby accents, sat in the center of the room like a throne for the little prince. The bedding was soft crimson silk, embroidered with tiny dragons in flight, each stitch a testament to Rhaenys’ vision for her son’s future.
Orys called for the maid, who hurried in with towels and warm water. The babe whimpered softly as Aegon lowered him into Orys’ waiting hands. Together, they worked to clean the child, their movements careful and deliberate. The babe’s tiny fingers curled instinctively, grasping at the air, and his coos filled the room, a sound so innocent it seemed to mock the sorrow weighing on them. The faint scent of lavender clung to the warm water, a soothing touch amidst the turmoil.
“He looks like her,” Aegon murmured, his voice trembling. His fingers brushed the babe’s soft cheek, his touch lingering as though afraid to let go. Tears spilled down his face unbidden, the grief and love interwoven in every movement. Once clean, he gently placed the child into the cradle. The dark wood gleamed, its intricate carvings of dragons and flames seeming to guard the babe as he nestled into the soft, crimson bedding.
Aegon fell to his knees beside the cradle, his shoulders shaking as sobs overtook him. Orys knelt beside him, one arm around the king’s trembling frame, offering silent support. The room was heavy with sorrow, the joy of the new life overshadowed by the threat of death lingering just beyond the door. The faint crackle of the torches was the only sound, punctuating the silence like a heartbeat.
They were interrupted by the soft sound of footsteps. Aethan and Corlys entered, their faces streaked with tears. Corlys clutched something close to his chest, and as he stepped forward, the light revealed a dragon’s egg, its surface glimmering with deep emerald and gold, its shell like a treasure of fire and earth. His voice broke as he spoke. “Rhaenys... she chose this for him. She said it was to lie in his cradle, to watch over him.”
Aegon’s gaze locked on the egg, and fresh tears streamed down his face. The weight of Rhaenys’ love was tangible in the moment, her presence lingering even in her absence. Corlys stepped forward, placing the egg carefully beside the babe. The room fell silent, the presence of the egg a sacred reminder of her hopes and dreams for their child.
The babe cooed softly in his sleep, oblivious to the weight of the moment. Aegon reached out, his hand trembling as it rested on the edge of the cradle. “Rhaenys,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “your son is here.”
Rhaenys’ chambers were a vision of chaos, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid tang of sweat. The once pristine bedding was drenched in crimson, soaked through as though the room itself were bleeding. Lyonce’s hands moved with a frenetic precision, his usually calm demeanor strained under the weight of the task at hand. Visenya knelt by her sister’s side, her voice a constant, desperate chant, half-prayer, half-command, as though willing Rhaenys to fight.
“Hold on, sister,” Visenya whispered, her voice trembling, yet fierce. Her hands trembled as they smoothed Rhaenys’ damp hair away from her pallid face. Her eyes flicked between Lyonce’s bloodied hands and Rhaenys’ ashen complexion. Rhaenys lay unconscious, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Every second felt like an eternity, every sound amplified in the stillness of the room.
Lyonce’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and authoritative. “I need more light!” he barked, his hands slick with blood as he worked to deliver the afterbirth. Visenya didn’t wait for the maid to respond. She sprang to her feet, grabbing a taper and lighting additional candles herself. The flames danced, casting long, flickering shadows on the stone walls, illuminating the grim scene in harsh clarity.
“This is too much,” Visenya muttered under her breath, her gaze falling on the blood pooling beneath the bed. “How does anyone survive this?” Her voice cracked, betraying the panic she fought to suppress.
“You must focus,” Lyonce snapped, his voice laced with urgency. He glanced up briefly, his face streaked with blood and sweat. “If we lose focus, we lose her.”
Visenya nodded sharply, forcing herself to steady her hands. She knelt beside Lyonce, gripping the edge of the bed to stabilize herself. “Tell me what to do,” she demanded, her voice low and firm.
Lyonce hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering to her determined expression. “Keep her head elevated. If she stirs, hold her down gently. We cannot risk her thrashing.”
Visenya obeyed, carefully adjusting the pillows beneath Rhaenys’ head. She wiped her sister’s brow with a damp cloth, her movements tender despite the tension in her body. “Rhaenys,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Stay with me. Stay with your son.”
Lyonce’s hands moved swiftly, his jaw clenched as he worked to deliver the afterbirth. The effort was grueling, each moment stretching unbearably long. Blood coated his arms, soaking through the cloth he had wrapped around his wrists to keep his grip steady. Finally, with a grim exhalation, he pulled the mass free, discarding it into a waiting basin.
Visenya’s stomach churned at the sight, but she refused to look away. Her voice rose, commanding the maid who stood frozen by the door. “Take it and burn it. Now.” The maid flinched but quickly obeyed, carrying the basin out with trembling hands.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Lyonce leaned back, his shoulders slumping as he wiped the sweat from his brow, smearing blood across his face. “It’s done,” he said, his voice hollow. “We’ve done all we can.”
Visenya’s head snapped up. “What now?” she demanded, her voice tinged with desperation. “What do we do next?”
Lyonce’s gaze softened, though exhaustion etched lines into his youthful face. “Now,” he said quietly, “we make her comfortable. That is all we can do.”
Visenya refused to accept his words at face value. “Comfortable?” she repeated, her voice rising. “That’s not enough! There must be something else we can do!”
“Visenya,” Lyonce said gently, his tone firm but kind. “We’ve stemmed the bleeding. The rest is up to her. She needs rest, warmth, and time. All we can do now is pray.”
His words struck her like a blow, but she bit back a retort. Instead, she turned her attention to Rhaenys. She helped Lyonce strip the bloodied sheets from the bed, her hands steady despite the turmoil roiling within her. The stark contrast of Rhaenys’ pale skin against the dark stains on the linens was unbearable to look at, but she forced herself to focus.
“Bring fresh linens,” Lyonce ordered the maid, his voice steady despite his exhaustion. When the maid returned, Visenya helped him replace the sheets, her movements efficient and deliberate. Together, they tucked the clean fabric around Rhaenys, each motion a small act of care.
Finally, Visenya sank to her knees beside the bed, clutching Rhaenys’ hand in both of hers. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, her composure crumbling. “I should have been able to protect her,” she choked out, her voice thick with guilt. “I should have done more.”
Lyonce knelt beside her, his bloodied hands resting on his thighs. “You have done more than most would, Visenya,” he said softly. “You fought for her when others might have given up. She knows that.”
Visenya looked at him, her tear-streaked face filled with anguish. “And if it’s not enough?”
“Then we hope,” Lyonce replied, his voice steady. “We hope and pray that she is as strong as we believe her to be.”
The room fell into a heavy silence once more. The only sounds were the faint crackle of the hearth and the shallow, labored breaths of Rhaenys. Lyonce rose slowly, his legs stiff from kneeling. He placed a hand on Visenya’s shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort.
“Stay with her,” he said gently. “Talk to her. She may hear you.”
Visenya nodded, her grip on Rhaenys’ hand tightening. She leaned close, her lips brushing against her sister’s ear as she whispered, “I’m here, Rhaenys. You’re not alone.”
As Lyonce turned to leave the room, he paused at the door, his gaze lingering on the two sisters. For a moment, his usually steady expression faltered, and the weight of the night seemed to press down on him fully. He closed the door behind him, leaving Visenya alone with her sister and her prayers.
The nursery was cloaked in a heavy, oppressive silence. Over an hour had passed since Aegon had left Rhaenys’ chambers, and the weight of uncertainty had settled over the room like a storm cloud. Aegon sat on the floor beside the cradle, his back against the carved wooden frame as though guarding the tiny prince within. The babe, swaddled in crimson and silver, slept peacefully, oblivious to the tension that gripped the room. Aegon’s eyes were fixed on the cradle, but his mind was far away, trapped in the chaos of what he had left behind.
Orys, Corlys, and Aethan sat in the room as well, each lost in their own thoughts. Corlys had his head in his hands, his fingers tangled in his silver hair, while Aethan stared blankly at the stone floor, his usually steady demeanor cracked under the strain. Orys leaned against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face a mask of quiet anguish. No one spoke. The silence was a fragile thing, threatening to shatter with the slightest noise.
The door creaked open, and Lyonce stepped inside. His face was pale, his robes still stained with blood, and his movements were heavy with exhaustion. The air in the room shifted as all eyes turned to him.
“How is she?” Aegon’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. His hands gripped the edge of the cradle as though it were the only thing grounding him.
Lyonce hesitated, his expression somber. “She lives,” he said carefully, “but it is still too soon to know. The bleeding has been stopped, and she is resting. We have done all we can.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and unsatisfying. Corlys let out a shaky breath, his shoulders trembling as he fought to maintain composure. Aethan’s jaw tightened, and he glanced toward Aegon, waiting for his reaction.
Aegon closed his eyes, his head bowing slightly. For a moment, it seemed as though he might collapse under the weight of it all. Then he turned to Aethan, his voice firm despite the emotion threatening to break through. “Go to Dragonstone,” he said. “Bring my mother here. She ought to be here, to see Rhaenys.”
Aethan nodded immediately, standing as if grateful for the task. “As you command, Your Grace. I will leave at once.” He paused for a moment, his expression softening. “She will come. I am certain of it.”
As Aethan left, Orys stepped closer to Aegon, his voice low and steady. “She is strong, my king. Rhaenys has faced storms before and risen stronger for it.”
Aegon shook his head, his hand reaching into the cradle to gently touch his son’s cheek. The babe stirred slightly but did not wake. “I should have been there,” Aegon murmured, his voice thick with guilt. “I should have done more.”
Orys knelt beside him, his hand resting on Aegon’s shoulder. “You are here now,” he said firmly. “For her, for your son. That is what matters.”
The room fell silent again, save for the soft breathing of the sleeping babe. The crackling fire in the hearth cast a warm glow, but it did little to dispel the chill that seemed to permeate the air. Aegon’s gaze drifted to the cradle, his mind pulling him back to a memory of Rhaenys in this very room. He could see her, hear her laughter as she held up a swatch of crimson fabric.
“It must be bold,” she had said, her eyes alight with excitement. “A room fit for a Targaryen prince.”
He had laughed then, shaking his head. “You’ll spoil him before he even arrives.”
The memory cut through him like a knife, and his chest tightened. The nursery was perfect, a testament to Rhaenys’ vision and care. The walls were painted a deep crimson, adorned with intricate silver dragon motifs. A large tapestry of House Targaryen’s sigil hung above the cradle, shimmering in the firelight. The cradle itself was a masterpiece, carved from dark wood and inlaid with obsidian and ruby accents, its design both regal and fierce.
Lyonce stepped closer to the cradle, his practiced hands reaching into the soft bedding to carefully lift the babe. The prince stirred, his tiny fists waving briefly before settling again. Lyonce examined him with meticulous care, checking his breathing, his pulse, the tiny fingers and toes. The tension in the room eased slightly as the maester’s expression softened.
“He is strong,” Lyonce said, his voice quiet but assured. “A healthy boy, Your Grace.”
Aegon watched intently, his hands resting on the edge of the cradle. When Lyonce placed the babe back in the cradle, Aegon’s voice broke the silence. “Thank you,” he said, his tone sincere, his eyes meeting Lyonce’s. “For everything.”
Lyonce nodded, his face weary but resolute. “It is my duty, Your Grace,” he replied. “And my honor.”
The room fell quiet once more, the unspoken bond of shared grief and hope palpable. The babe stirred again, his soft coos breaking through the stillness, a fragile reminder of life amidst the sorrow.
Chapter 26: The Cry That Woke the Queen
Chapter Text
The sun was high in the sky, its golden rays casting a warm, inviting glow over the tranquil riverbank. The water sparkled like a field of diamonds, its gentle current whispering a soothing melody. Wildflowers in shades of lavender, yellow, and white dotted the lush green grass, their sweet perfume mingling with the crisp, clean air. Birds sang from the nearby trees, their melodies weaving effortlessly into the harmony of the moment.
Rhaenys sat on a soft blanket spread over the grass, cradling their newborn son in her arms. She looked radiant, her dark hair catching the sunlight as her laughter filled the air. Aegon reclined beside her, his head tilted back as he basked in her joy. He reached over to tickle the babe's tiny hand, grinning as the little fingers curled instinctively around his own.
“He has your grip,” Aegon teased, his voice light and teasing. “Already holding on for dear life.”
Rhaenys laughed, the sound like music. “And your stubbornness, I’m sure,” she quipped. She leaned down to kiss the babe’s soft cheek, her expression one of pure adoration. “Our little dragon prince.”
The three of them seemed to exist in their own world, untouched by the cares and conflicts of the realm. The river’s steady flow, the vibrant blooms swaying in the gentle breeze, and the warmth of the sun all felt like nature itself was celebrating this perfect moment.
But then, a shadow passed over them. Aegon’s smile faltered as he noticed the clouds rolling in, dark and ominous. The light dimmed, and the birdsong ceased, replaced by an eerie silence. Rhaenys looked up, her brow furrowing.
“Aegon,” she whispered, her voice tinged with unease.
Before he could respond, Rhaenys screamed. Her cry was sharp and guttural, filled with pain and terror. Aegon turned to her in panic, only to see blood spreading rapidly across her dress, pooling on the blanket. The babe began to wail, his cries piercing and desperate.
“Rhaenys!” Aegon shouted, reaching for her, but she slipped from his grasp as if the ground itself had opened to swallow her. The sky darkened further, the air thick with an unnatural chill. Blood was everywhere, soaking his hands, staining the grass, flowing into the river until the water ran red.
Aegon woke with a start, his breath ragged, his heart pounding against his ribs. The room was silent, the terror of his dream replaced by the stillness of reality. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of Rhaenys’ chambers. The blood, the chaos, the river – all of it was gone. Days had passed since that horrifying night, but the memory lingered, haunting his every moment.
He looked over to the bed where Rhaenys lay. Her form was still, her once vibrant features gaunt and lifeless. She looked like a ghost of herself, her complexion pale, her lips colorless. Aegon had been sleeping in a chair pulled close to the bed, refusing to leave her side. His body ached from the awkward position, but he paid it no mind.
The door creaked open, and a maid stepped inside, her footsteps soft. She froze upon seeing Aegon awake. “Oh, my lord,” she stammered, “I thought you’d be sleeping.”
Aegon waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice low and tired. “What are you doing?”
The maid stepped closer, holding a small bouquet of fresh flowers in her hands. “I… I like to put fresh flowers in for the queen,” she explained hesitantly. “I think it might give her comfort, in a way.”
Aegon’s lips curved into a faint smile, a flicker of warmth breaking through his exhaustion. “What is your name?” he asked, his tone softening.
“Elyne, my lord,” she replied, her cheeks coloring slightly.
He nodded. “Thank you, Elyne. You serve the queen well.”
The maid’s expression brightened slightly, and she curtsied before placing the flowers in a small vase by the bedside table. Their vibrant colors added a fragile beauty to the somber room, a faint whisper of hope in the midst of despair.
As Elyne left the room, Aegon turned his gaze back to Rhaenys. He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing against hers. “Please,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “Come back to us.”
The nursery was dimly lit, the soft glow of the evening sun filtering through the crimson curtains. Orys entered quietly, his boots muffled by the thick rugs that lined the floor. He paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of Corlys Velaryon holding the babe. Corlys’ silver hair glinted in the faint light, his strong hands cradling the tiny prince with surprising tenderness. The baby stirred slightly, letting out a soft whimper before settling back into a fitful sleep.
Orys smiled faintly and stepped further into the room. “How is the little one?” he asked, his voice low and careful, as though not to disturb the delicate peace of the moment.
Corlys glanced up, his expression a mixture of pride and worry. “He’s strong, but Lyonce and the wet nurse have their concerns,” he admitted, his voice heavy. “They say he’s not thriving as he should. He’s not feeding as much, not gaining the weight he needs.”
Orys’ smile faded, replaced by a deep furrow of concern. He stepped closer, looking down at the small, swaddled form. The babe’s breathing was soft and shallow, his tiny features pale. “He’s endured much already,” Orys said softly. “Perhaps he just needs time.”
Corlys nodded, though his shoulders sagged under the weight of uncertainty. “Time,” he repeated, his voice almost a whisper. He gently rocked the baby, his movements careful and rhythmic. “But how much more can such a small thing endure?”
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint rustle of the baby’s blanket and the distant crackle of a fire in the hearth. Orys reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Corlys’ shoulder. “He’s a Targaryen. There’s fire in his blood. He will fight.”
Corlys managed a small, grateful smile but said nothing more. Orys lingered for a moment before stepping back and excusing himself, his mind heavy with the weight of the news.
The training grounds were a stark contrast to the quiet of the nursery. The clang of steel against steel echoed across the open space, though the sounds came from only one blade. Visenya was in the center of the grounds, her movements fierce and unrelenting. Her hair was disheveled, strands clinging to her sweat-drenched face. Her armor, usually polished to a gleam, was scuffed and scratched, evidence of her days-long routine of punishing herself against imaginary foes.
Orys stopped at the edge of the grounds, his eyes narrowing as he took in her state. She had been here for days, pushing herself to exhaustion, refusing to eat or sleep. Her strikes were powerful but lacked precision, her form betraying the toll of her self-imposed punishment.
“Visenya,” Orys called, his voice carrying across the grounds.
She didn’t stop. Her blade sliced through the air, each swing punctuated by a sharp exhale. Her eyes were fixed ahead, unseeing, as though she were fighting a battle only she could perceive.
Orys stepped closer, his voice firm. “Visenya, enough.”
She whirled on him, her blade raised, her chest heaving. Her eyes were wild, rimmed with dark circles, her face pale beneath the streaks of dirt and sweat. “Don’t tell me what’s enough,” she snapped, her voice raw. “Not when my sister lies dying, not when I can do nothing!”
Orys met her gaze steadily, unflinching. “You think this will help her?” he asked, his tone gentle but firm. “Wearing yourself down to nothing? Is this how you serve her, Visenya?”
Her grip on the sword faltered, and for a moment, she looked as though she might strike him. But then her shoulders sagged, and the blade slipped from her hands, clattering to the ground. She sank to her knees, her head bowing as sobs overtook her. Orys knelt beside her, his strong hand resting on her shoulder.
“She needs you strong,” he said softly. “Not broken. Come, Visenya. Rest. Eat. For her, if not for yourself.”
Visenya nodded weakly, allowing Orys to help her to her feet. Together, they left the training grounds, the clang of her abandoned sword echoing in the stillness behind them.
The moonlight spilled through the tall windows of Aegon’s chambers, casting long, pale streaks across the stone floor. He stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the vast darkness of the night. The stars glittered faintly, their light distant and cold. The silence in the room was profound, broken only by the faint rustle of the wind outside.
A knock came at the door, soft but deliberate. Aegon didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge the sound. The door opened slightly, and Orys stepped inside. He paused, seeing Aegon’s rigid posture and the faraway look in his eyes.
“Aegon,” Orys said gently.
Aegon turned slowly, his expression weary and shadowed. His shoulders sagged slightly, and he looked older, the weight of his grief and responsibility etched into his face.
“You should return to Storm’s End,” Aegon said abruptly, his voice low and strained. “Argella is pregnant. She needs you.”
Orys’ brows furrowed, and he stepped closer. “We’ve sent letters,” he replied calmly. “She is fine and understands the situation. She holds nothing against me.”
Aegon nodded faintly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Good,” he murmured. “She’s a strong woman.”
There was a pause before Aegon straightened slightly, his voice gaining a hint of resolve. “I have word from Aethan,” he said. “They should be here on the morrow.”
Orys nodded. “Good. Valana needs to see her daughter. It’s been too long.”
Aegon said nothing, simply nodding again, his gaze drifting back toward the window. The silence returned, heavy and unyielding, as the two men stood together, bound by shared grief and the weight of their duties.
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed off the docks as Valana descended from the ship with a pace that was almost a sprint. The salt air whipped through her silver hair, the sea spray brushing her cheeks, but her eyes were fixed on the distant castle. She clutched the skirts of her gown to keep them from tangling, her breath labored as she reached the edge of the bustling town.
“Let me through!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the hum of the early morning market. The villagers turned, startled by the commanding presence of the woman who stormed past them, her face a mask of desperation. Guards stationed at the castle gate stiffened as she approached.
“Halt! State your business,” one of them barked, stepping forward to block her path.
Valana’s eyes blazed with fury, her voice rising. “Let me see my daughter!” she demanded, her tone trembling with emotion. “Now!”
Behind her, Aethan caught up, his own breath short from the hurried journey. “Stand down,” he commanded the guards, his voice firm and authoritative. “This is Lady Valana Targaryen, mother of the queen. Let her pass.”
The guards exchanged uncertain glances before stepping aside, and Valana didn’t wait for further acknowledgment. She pushed past them, her hands trembling as she made her way into the courtyard. Her eyes darted around, searching desperately until they landed on a group descending the steps from the castle—Aegon, Visenya, and Orys, their expressions grave but controlled.
“Aegon!” Valana called, her voice breaking. She ran to him, her steps faltering as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. When she reached him, she threw herself into his arms, clutching his shoulders as though anchoring herself.
“Please,” she sobbed, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “Take me to her. Let me see my daughter.”
Aegon’s arms tightened around her, his own voice thick with emotion. “Of course,” he said softly. “Come, Mother. She’s waiting for you.”
The courtyard was silent save for the sound of Valana’s quiet sobs as Aegon guided her inside, the weight of their shared grief hanging heavily in the air.
Rhaenys’ chambers were dim and eerily quiet, the air heavy with the scent of medicinal herbs and the faint metallic tang of blood. The soft light from a single candle illuminated the room, casting long shadows over Rhaenys’ still form. Her once vibrant complexion was ghostly pale, her cheeks sunken, and her lips a faint blue. Her hands lay limply at her sides, her fingers unnaturally still, and each shallow breath seemed to rattle in her chest, as if the very act of living was a labor too great.
Valana rushed into the room, her skirts rustling loudly in the oppressive silence. She froze at the sight of her daughter, her hand flying to her mouth as a strangled sob escaped her lips. “My darling girl,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she moved to the bedside. She sank to her knees, her hands clutching Rhaenys’ lifeless hand. Her fingers traced over the pale skin, now cold to the touch. “What happened to you?”
Visenya stood in the corner, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face a mask of control that was rapidly cracking. Her sharp gaze softened as she watched Valana, but the grief in the room was suffocating. Without a word, she turned abruptly and strode from the room, her boots echoing against the stone floor. Her retreating footsteps were heavy, each one carrying the weight of her anguish.
Aegon hesitated, his gaze flicking between Valana and the door through which Visenya had disappeared. He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, as though afraid to disturb the fragile stillness. He placed a gentle hand on Valana’s shoulder and knelt beside her. His voice was soft and filled with guilt. “I’m so sorry.”
Valana looked up at him, her face streaked with tears. Her hand trembled as she brushed Rhaenys’ hair back from her forehead, smoothing it with a tenderness only a mother could muster. “It is a burden women must bear, Aegon,” she said finally, her voice heavy with sorrow. Her words were a quiet lament, filled with the weight of generations. “This is not your fault.”
Aegon nodded faintly, his throat tight as he watched the woman before him cradle the hand of her daughter, a queen reduced to fragility. He stayed at her side, the room silent save for the faint, fragile rhythm of Rhaenys’ breathing, a sound so quiet it seemed the world itself was holding its breath.
The queen’s garden was serene in the morning light, a stark contrast to the heavy gloom that had settled over the castle. The vibrant blooms of reds, purples, and golds swayed gently in the cool breeze, their sweet scent perfuming the air. The birdsong, usually a source of comfort, seemed distant and hollow. Corlys Velaryon sat on a stone bench near the center of the garden, his head bowed and his hands clasped tightly together, his broad shoulders trembling with the weight of silent sobs.
Aethan approached quietly, his footsteps muffled by the soft grass. He hesitated at the edge of the clearing, taking in the sight of Corlys, a man who was usually unshakable, now visibly broken. After a moment, Aethan stepped closer and spoke gently. “Corlys? Are you all right?”
Corlys looked up sharply, his eyes red and swollen, his face lined with grief. He opened his mouth to speak but faltered, lowering his gaze again as fresh tears slipped down his cheeks.
“She was like a mother to me,” he said finally, his voice hoarse and raw. “Rhaenys... she took care of me after my father’s death. She treated me like family when no one else did. I would do anything for her. I have done everything for her.”
Aethan frowned, concern deepening the lines on his face. He moved to sit beside Corlys on the bench. “What do you mean, Corlys? What have you done?”
Corlys’ hands tightened into fists, his knuckles whitening as he stared at the ground. For a long moment, he said nothing, the only sound the rustling of the leaves overhead. Finally, he drew a shaky breath and spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “I killed for her.”
Aethan stiffened, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “What are you saying?”
Corlys’ gaze lifted, meeting Aethan’s. There was a haunted look in his eyes, a deep well of guilt and pain. “A maester once confronted Aegon with vile accusations about Rhaenys. Lies about her virtue, claiming she had been unfaithful and that her child might not be his. Aegon dismissed him outright, saw through the venom, and ordered him to resign and leave King’s Landing. But... Visenya and I knew it wasn’t enough. The damage was done, even if the king denied it. Rumors could still spread. She and I decided it had to end.”
Aethan’s jaw tightened as he processed the confession. “And you decided to take matters into your own hands?”
Corlys nodded, his hands trembling now. “The night he left the city, I followed him. I kept to the shadows, staying far enough behind that he wouldn’t notice. Once we were far from King’s Landing, I saw him look back, as though sensing something was wrong. He spurred his horse to a gallop, trying to flee. But I followed, faster and more determined. The chase led us deep into the woods, away from any prying eyes.”
Corlys’ voice grew quieter, but his words were steady, deliberate. “I caught up to him, drawing my blade. He looked back once more, fear in his eyes, but he didn’t plead. He didn’t say a word. I struck him down from his horse, clean and swift. He fell to the ground, lifeless before he could even cry out.”
Corlys paused, his breathing shallow, his eyes distant as though reliving the moment. “I dragged his body into the underbrush, hid it where no one would find him. Then I rode back, knowing what I had done could never be undone.”
Aethan’s face remained tense, his hands gripping his knees. “And you’ve carried this alone since then?”
Corlys nodded, his voice barely audible. “I thought it was the right thing to do. To protect her. She was always so kind to me, always made me feel like I mattered. But now… now I wonder if I’ve damned myself for a woman who might never wake.”
Aethan placed a firm hand on Corlys’ shoulder, his grip steady and grounding. “You acted out of love and loyalty. You sought to protect her. But the weight of this choice... it’s something you’ll have to carry. And you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”
Corlys nodded slowly, his tears falling in earnest. The garden seemed to hold its breath, the vibrant flowers and gentle breeze a fragile reminder of beauty in a world shadowed by pain. Together, the two men sat in silence, their shared grief and understanding binding them in the quiet sanctuary of the queen’s garden.
Visenya’s chambers were dimly lit, the soft glow of several candles casting flickering shadows on the walls. The room was cluttered with scrolls and ancient Valyrian tomes, their worn covers bearing the marks of centuries. She sat at her desk, her brows furrowed in concentration as she carefully traced her fingers over the delicate text, her lips moving silently as she practiced the cantations she hoped would be the key to saving her sister.
Her concentration was broken by a loud, sudden knock, followed almost immediately by the door swinging open. She shot to her feet, her hand instinctively reaching for her sword, which rested against the side of her desk.
Aethan burst into the room, his expression thunderous, his eyes blazing with anger. Realizing who it was, Visenya lowered her blade, her face twisting into irritation. “It is courtesy to knock and wait for permission to enter, Aethan,” she said coldly, returning the sword to its place.
“I don’t care for courtesies right now,” Aethan snapped, stepping further into the room and slamming the door behind him. His chest heaved with barely restrained fury as he leveled a finger at her. “You recruited my brother to kill.”
Visenya froze, her eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?” she asked, though her tone betrayed that she already knew.
Aethan’s voice rose. “Corlys! He told me everything. About the maester. About what you made him do.”
Visenya’s expression hardened, her hands resting on the edge of the desk as she leaned forward slightly. “We did what had to be done,” she said evenly.
“What had to be done?” Aethan’s voice was incredulous, his fists clenching at his sides. “He was innocent, Visenya. An old man doing his duty.”
Visenya’s eyes flared with anger, and she straightened, her voice sharp as a blade. “No one in this world is innocent, Aethan. Your father knew that better than anyone.”
Aethan took a step forward, his face darkening. “Don’t you dare bring my father into this,” he growled. “You dishonor his memory with your schemes.”
Visenya’s composure faltered, her voice rising to match his. “I was protecting my family!” she shouted, her hands slamming down on the desk. “Those rumors could have destroyed Rhaenys, undermined everything we have worked for. I did what I had to.”
“And what of my family?” Aethan shot back, his voice breaking with emotion. “Corlys was just a boy, lost after our father died, and you… you took that away from him. You dragged him into this darkness, Visenya. You made him into a killer.”
The words hit her like a blow, and for a moment, she was silent, her chest heaving with unspoken words. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer but no less fierce. “I gave him purpose. I gave him a way to protect the only family he has left.”
“You stole his innocence,” Aethan said, his tone quieter but filled with pain. “You turned him into something he’s not. And now he has to live with that for the rest of his life.”
The room fell silent, the only sound the crackling of the candles. Visenya’s gaze dropped to the desk, her hands gripping the edge so tightly her knuckles turned white. She didn’t respond, and Aethan shook his head, his voice heavy with disappointment.
“You claim you were protecting your family, but all you’ve done is destroy it,” he said quietly, turning toward the door. “I hope whatever victory you think you achieved was worth the cost.”
He left without another word, the door closing heavily behind him. Visenya stood motionless in the silence, her chest tight, the weight of his words settling over her like a suffocating shroud. Slowly, she turned back to the desk, her hands trembling as she reached for the text she had been studying. But the words blurred before her eyes, and with a frustrated cry, she shoved the book away, collapsing into her chair as the flickering candlelight danced mockingly around her.
The nursery was bathed in the soft golden light of the setting sun, which filtered through the crimson curtains, casting warm patterns across the room. It was quiet, save for the occasional soft cooing of the baby cradled in Valana’s arms. She sat in a carved wooden chair near the crib, its dragon motifs lovingly etched into the frame. The babe nestled against her, his tiny hands curled into fists, his delicate features so peaceful they seemed to hold the promise of hope amidst the sorrow that hung over the castle.
Aegon stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His face was drawn, shadows deepening the lines of exhaustion and grief etched into his features. The weight of the past days clung to him, heavy and unrelenting.
“Does this little prince have a name?” Valana asked softly, her voice breaking the silence as she rocked the baby gently. She looked down at the child, her eyes brimming with warmth despite the sadness in her tone.
Aegon turned slowly, his expression softening as his eyes fell upon his son. He crossed the room and stood before Valana, his gaze lingering on the baby’s serene face. “Not yet,” he said quietly. “I’m waiting for…” He stopped, his voice faltering, the words catching in his throat.
Valana finished for him, her voice tinged with sorrow. “Waiting for his mother to name him.”
Aegon’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, unable to meet her gaze. Valana’s heart ached at the sight of his pain. She adjusted the babe in her arms, brushing her fingers gently over his soft silver hair. “I’m sure when she wakes, she’ll want nothing more than to hold him. She’ll be so proud,” she said, her tone carrying a quiet conviction, as if her words could will Rhaenys back to them.
Aegon’s shoulders sagged, and he sank into the chair beside her, his head bowed. “She hasn’t even seen him,” he whispered, his voice thick with anguish. “All of this… everything, and she might not even get the chance to hold him.”
Valana reached out with her free hand, resting it lightly on Aegon’s arm. “She will,” she said firmly. “Rhaenys is strong. Stronger than anyone I know. She’ll come back to us.”
Aegon’s eyes glistened as he looked up at her, his vulnerability laid bare. “What if she doesn’t?” he asked, his voice breaking. “What if I lose her?”
Valana’s grip tightened, and she looked at him with a fierce determination. “You won’t,” she said. “You’re not alone in this, Aegon. We’re all here. For you. For her. For him.” She looked down at the baby, her expression softening as she rocked him gently. “He is a blessing. A reminder that even in the darkest times, there is still light.”
The babe stirred, letting out a small whimper, and Valana hummed softly, soothing him. Aegon watched her, a glimmer of gratitude breaking through his grief. He reached out, his large hand resting lightly on the baby’s back. “He looks like her,” he murmured. “Her nose, her mouth. He’s perfect.”
Valana smiled, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Yes, he is. And he’ll need his father to be strong for him. Just as you’ve always been strong for Rhaenys.”
Aegon nodded slowly, drawing strength from her words. Together, they sat in the quiet of the nursery, the flickering light of hope cradled in Valana’s arms, a fragile but undeniable beacon amidst the storm.
The air in Rhaenys’ chambers was heavy, a somber stillness hanging over the room like a shroud. The faint scent of medicinal herbs lingered, mingling with the soft flicker of candlelight that barely illuminated the vast, shadowed space. Lyonce stood by her bedside, his hands folded in front of him, his expression a mask of quiet sorrow. His eyes traced over her fragile form—her pale complexion, the way her chest barely rose and fell with each shallow breath. It was a sight that wrenched at his heart.
The door creaked open softly behind him, and Lyonce turned his head to see Visenya stepping into the room. She moved with a quiet intensity, her usual armor of stoicism cracking just enough to reveal the worry etched into her sharp features. Her eyes flicked to Lyonce, then to Rhaenys.
“Is there any change?” she asked, her voice low but edged with a tension that betrayed her fear.
Lyonce shook his head slowly, his gaze dropping back to the queen. “No,” he said, the single word heavy with the weight of failure. “She’s… the same.”
Visenya stepped closer, her footsteps barely audible on the stone floor. She stood beside Lyonce, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she stared down at her sister. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching unbearably.
Finally, Visenya’s shoulders slumped, and she let out a shaky breath. “She doesn’t deserve this,” she murmured. “She was always the best of us. The one who saw the good in everything.” Her voice broke, and she turned away, blinking back tears.
Lyonce watched her for a moment before stepping closer. “I only met her once,” he said softly. Visenya glanced at him, her brow furrowing. “The morning she gave birth,” Lyonce continued, his tone gentle. “She was radiant, full of life and joy. She seemed so kind. She thanked me, you know, for being there. Me—a stranger.” He shook his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve never forgotten that. How even in the chaos of it all, she found time for kindness.”
Visenya’s lips parted, but no words came. She looked down, her hands clenching at her sides. “She’s the only one who’s ever truly understood me,” she admitted after a long pause. “She never judged. She never asked me to be anything but who I am.” Her voice trembled, and she turned her face away, as if ashamed of her vulnerability.
Lyonce stepped closer, his voice steady. “She will wake, Visenya. She’s strong. And she has you. She has all of us.”
Visenya exhaled sharply, her composure slipping further. “And if she doesn’t?” she whispered, the question barely audible.
Lyonce reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Then we honor her. We protect her son. And we carry her spirit with us in everything we do.”
Visenya nodded faintly, her jaw tightening as she fought to regain control. “She deserves to see him,” she said. “To hold her child.”
“She will,” Lyonce said firmly. “Rhaenys isn’t one to give up. She’ll fight her way back to us.”
The room fell silent again, the faint crackle of the candles and the soft rustling of the curtains the only sounds. Together, they stood vigil, the weight of their shared grief pressing heavily upon them, but with a faint flicker of hope keeping them upright.
The hall was quiet, the flickering torches casting long shadows against the stone walls as Aegon stood by the map table, his fingers tracing absent patterns over its surface. The weariness in his posture was unmistakable, his shoulders hunched as though carrying the weight of the entire realm. The faint echo of boots against the flagstone broke the silence, and Aegon turned to see Orys approaching, his expression grim.
“Aegon,” Orys began, his tone cautious but urgent. “There’s been some commotion in the Dragonpit.”
Aegon straightened slightly, a frown creasing his brow. “What kind of commotion?”
Orys hesitated, glancing away for a moment before meeting Aegon’s gaze. “It’s Marexes,” he said. “She’s been fighting with the other dragons. The handlers can’t calm her. She’s… restless. Aggressive.”
Aegon’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing as he processed the news. “She feels it,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “She feels Rhaenys’ life slipping away.”
Orys shifted uncomfortably, his arms crossing over his chest. “You think that’s what it is?”
Aegon’s gaze turned distant, his mind reaching for the bond that he shared with his own dragon. “Dragons and their riders share a connection,” he said, his voice heavy with the weight of understanding. “A bond that goes beyond words. When one suffers, the other feels it. Marexes… she knows Rhaenys is fading.”
The words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the fragile line they all walked. Orys stepped closer, his voice lowering. “And if Rhaenys doesn’t make it?”
Aegon’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “Marexes will rage,” he said, his tone grim. “She’ll be inconsolable. Dangerous.” He looked up at Orys, his eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and determination. “But she won’t have to. Rhaenys will fight. She’s always been a fighter.”
Orys nodded slowly, his expression softening. “She is. And so are you, Aegon. You’ve carried this family through every trial, every battle. You’ll carry them through this too.”
Aegon’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he turned back to the map table, his hand resting heavily on its edge. “It doesn’t feel like I’m carrying anything, Orys,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “It feels like I’m holding on by my fingertips, trying not to fall.”
Orys stepped forward, his hand resting firmly on Aegon’s shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said. “And you’re not alone in this. We’re all here for you. For Rhaenys. For the prince.”
Aegon closed his eyes, drawing in a slow, deep breath. The weight on his shoulders felt no lighter, but Orys’ words were a small balm to his frayed nerves. He opened his eyes and nodded, turning to face his brother.
“Thank you, Orys,” he said quietly. “For everything.”
Orys gave a faint smile, clapping Aegon’s shoulder. “Always, my king,” he replied.
The two stood in silence for a moment, the tension between them replaced by a quiet understanding. The distant roar of Marexes echoed faintly in the night, a reminder of the storm they were weathering. But for now, they faced it together, their bond as unbreakable as the dragons they rode.
The room was still and silent, save for the rhythmic breathing of those within. Aegon slumped in a chair by Rhaenys’ bed, his head tilted awkwardly as he dozed. His hand rested on the edge of the mattress, as if his touch alone could tether her to the world. On the opposite side of the bed, Valana sat with her head bowed, exhaustion softening her usually sharp features. Her hands were clasped tightly, as if in prayer, though the words were lost to the silence. The faint glow of a single candle bathed the room in a soft, flickering light, casting shadows that danced like restless spirits on the walls.
Then, a sound pierced the quiet. A cry. Thin and wavering at first, but unmistakable—the wail of a babe.
Rhaenys’ eyelids fluttered, her breathing hitching as the sound stirred something deep within her. Her fingers twitched against the covers, and her head turned slightly toward the noise. Slowly, as though fighting through layers of darkness, her eyes opened. The room swam before her, shapes and colors blurring into one another, but the cry… it was clear. It called to her, pulling her from the abyss.
Her lips parted, but no sound came as she blinked, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Weak and trembling, she pushed herself upright, her body protesting every movement. Her arms felt like lead, her legs unsteady as she swung them over the side of the bed. The crying grew louder, more insistent, and it fueled her determination. Barefoot and unsteady, she slipped from the bed, clutching at the nearby table for support. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a fragile thread tying her to life as she made her way toward the door.
The corridors were eerily quiet, the castle steeped in the silence of night. Her steps were slow, faltering, each one feeling like an impossible victory. The faint echoes of her bare feet against the cold stone floor mingled with the distant sound of the baby’s cries, guiding her like a beacon through the labyrinth of hallways. The walls seemed to close in around her, the shadows stretching and shifting, but she pressed on, driven by a force stronger than pain or fear.
At last, she reached the nursery, the door slightly ajar, a soft light spilling out into the hallway. She hesitated for a moment, her hand resting on the doorframe as she gathered the strength to step inside.
The room was warm, the soft glow of a lantern illuminating the cradle at its center. The babe lay inside, his tiny face scrunched in distress, his cries filling the small space. Rhaenys stepped forward, her breath catching at the sight of him. Her vision blurred with tears as she sank to her knees beside the cradle, her trembling hands reaching out. The moment her fingers brushed his blanket, a sob escaped her lips, and she gently lifted him into her arms.
The weight of him was almost overwhelming, his warmth seeping into her as she cradled him against her chest. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she held him close, her lips brushing his silken hair. His cries quieted, replaced by soft whimpers as he nestled into her embrace, his tiny fingers curling against her gown.
“My son,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “My beautiful boy.”
She swayed gently, humming a soft tune that came unbidden to her lips. The room seemed to hold its breath, the world shrinking to just the two of them. Her heart swelled with a love so fierce it felt like it might break her, and for the first time in days, she felt alive.
Back in her chambers, Aegon stirred, his hand reaching out instinctively. When his fingers brushed the empty sheets, his eyes flew open. Panic surged through him as he saw the bed empty, the covers thrown aside. “Rhaenys?” he called, his voice rough with fear. He shot to his feet, his gaze darting around the room. “Rhaenys!”
Valana jolted awake, startled by his shouting. “What is it?” she asked, her voice laced with alarm.
“She’s gone,” Aegon said, already moving toward the door. “I can’t… I don’t know where she is.”
A faint sound reached them, the soft cooing of a child. Aegon froze, his head turning toward the source. Realization dawned, and without a word, he bolted toward the nursery, Valana close on his heels.
They burst into the room to find Rhaenys seated in a chair, the babe cradled in her arms. Her face was still pale, her body frail, but there was a light in her eyes that had not been there before. She looked up as they entered, her expression softening as she saw them.
“You came back,” Aegon whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He crossed the room in three strides, falling to his knees beside her. Tears streamed down his face as he reached for her hand. “You came back to us.”
Valana pressed a hand to her mouth, her own tears spilling over. “Oh, my daughter,” she murmured, moving to stand behind the chair. She rested a hand on Rhaenys’ shoulder, her touch gentle, reverent. “You’ve blessed us all.”
The commotion drew another figure to the nursery. Visenya burst through the door, her sword drawn, her face fierce with determination. But the sight before her stopped her cold. The blade slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor as her eyes widened.
Rhaenys looked up, her arms tightening around the babe. “Visenya,” she said softly, her voice steady despite her weakened state. “Come. Meet your nephew.”
Visenya’s lips parted, but no sound came. She crossed the room slowly, her eyes fixed on her sister. When she reached them, she sank to her knees beside Aegon, her hand trembling as she reached out to touch the babe’s tiny hand.
“You fought your way back,” Visenya whispered, her voice breaking. “You always do.”
The family huddled together in the quiet nursery, the room filled with tears and whispered words of love. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, hope burned brightly, illuminating the darkness that had threatened to consume them.
As Rhaenys cradled her child, the warmth of his tiny body against hers, she looked up at Aegon, Valana, and Visenya, their faces illuminated by both tears and relief. For the first time in days, the shadow of despair lifted, and the faint glimmer of a new dawn began to break through the darkness.
Chapter 27: A Mother's Strength, A Warrior's Burden
Chapter Text
In Rhaenys’ chambers, the soft morning light poured through the wide windows, pooling on the polished stone floor and illuminating the delicate fabric of her bed curtains. The faint scent of herbs lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of fresh linens and the faint trace of lavender that Valana had carefully arranged in vases throughout the room. Rhaenys lay propped against a mountain of pillows, her form frail but her spirit unmistakably present. Her breathing, once labored and shallow, had steadied, though every motion still seemed to carry the weight of her recent ordeal.
Lyonce stood at her bedside, his hands moving with careful precision as he adjusted the blankets and examined her wrist for a pulse. His brow furrowed slightly as he pressed his fingers gently against her skin, his expression one of concentration and quiet relief. Aegon stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His gaze flicked from Rhaenys to Lyonce, the tension in his posture betraying the storm of emotions beneath his stoic facade. Valana sat by her daughter’s side, her hand resting lightly over Rhaenys’ own, her face etched with equal parts worry and maternal tenderness.
“How does she fare?” Aegon asked, his voice taut with barely restrained anxiety. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes fixed on Lyonce as though willing him to deliver good news.
Lyonce hesitated for a moment, his fingers lingering on Rhaenys’ wrist before he straightened and met Aegon’s gaze. “She’s improving,” he said at last, his tone measured but hopeful. “Her pulse is steady, and the fever has broken. Her body is responding well to rest and care, but...” He glanced back at Rhaenys, his expression softening. “She’s still very weak. It will take time for her to regain her strength fully.”
Rhaenys managed a faint smile, her voice soft but resolute. “You make it sound like I’ve accomplished something extraordinary, Lyonce.”
“You have, Your Grace,” Lyonce replied without hesitation, his voice firm but kind. “Few would have had the strength to return from the brink as you have. You are remarkable.”
Valana tightened her grip on her daughter’s hand, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “He’s right, my love,” she said gently. “You’ve always been strong, but now... now you’ve shown us all just how unbreakable you truly are.”
Rhaenys turned her head slightly to look at her mother, her expression softening. “It wasn’t just my strength,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “It was all of you. I heard you. I felt you. I knew I couldn’t leave.” Her gaze shifted to Aegon, and her lips quirked into a faint smile. “I couldn’t leave you.”
Aegon’s composure cracked, and he moved to her side, sinking to his knees beside the bed. He took her hand in both of his, his head bowing as his shoulders shook. “You scared me,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I thought... I thought I’d lost you.”
Rhaenys reached out with her free hand, her fingers brushing through his hair. “I’m here,” she said softly. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
For a long moment, the room was silent, save for the soft sound of Aegon’s quiet sobs and Rhaenys’ steady breathing. Lyonce stepped back, his hands clasped in front of him as he observed the scene with quiet reverence, his own emotions carefully held in check.
“Lyonce,” Rhaenys said suddenly, her voice drawing his attention. She turned her head to look at him, her expression filled with gratitude. “Thank you. You saved me. I owe you my life.”
Lyonce dipped his head respectfully, his voice steady but humble. “It was my honor, Your Grace. I am only grateful to see you recovering.”
Aegon placed a hand on Lyonce’s shoulder. “Come, let’s leave her to rest,” he said softly. Together, they exited the chamber, walking side by side down the corridor. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence filled with unspoken thoughts.
Finally, Aegon broke the silence. “You’ve done more than anyone could have asked, Lyonce,” he said. “You brought my wife back from the edge. I owe you more than I can say.”
“I only did what was necessary, my king,” Lyonce replied modestly.
Aegon stopped walking, turning to face Lyonce fully. “That’s why I want you to serve as my High Maester. You’ve proven your skill, your dedication. There is no one more deserving.”
Lyonce’s eyes widened in shock. “My king… that is a great honor,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” Aegon said with a faint smile. “The realm needs men like you. And so do I.”
Lyonce nodded slowly, his expression steadying as the weight of the offer settled over him. “Then yes,” he said. “I accept. I will serve you and the realm to the best of my ability.”
Aegon clapped him on the shoulder. “I know you will, Lyonce. Now let’s see this recovery through.”
The two men continued down the hall, their steps resolute, their shared purpose clear.
The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the castle’s halls, bathing the stone walls in a golden glow. Visenya emerged from her chambers, her steps deliberate and brisk. She was clad in her usual warrior’s attire, her dark leather tunic reinforced with polished steel plates, the hilt of her sword gleaming at her side. Her silver hair, braided back tightly, caught the light as she moved, her expression focused and stern. She adjusted her vambrace with quick, practiced movements as she turned toward the corridor leading to the training grounds.
Her thoughts were consumed with her routine—the precision of the blade, the balance of a strike, the sweat and discipline that kept her grounded amidst the turmoil in the castle. She relished the solitude of her training, the way it allowed her to lose herself in movement and forget, if only briefly, the weight of everything that loomed over their family.
“Visenya!”
The voice, soft but insistent, echoed down the hall, halting her in her tracks. She turned sharply, her braid whipping over her shoulder as her piercing violet eyes landed on Valana, who stood a short distance away. Her mother’s figure was poised yet weary, her hands clasped in front of her, her face a mixture of hope and hesitation.
“Mother,” Visenya said, her tone clipped but not unkind. “Is something wrong?”
Valana approached slowly, her steps measured as though careful not to startle a restless animal. Her gown flowed around her, the deep burgundy fabric catching the light, a stark contrast to her pale features. “Nothing is wrong,” she replied softly, though her voice carried a weight of unspoken emotions. “I just… I wanted to speak with you. A moment, if you can spare it.”
Visenya shifted her weight, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. “I was on my way to the training grounds. I’ve no time for idle conversation.”
Valana’s lips pressed into a thin line, though her eyes remained gentle. “Visenya,” she said, her voice tinged with a quiet plea, “we’ve spent so little time together lately. I hardly see you. Come, share breakfast with me. Just this once.”
Visenya’s jaw tightened, and she exhaled sharply through her nose. “I’m not hungry,” she replied curtly. “Besides, there is much to prepare for. Training doesn’t wait for sentimentality.”
Valana took a step closer, her gaze steady and unwavering. “Time is precious, my daughter,” she said softly. “More precious than any of us realize. I’ve already come so close to losing Rhaenys. Let me have this time with you, even if it’s just a meal. Let me sit with my other daughter while I still can.”
The words struck a chord, and Visenya’s composure faltered, her grip on the sword hilt loosening. For a moment, she said nothing, her gaze flickering to the floor. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly, and she let out a quiet sigh.
“Fine,” she said at last, her voice gruff but yielding. “But just this once.”
A smile broke across Valana’s face, the relief in her expression unmistakable. She reached out, resting a gentle hand on Visenya’s arm. “Thank you, my dear,” she said warmly. “That’s all I ask.”
Together, they walked toward the dining chamber, their steps unhurried for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The sun’s rays followed them, lighting their path as the quiet bond between mother and daughter began to bridge the gap of distance that had grown in the shadow of their shared burdens.
Aegon and Lyonce walked side by side through the dimly lit halls of the castle, their steps purposeful yet measured. The weight of the morning's events lingered between them, though a quiet sense of resolve had taken root. Aegon’s expression was pensive, his thoughts preoccupied with the queen’s fragile recovery and the decisions that lay ahead.
As they turned a corner, they came upon Orys, who approached with an uncharacteristically broad grin. His face lit up with genuine joy, his footsteps quickening as he neared them. “Aegon,” he called out, his voice ringing with relief, “I’ve just heard the news. Rhaenys has woken. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.”
Aegon paused, a faint smile breaking through his otherwise serious demeanor. He reached out, clasping Orys’ shoulder firmly. “It’s true,” he said, his tone steady but carrying a hint of emotion. “She’s weak, but she’s here with us. That’s all that matters.”
Orys nodded, his relief palpable. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks,” he said earnestly.
Aegon spoke. “Lyonce will serve as our new High Maester,” he said, his tone carrying both pride and gratitude. “He’s earned it a hundredfold for what he’s done.”
Orys’ eyes widened briefly, and then a broad smile spread across his face. “That’s wonderful news,” he said warmly, clapping Lyonce on the back with a hearty laugh. “No one deserves it more. Your efforts have been nothing short of miraculous.”
Lyonce’s face flushed slightly, and he dipped his head modestly. “Thank you, Lord Orys. I will do my utmost to serve the realm and its people,” he said with quiet sincerity.
Orys turned back to Aegon, his expression softening. “Speaking of service,” he began cautiously, “I wanted to ask you something. Would it be possible for me to take leave in a few weeks? Just for a short time. I… I need to return to the Stormlands. Argella is pregnant, and she’ll need me there, even if only for a little while.”
Aegon’s brows lifted in surprise, and then his expression softened into understanding. “Of course, Orys,” he said without hesitation. “Family comes first. Argella has been more than patient while you’ve been here. She’ll be glad to have you by her side.”
Orys nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “Thank you, Aegon. It means a great deal to me… to us both.”
“You’ve earned it,” Aegon replied firmly. “Go to her when the time comes. We’ll manage here.”
Orys smiled again, a quiet gratitude settling over him. “I’ll make arrangements to leave when the situation here is more stable. But I’ll remain as long as you need me.”
“Thank you, Orys,” Aegon said, his tone sincere. “For everything.”
The three men stood in a moment of mutual respect, their shared bonds of loyalty and family stronger than ever. As they resumed their walk, their conversation shifted to the plans for the coming days, the weight of their responsibilities shared among them.
The late afternoon light filtered softly through the curtains of Rhaenys’ chambers, casting a warm golden glow across the room. The delicate patterns of the fabric danced with the soft breeze, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender and fresh herbs. The air inside was calm but heavy with an unspoken fragility. Every corner of the chamber seemed to echo the journey of its occupant—the battle fought between life and death, and now the fragile peace of recovery.
Rhaenys sat propped up in her grand four-poster bed, her figure swathed in soft silks that draped around her like a protective cocoon. Her face, though still pale, had a warmth to it, her cheeks kissed with a faint blush that hinted at her slow return to strength. In her arms, cradled with the utmost care, was her newborn son. His tiny form was nestled securely against her chest, his delicate features relaxed in peaceful slumber. She gazed down at him, her fingers tracing soft, rhythmic circles along his small back, her expression a tender mix of exhaustion and profound love.
The faint sound of footsteps in the hallway drew her attention, followed by a polite but firm knock at the door. One of the maids, bustling quietly about the room, moved to answer it. She cracked the door open, revealing Corlys standing just beyond the threshold. His posture was composed, but his expression betrayed a mixture of hesitation and quiet concern.
“My lord,” the maid began in a hushed tone, bowing her head slightly. “The mistress is resting. Perhaps you could return…”
Before she could finish, Rhaenys’ voice, soft but resolute, carried across the room. “It’s all right. Let him in.” Her tone left no room for argument.
The maid stepped aside, allowing Corlys to enter. He moved with measured steps, his boots making barely a sound against the polished stone floor. As he approached the bed, his gaze immediately went to Rhaenys. His eyes scanned her face, searching for signs of discomfort or strain, but what he saw instead was a quiet strength. Despite her evident frailty, there was a light in her eyes that reassured him.
“Rhaenys,” he said, his voice low and warm, carrying the weight of both relief and reverence. “It’s good to see you like this. Truly.”
She smiled softly, shifting the babe slightly in her arms so that he was more comfortably cradled. “Thank you, Corlys,” she replied, her voice gentle but steady. “He’s just finished feeding, so he should sleep for a while. It’s the only time he’s truly at peace.”
Corlys nodded, his gaze drifting to the child. His expression softened, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “He’s a fine boy,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Strong and full of promise. Just like his mother.”
Rhaenys chuckled lightly, though the sound was tinged with a quiet exhaustion. “I hope he’ll be stronger than me,” she murmured, her gaze never leaving her son’s peaceful face. “He deserves a future unburdened by the weight of the crown. A future where he can simply be a boy, not a symbol.”
For a moment, silence settled between them, the weight of her words lingering in the air. Then Corlys cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting slightly as he reached into the folds of his tunic. “I wanted to tell you,” he began, a touch of sheepishness in his tone. “I placed the dragon egg in his cradle earlier. The one you had chosen.”
Rhaenys’ eyes softened further, and her lips curved into a genuine smile that seemed to light up the room. “Thank you, Corlys,” she said, her voice imbued with heartfelt gratitude. “That means so much to me. I’ve thought about that egg for months, imagining it there beside him. It’s perfect.”
Corlys gave a small bow of his head, a flicker of pride flashing across his features. “Anything for you, Rhaenys,” he said quietly. “You’ve always treated me with kindness, like family. After everything we’ve been through, it’s the least I can do.”
Rhaenys reached out a hand, her fingers trembling slightly but steady in their intent. Corlys stepped closer and took it gently in his own, his grip firm but comforting. Her skin felt cool beneath his calloused palm, but the strength of her spirit shone through.
“You’ve been more than family to me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve been a rock for all of us. I’ll never forget that.”
The two shared a moment of profound understanding, their bond forged in the fires of loyalty and shared struggles. The babe stirred slightly in her arms, a soft coo escaping his lips, and both Rhaenys and Corlys glanced down at him. Their smiles mirrored each other, filled with hope and affection.
“He’ll grow strong with all of us around him,” Corlys said softly, his voice carrying a quiet conviction. “And he’ll know what it means to have a mother who would move mountains for him.”
Rhaenys’ eyes glistened with unshed tears, but her smile remained unwavering. “Thank you, Corlys,” she said again, her voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”
Corlys nodded, stepping back slightly to give her space. “Rest now,” he said gently. “You’ve earned it. Both of you.”
As he turned to leave, he cast one last glance at Rhaenys and her son, the sight of them etched deeply into his memory. The warmth of her words and the quiet strength in her gaze lingered with him long after the door closed behind him, a reminder of the family they had fought so hard to protect.
Aegon sat alone in his study, the heavy oak door closed behind him, muting the distant hum of castle life. The room was bathed in a dim golden light, the late afternoon sun filtering through the tall, arched windows that lined the stone walls. Dust motes danced in the beams, adding an almost ethereal quality to the air. The scent of aged parchment, melted wax, and ink hung heavily, a familiar comfort in this sanctuary of thought and strategy.
The study was meticulously organized yet bore the signs of the chaos of recent days. Stacks of scrolls and ledgers were piled high on the wide desk, some leaning precariously as if a single misstep could send them tumbling. Maps of the realm lay unfurled, corners weighted down by candleholders, their edges slightly curled from use. Aegon’s personal seal rested beside an inkpot, its wax-stained base a testament to the many letters that had demanded his attention over the past weeks.
Seated in his high-backed chair, Aegon’s posture was rigid, his hands resting heavily on the desk as he scanned the document before him. His face was etched with lines of fatigue, his normally sharp violet eyes dulled by sleepless nights. A quill rested between his fingers, its tip hovering just above the parchment as if caught in indecision. Despite his best efforts, the words on the page seemed to blur together, his mind struggling to focus after the emotional whirlwind of recent events.
He sighed deeply, setting the quill down and leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked softly under his weight. For a moment, his gaze drifted to the window, where he could see the distant horizon tinged with hues of orange and pink. It was a beautiful sight, but Aegon barely registered it. His thoughts were elsewhere—on Rhaenys, on their son, on the decisions he had made and the ones still looming.
A knock at the door broke his reverie, sharp and purposeful. Aegon straightened, his hand instinctively reaching to adjust the folds of his tunic. “Enter,” he called, his voice steady despite his inner turmoil.
The door creaked open, revealing a steward holding a fresh stack of correspondence. The man bowed low, stepping forward with careful precision. “Your Grace, these arrived this morning. Some from the Stormlands, others from the northern lords.”
Aegon gestured for him to place the papers on the desk. “Thank you,” he said curtly. The steward set the stack down with practiced ease, his movements silent and efficient. With another bow, he retreated, leaving Aegon once again alone.
Picking up the top letter, Aegon broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. His eyes scanned the elegant script, his expression tightening as he absorbed its contents. A minor dispute between two bannermen—a matter that, under normal circumstances, would have been routine but now felt like an unwelcome distraction. He set it aside, making a mental note to address it later.
The next letter bore the seal of the Stormlands. Aegon’s fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before breaking it open. The contents were from Argella, a short but warm update on her pregnancy and assurances that Orys’ absence was understood. Aegon allowed himself a small smile, the thought of new life amidst so much turmoil offering a fleeting comfort.
As the minutes stretched into an hour, Aegon worked methodically through the correspondence, his mind slowly settling into the familiar rhythm of leadership. The weight of the crown pressed heavily on his shoulders, but in these quiet moments, he found a semblance of control. Each letter answered, each decree signed, was a reminder of the stability he had fought to maintain.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, pulling Aegon’s attention once more to the horizon. The sun was sinking lower now, casting long shadows across the room. He set his quill down again, his hand aching slightly from the steady movement. Rubbing his temples, he allowed himself a brief moment to breathe, his thoughts inevitably drifting back to Rhaenys.
“She’s stronger than all of us,” he murmured to himself, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips. With renewed determination, he rose from his chair, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor as he exited the study.
As he walked the familiar halls, the torches lining the walls cast flickering shadows, their orange glow a faint comfort against the encroaching twilight. Aegon’s thoughts were firmly on Rhaenys, and he quickened his pace, eager to check on her. But as he reached her chambers and pushed open the door, his heart sank. The bed was empty, the silken sheets carefully arranged but absent of their occupant.
Alarm coursed through him. “Rhaenys?” he called softly, stepping into the room. His eyes darted around, searching for any sign of her. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, but the stillness of the room felt deafening. Just as he was about to summon a guard, a soft humming reached his ears. He froze, the melodic sound pulling him from his panic. It was faint but unmistakably hers.
Following the sound, Aegon made his way down the corridor, the humming growing clearer with each step. It led him to the nursery, where the door was slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he was met with the sight of Rhaenys seated in a cushioned chair, her son cradled in her arms. The babe was awake, his tiny fingers curling against her gown as she rocked him gently.
“Rhaenys,” Aegon said, his voice a mix of relief and admonishment. He stepped into the room, his presence filling the space. “You should be resting.”
Rhaenys looked up at him, a soft smile gracing her lips. Her face was still pale, but there was a light in her eyes that hadn’t been there in days. “I am resting,” she replied, her tone teasing but gentle. “I heal better with him close.”
Aegon’s stern expression softened, and he moved to her side, kneeling so that he was eye-level with her. He reached out, his hand brushing against his son’s tiny head before resting lightly on Rhaenys’ arm. “You scared me,” he admitted, his voice low and filled with emotion. “I thought I’d lost you. I’ve never felt fear like that before.”
Rhaenys’ smile faltered for a moment, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I know,” she said softly. “I could feel it. But I’m here, Aegon. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their shared fear and relief settling between them. The babe let out a soft coo, breaking the tension and drawing their attention back to him. Rhaenys chuckled quietly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “He needs a name,” she said.
Aegon nodded, his gaze thoughtful as he looked at his son. “Aenys,” he said finally, his voice steady. “Aenys, the First of His Name.”
Rhaenys repeated the name softly, her smile returning. “Aenys,” she whispered. “It suits him.”
Aegon leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “He’ll be strong, like his mother,” he said. “And he’ll always know how much he’s loved.”
The three of them remained in the nursery as the evening deepened, the flickering light of the torches casting a warm glow over the tender scene.
The night was heavy with silence, the kind that draped over King’s Landing like a shroud. Visenya stood alone on a balcony that jutted out from her chambers, her figure silhouetted against the deep indigo of the night sky. The moon hung low, its pale light glinting off her silver hair, which cascaded freely down her back. She gripped the stone balustrade, her hands cool against the rough surface, as her violet eyes swept over the sprawling city below.
The faint glow of torches lined the winding streets, their flickers resembling fireflies trapped in a web of stone and shadow. The Red Keep loomed above it all, an unyielding bastion of power that seemed to mock the fragility of those who served beneath its roof. Visenya’s thoughts were a storm, her mind replaying the events of the past days in agonizing detail. Aethan’s anger, Corlys’ steadfast loyalty, and the secret that now hung like a blade above her head—all of it churned within her, refusing to be silenced.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cool night air. She was the sword of the realm, the protector of her family, the one who made the hard decisions when others faltered. But tonight, the weight of that mantle felt unbearable.
The sound of boots against stone interrupted her thoughts, the steady rhythm unmistakable. She turned slightly, her posture rigid, as Orys emerged from the shadows of the archway leading to the balcony. His face was solemn, his expression a mixture of concern and quiet determination.
“You’re not an easy woman to find, Visenya,” he said, his voice low but steady. He stopped a few paces away, giving her space.
“I didn’t intend to be found,” she replied, her tone cool but not unkind. She turned back to the city, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. “Why are you here, Orys?”
He hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer. “I’ve spoken to Aethan,” he said simply. “He’s furious. He told me what happened. About you and Corlys. About the maester.”
Visenya’s grip on the balustrade tightened, her knuckles whitening. “Of course, he did,” she murmured. Her voice was tinged with bitterness, though she did not turn to face him. “And what do you think, Orys? Are you here to condemn me as well?”
Orys sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “I think what you did was wrong,” he admitted. “You defied the king’s authority. You acted without his knowledge, without his consent. That’s not a small thing, Visenya.”
Her head snapped around, her eyes blazing. “And what would you have done?” she demanded. “Stood by while that man spread his poison? Risked Rhaenys and the boy for the sake of propriety? I am not like you, Orys. I cannot afford to hesitate.”
“Hesitate?” he echoed, his tone rising. “You didn’t hesitate. You took it upon yourself to decide who lives and who dies. That’s not justice, Visenya. That’s tyranny.”
She stepped forward, her presence commanding despite her smaller frame. “I am the sword of the realm,” she said fiercely. “It is my duty to make the hard choices, to protect this family and this kingdom from threats they cannot see. Aegon may sit on the throne, but it is I who guard it.”
Orys held her gaze, his expression unreadable. “And what of Aethan?” he asked quietly. “You’ve alienated him. He’s your blood, Visenya. Your family. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Her shoulders sagged slightly, the fire in her eyes dimming. “Of course, it does,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But Aethan doesn’t understand. He sees the world in absolutes, in right and wrong. I don’t have that luxury. I never have.”
Orys moved closer, his tone softening. “You carry so much, Visenya. Too much. But that doesn’t mean you’re always right. And it doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone.”
She looked at him, her expression wavering between defiance and vulnerability. “And what about you, Orys?” she asked. “You’ve left your home, your lands, and your wife to be here. Doesn’t that pull at you? Don’t you ever wonder if you’ve made the wrong choice?”
He nodded slowly, his gaze steady. “It pulls at me every day,” he admitted. “I love Argella, and I love the Stormlands. But I swore an oath to Aegon, to you and Rhaenys. That oath doesn’t waver, no matter how much I miss my home. It’s not about right or wrong. It’s about duty.”
For a moment, neither spoke, the weight of their confessions hanging heavily in the air. The city stretched out below them, its lights twinkling like stars fallen to earth.
“We’re not so different, you and I,” Visenya said finally, her voice softer now. “We both walk a fine line, torn between duty and desire, between what’s right and what’s necessary.”
Orys placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch firm but comforting. “Then maybe we can help each other walk it,” he said. “For the good of the realm. For our family.”
Visenya didn’t respond immediately, her gaze returning to the city below. But after a long pause, she nodded. “For the realm,” she echoed. “And for our family.”
They stood there together, the moonlight casting their shadows long across the balcony, two warriors bound by loyalty and burdened by the weight of their choices.
magitekice (Guest) on Chapter 1 Mon 02 Dec 2024 03:13AM UTC
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