The Children of the Dragon

by Red_Queen_Rhaenys

Summary:

Vaenys Targaryen was not meant to survive.

Not the womb, not the crib, and certainly not her twin brother, Maegor, who tried to smother her before either of them could walk. Yet, against all odds—and her own better judgment—she’s still here. Eight years old, tiny, woefully underpowered, and stuck in the shadow of a boy destined to be remembered as Maegor the Cruel.

And yet, Vaenys doesn’t want to die.

She was once a malnourished fetus, then a sickly baby, and now a small, fragile girl—but she’s still here. And she’s not giving up just yet. If she could survive Maegor rolling on top of her as a baby, maybe—just maybe—she can survive being his sister, too.

(And if she can’t? Well. At least she’ll go down in history as more than just Maegor’s twin.)
______________________________________
Keeping up with Dragons follows the perspectives of other members of House Targaryen. It is entirely optional to read, but for those curious about their viewpoints, it offers deeper insight into their thoughts.

This is the reading order if you’re interested.

Chapter 1, 2
KuwD Chapter 1 Maegor POV:The Stables
Chapter 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
KuwD Chapter 2 Aenys POV:The Queen’s Son

Chapter 1: A Prologue of Sorts

Vaenys Targaryen was only a few months old when her twin brother Maegor first tried to kill her via rolling on top of her. Although she kind of wished he had succeeded, her damned instincts kicked in and she wailed her lungs out.

 

There wasn’t a day passed without regret about that night, alas, it was too late. She had wailed and their mother separated their cribs.

 

Honestly, it was a miracle Maegor didn’t eat her in the womb, it really seemed on brand for him but somehow she not only survived the womb, survived the atrocious name combination of Visenya+Rhaenys= Vaenys, survived the crib she shared with Maegor and she survived to live eight name days in Westeros.

 

But it seems like this was as far as she would live. Eight years spent in Westeros and all she had to show for herself was the little red hatchling she named Cerberus. It just seemed to fit her gender neutral monarch that with all the number three thrown around. “Dragon must have three heads” the prophecy said and “Three children of the dragon” people called Aenys, Maegor and I so Cerberus fitted her weapon of mass destruction very much, thank you.

 

Looking back; she had a sickly body, a hatchling and a dream. Eight years of not only as the twin of Maegor the Cruel but also the daughter of Visenya Targaryen.

 

You know what, she’d like to see other people try. They wouldn’t even make it out of the womb for god’s sakes!

 

It was a sunny day in Dragon Stone, as if the gods welcomed her with open arms. “Come you, child o’ incest, today your twin shall claim your life and you’ll only be a few words in the history books.” They were saying.

 

“Now, Vaenys, I don’t want to see any pouting from you. You’ve been learning swordplay like a proper Valyrian dragonlord. This is no attitude to have when you have a new challenge to overcome.” Queen Visenya chided her spiritless daughter.

 

“But mom, Maegor is going to definitely kill me! If I die don’t let him claim Cerberus! Ooh, and pet Cerbie everyday because if you don’t they’d die of sadness and join me.” She said fluttering her eyes, desperately trying to guilt trip Visenya into letting her skip sparring with Maegor until she was ten.

 

She did not succeed.

 

“I’m sure Maegor won’t kill you over a stolen dessert Vaenys so don’t worry, you can spend all the time you want with your hatchling whose name won’t be Cerberus but a proper Valyrian one. Do you understand?” She said dragging her to the training yards.

 

“I’m telling you Cerberus was fearsome beast in Old Valyria. I definitely read it in an ancient tome. It’s even spelled as C-A-E-R-B-E-R-U-S.”

 

“Well, then surely you wouldn’t mind showing the ancient tome to me, daughter.” The exasperated queen said. “And you don’t pet a dragon, a dragon isn’t a cat. You spend time with a dragon, understood?” She asked but got no answer.

 

“Understood?” Visenya repeated her question.

 

“Yes, mother.” She said, her hopes her hopes crushed.

 

“Good.” Visenya said “I’m looking forward to see the ancient tome you speak of.”

 

She would’ve said D’Oh but no one in this universe appreciated her silly little sit-com references so she chose to keep her silence as she was dragged to the training yards.

 

Today the weather was too nice for Dragonstone and the training yard was nicer too. It was as if both agreed on mocking her by being too different from how she remembered it. Too bright, too hot, and filled with far too many overenthusiastic boys who actually wanted to be here. Where was the suffering, where was blood and mud?

 

Ah, yes the Targaryen words, blood and mud, hooray.

 

Maegor was already waiting, gripping a wooden practice sword that looked more like a club in his oversized hands. He was practically bouncing on his heels, eager to start and eager to kick her ass.

 

Vaenys, in contrast, was already exhausted.

 

Our master at arms, Ser Harrold Harroway, who was training me, stood before them. He was probably the uncle of Alys Harroway, the first of the many black brides, his expression unreadable as he handed Vaenys her newly crafted bastard wooden sword.

 

She nearly dropped it.

 

“That’s— heavy,” she said, her arms shaking under the weight.

 

“It’s a wooden bastard sword, princess.” Ser Harrold deadpanned.

 

Yes, she knew the bastard swords were heavier. Lengthwise a bastard sword fell in between a normal sword and a longsword but she didn’t think it’d be this hard to move with it. 

Ugh, why did her mother had to choose today.

 

“Yes, and I’m a very small princess who, according to the maesters, still isn’t fit for physical exertion because her brother hogged all of the food in womb.”

 

Visenya hummed in disapproval.

 

“You’re of Valyrian blood,” her mother said. “Strength will come in time. For now, you will build it. I want to see your progress in a spar with your brother. Train hard now, so you may live comfortably in the future.”

 

That sounded like a fancy way of saying suffer now .

 

She turned to Maegor, who was already gripping his sword like he meant to take someone’s head off with it. Her eyes narrowed.

 

“I swear to the gods, Maegor, if you break my bones, I will haunt you.” She said.

 

“You wouldn’t die from broken bones.” He replied, unimpressed.

 

“Fine, then I’ll haunt you miserably .”

 

Ser Harrold cleared his throat. “We will begin with a spar to assess the princess’ progress.”

 

Vaenys rolled her shoulders, stretching out the lingering stiffness from training. It had been weeks of drills—footwork, stances, endless repetition—until her muscles ached and her hands were raw from gripping the sword. She wanted to be able to defend herself. This was a privilege a lot of Westerosi woman wouldn’t get.

 

Across from her, Maegor looked unimpressed. “About time.”

 

He had been waiting for this. She could see it in the way he adjusted his stance, eager to put her in her place. Maegor was stronger, faster, and far more aggressive. But she had trained. She wasn’t going to win maybe, but she wanted to save face if she could.

 

She once again reminded herself how really very lucky she was to be allowed to learn how to protect herself—even if, right now, the person she needed protection from was standing in front of her.

 

“Or, hear me out,” Vaenys chickened out, “I watch from the sidelines and take notes while my brother kick other poor sods. Like a scholar.”

 

“You are not a scholar, you will not be a scholar.” Visenya said.

 

“I could be!”

 

“You will train with your brother, who is already skilled with the sword. He is your age and will make a good sparring partner. You will learn from him. And you will enjoy it.” Her mother said sharply, leaving no room for argument.

 

Maegor smirked at her.

 

Ugh.

 

Ser Harrold gave a patient sigh, stepping back to gesture for them to begin.

 

“Prince Maegor, Princess Vaenys—take your positions.”

 

She took a deep breath. Alright. She could do this. She was a Targaryen. A dragon. She had the super special magic-elf-Valyrian-dragon-blood.

 

Dragon blood that, unfortunately, came with the muscle mass of a malnourished sparrow.

Damn you Maegor! If you’re going to try to kill her for the third time you better succeed this time. She wasn’t sure she’d survive a broken arm in Westeros.

 

The second Ser Harrold gave the signal, Maegor lunged.

 

Vaenys barely got her sword up in time before the impact rattled her down to her teeth.

 

Oh, absolutely not.

 

She instantly let go of the sword and threw herself to the ground, splaying out like a dead fish.

 

“I yield!” she declared, staring up at the sky. No, not in a ugly loser way; Claire, it’s French! “The gods have taken me!”

 

There was a long silence.

 

Maegor loomed over her, frowning in confusion.

 

“Get up, Vaenys.” Visenya ordered.

 

She groaned. “Mother, I have perished, avenge me.”

 

“Now.”

 

With a dramatic sigh, Vaenys sat up, rubbing her sore wrists.

 

“You should at least try .” Maegor muttered.

 

“Oh, I did try,” she shot back. “I tried surviving, and guess what? I failed .”

 

“Again.” Visenya ordered.

 

Vaenys groaned as she was handed her sword once more.

 

She was going to die. Not in some great battle, not on dragonback, not even by Maegor’s eventual descent into villainy.

 

She was going to die because her mother forced her to spar against her monstrous twin brother at eight years old.

 

And knowing her luck?

 

Maegor was going to love every second of it.

 

Once again her brother lunged at her but this time she was wiser, she knew she would get the cartoonish rattling starting from her arms to all her body so she dodged to the side making Maegor stagger.

 

And also making her trip on her own feet, falling right on her back.

 

The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain up her spine, knocking the breath from her lungs. For a moment, all she could do was lie there, staring up at the sky, teeth clenched.

 

She hated this. Hated the way her body never quite kept up with her will, hated how she felt so breakable next to Maegor, hated that she knew this feeling already.

 

Because this wasn’t the first time Maegor had hurt her.

 

She was six the last time—small, delicate, still catching up to her twin’s monstrous strength. He hadn’t meant to do it, she knew that, she kept telling herself that, but intent hadn’t mattered when he had yanked her away from her ladies by the arm so hard, her shoulder popped clean out of its socket.

 

She had screamed. Not just in pain, she had screamed bloody murder .

 

She had expected Maegor to be rough. To shove her, to knock her down when they wrestled, to hold her in place when he was bigger and stronger and knew it. But she hadn’t expected that.

 

The pain had been unbearable. The maester had to set it back in place while she bit into a leather strap, silent tears rolling down her face. And Maegor?

 

Maegor had stood there, stone-faced, watching.

 

She hadn’t spoken to him for two months. And for a child, that was a lifetime.

 

Now, as she lay on her back, winded, she felt that same pain creeping in again—not as sharp, not as unbearable, but enough to make her stomach twist.

 

She blinked up at the sky, willing herself to breathe through it.

 

Then, a shadow fell over her.

 

“Are you mad at me again?”

 

Maegor.

 

His voice was strange—gruff, like he didn’t actually care about the answer, but the way he hovered just a little too close gave him away.

 

Vaenys closed her eyes briefly, remembering how, back then, he hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t said anything at all. But she had felt it, in the way he had lingered, in the way he had glared at anyone who was so much as looked at her wrong while she healed, while she was in so much pain that she couldn’t use her shoulder.

 

Now, looking up at him, she saw that same look in his eyes.

 

Worried. Frustrated. Ready to hit something about it.

 

She groaned dramatically, dragging it out just to make him sweat. “I don’t know, Maegor,” she said at last, rolling onto her side with an exaggerated wince. “Are you going to rip my arm off this time?”

 

Maegor scowled. “You tripped.”

 

“Yes, well, you lunged at me, so really, this is your fault.”

 

His grip tightened on his practice sword, knuckles turning white. Not because she was wrong, but because he didn’t like being wrong.

 

And Maegor, being Maegor, didn’t handle guilt like a normal person. He handled it by looking for something to hit.

 

Unfortunately, she was the closest thing.

 

She saw the shift in his stance before he even moved, before he could even think about making up for his mistake by doubling down on it.

 

So she did the only reasonable thing:

 

She kicked him in the shin.

 

Not hard, but enough to make him stumble back, blinking down at her in shock.

 

“There,” she said, pushing herself to her feet with a groan. “We’re even.”

 

Maegor opened his mouth, closed it, then scoffed.

 

“That was weak.”

 

“I am weak!” She shot back, dusting herself off. “That’s the whole point.”

 

“Then fight harder.”

 

“You fight less hard.”

 

“That’s stupid.”

 

“You’re stupid.”

 

“Vaenys!” Visenya called, unimpressed.

 

Vaenys huffed. “Fine, fine. I’ll try .”

 

Maegor smirked, raising his sword again. “Good.”

 

She took her position, rolling out her sore shoulders. At least he wasn’t sulking.

 

And at least this time, he hadn’t dislocated anything.

 

Progress.

Chapter 2: Stranger Works Overtime Because of Maegor

Summary:

Maegor learns the hard way why you don’t stand behind a horse.

Notes:

HEAR YE! HEAR YE!
Tw: Animal cruelty

If you’ve read “Fire and Blood” the events of this chapter will be familiar. This is a canon event and we won’t have a lot of those in this fic because as George would say- butterflies.

And not that anyone would care, the master at arms is an oc of mine, in Fire and Blood a Gawen Corbay is the master at arms.

Hope you’ll enjoy reading this!

“My gods! Maegor!” Vaenys exclaimed.

“Owww!” Her brother doubled over, clutching his chest.

“Maegor, are you alright? Gods, why would you stand behind a horse? That’s one of the first things you learn—not to stand behind them! Horses kick!” she chastised, stepping in to take the horse away from the murder-prone boy.

A stableboy came running toward them, his face pale with panic. She shoved the rowdy horse into his hands.

“Can you please take him away? He just kicked the Prince!”

The boy’s eyes nearly popped out of his sockets. He mumbled a barely coherent, “Yes, Princess!” before scrambling off.

When she turned back around, Maegor was already standing.

“Bloody hell! What are you doing up? You might make your wounds or bones worse! Lie down! I’m calling Maester Jorrel!” she shrieked.

“I’m fine.” He grunted, still cradling his ribs. The bruise would probably be even more purple than his eyes by the end of the day.

“You will sit in the mud and wait for the maester, or I swear I’ll break your bones myself so you stay down.”

Her intimidation roll must have been a nat20 because, very slowly, he actually sat back down, leaning his back against the stone walls of the stable.

“That’s a good boy.” she muttered before scrambling off, shouting for Maester Jorrel and their mother.

As some of the knights rushed to fetch the maester, she and Ser Harrold Harroway stepped back into the stables—only to find the murderous boy… murdering?

The air smelled of blood.

The horses were agitated, stomping and tossing their heads, their panic thick in the air. Blood poured from the slashed throat of the fallen horse, pooling on the ground. The stableboy’s face had a nasty gash and gone deathly white.

Vaenys felt her blood freeze, the warmth draining from her veins as Maegor continued to hit the already very much dead horse.

Strong hands shielded her, pulling her into an embrace.

“My prince,” Ser Harrold said carefully, his voice steady despite the gruesome sight.

“The horse is dead.”

Maegor didn’t stop. His fists came down again, a sickening thud against flesh, the squelch of blood mixing with mud. He was breathing heavily, his shoulders rising and falling with each ragged inhale. The other horses shifted nervously in their stalls, eyes wide, hooves scraping against the ground.

Vaenys swallowed, suddenly aware of how small she was compared to him—compared to the rage crackling in the air around him like a coming storm.

“Maegor,” she tried, voice steady despite the cold dread creeping up her spine. She risked a look at him. “It’s over.”

Still, his fists clenched. His knuckles were raw, slick with something she didn’t want to look at too closely.

Ser Harrold let go of her and moved towards him, stepping forward cautiously, like one might approach a cornered beast. “My Prince, enough.” His voice was firm, but not unkind.

Slowly, Maegor’s breathing began to steady. His hands dropped to his sides, fingers twitching, but he stepped back. The horse’s body lay limp in the mud, a ruin of what it had been, and the stableboy… gods, the boy was still standing there, frozen, the half of his face wasn’t stained with blood, whiter than the Kingsguard’s cloaks.

Vaenys forced her legs to move, stepping forward until she was close enough to grab Maegor’s wrist. His muscles were probably rigid by adrenaline. “Come on,” she murmured, trying to tug him away from the scene. He was taller than her, stronger than her, but he let her pull him. “Mother will be here soon.”

That got his attention. His face, still twisted with the remnants of fury, settled into something unreadable. But he let himself be led away, his feet moving stiffly through the mud.

Vaenys glanced back just once—at the dead horse, at the horrified stableboy, at Ser Harrold, who was rubbing a tired hand down his face.

The maester and their mother would arrive soon. And when they did, there would be consequences.

Gods help them.

Maegor grabbed her hand, squeezing so tightly she thought it might break.

“What happened in there?” Vaenys asked, her voice quiet—far quieter than Maegor’s heavy, ragged breathing, which hadn’t yet calmed.

She didn’t expect an answer. And she didn’t get one.

Instead, Maegor gave her hand another warning squeeze—tighter, almost punishing. That was it. No words, no explanation.

Vaenys didn’t push.

She glanced back just once—at the dead horse, at the horrified stableboy, at Ser Harrold, who was rubbing a tired hand down his face.

Seven help them.

Their mother would take control, silence the stableboy, and give Maegor hell when they were alone.

So they waited.

And waited.

Until the sound of armored footsteps approached—fast, purposeful.

Queen Visenya arrived with all the weight of a coming storm, her violet eyes sharp as a blade as they flicked over the scene. Behind her, Maester Jorrel hurried, his gray robes fluttering as he struggled to keep pace.

Vaenys saw Maegor straighten, but his grip didn’t loosen.

“What happened?” Visenya’s voice was calm, controlled.

The stableboy made a strangled noise, and Ser Harrold, who had followed them out, cleared his throat. “Prince Maegor was kicked by a horse, Your Grace. The creature did not survive his response.” he said, then covered his mouth and whispered something to their mother.

Visenya’s gaze shifted to Maegor, taking in the blood on his knuckles, the dirt on his tunic, the rigid set of his shoulders. “You are injured?”

“I am fine.”

It was an obvious lie. Even if he was standing upright, the dent in his chest plate was impossible to miss.

Vaenys didn’t know if she was scared for Maegor or because of Maegor, but she felt compelled to add anyway, “He got up way too fast for someone who just got kicked by a horse.”

Visenya’s mouth pressed into a thin line. She turned to Maester Jorrel. “See to him.”

Maegor exhaled sharply but said nothing as the maester approached, already reaching for the prince’s tunic.

Vaenys, relieved that someone else was handling that problem, dared a glance back at the stable. The dead horse, the horrified boy, the blood seeping into the dirt—mother had seen it too, she knew.

There would be consequences.

“Prince Maegor.”

Maegor who had his chest plate removed, was now scowling as the maester prodded at his ribs.

Visenya held his gaze. “We do not waste our strength on the dead.”

It was not a reprimand. Not quite. But Maegor’s jaw clenched, and for the first time since the incident, he looked away, his fists curling.

Vaenys, who had spent years learning to translate their mother’s sharp-edged wisdom, swallowed. That was not just a lesson about a horse. That was a lesson about restraint.

And if Maegor had heard it, really heard it, she couldn’t tell.

For now, she would let the maester work. Let their mother handle what needed handling.

Oh, and by the gods!

Vaenys had been so focused on Maegor—on the horse, on the blood—that she almost missed the stableboy trembling in the corner, his face half-covered by shaking hands.

Almost.

Then she saw him trying to hide his bloodied face.

Her stomach lurched. “Wait—oh, hells!” She darted toward him, pushing past Ser Harrold who was probably mindfully tending to the boy and telling him not to utter a word about the prince’s murderous tendencies. “He—Maegor, you—you cut him!”

The stableboy flinched as she reached out, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps.

She turned on her brother, furious. “Why would you that? What is wrong with you?”

Maegor barely looked at her, still scowling as Maester Jorrel pressed careful fingers against his ribs.

Vaenys whirled toward their mother. “Mother! He hurt him! Not only did he kill the poor animal! He—he also slashed his face! Look at him!” She gestured wildly, as if the blood wasn’t evidence enough.

Visenya’s gaze finally settled on the boy. “Let me see.”

The stableboy stiffened, but Ser Harrold gave him a firm nod, and slowly—hesitantly—he lowered his hands.

A thin but deep gash ran from just below his eye to his jaw. Blood dripped from his chin, staining his tunic.

Vaenys sucked in a sharp breath. If Maegor had cut even a little higher—

She turned back to her brother, horrified. “You could have blinded him! Or—or killed him!”

Maegor, to his credit, did not look completely indifferent. His fingers twitched where they rested against his bruised chest, but he said nothing.

Visenya did not rush to scold. Instead, she studied the stableboy’s injury with the same calculating expression she always wore when assessing something—someone—useful or not.

Then, finally: “Maester Jorrel. Tend to the boy as well.”

The maester hesitated, still hovering near Maegor.

Vaenys gawked. “He is bleeding—Maegor is standing—fix him first!”

Visenya’s gaze flicked toward her, cool and unreadable. “You care for his injury?”

Vaenys clenched her fists. “Of course I do!”

“He is a stableboy.”

“He is a person!”

Silence stretched between them.

The maester, wisely, stepped away from Maegor and towards the stableboy, murmuring quiet reassurances as he reached for his satchel.

Vaenys let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Maegor, still leaning against the stable wall, exhaled sharply through his nose. “You make too much a fuss.”

She snapped her head toward him, rage flaring again. “You nearly took his eye out!”

“He lives.”

“Oh, seven hells, you are heartless!”

Visenya raised a hand, and the argument stopped immediately.

“Your brother is hurt and could’ve been dead. He’s not heartless Vaenys. What would be heartless is to chide him in this condition.” The Queen chastised her instead.

Fucking feudalism… and Visenya… and Maegor…

Maybe if Maegor had faced consequences for these little mishaps that happened while he grew up, he would’ve been less… cruel?

Vaenys pressed her lips together, furious but unwilling to push further. Not now. Not in front of everyone.

Visenya turned back to the stableboy. “What is your name?”

The boy swallowed. “T-Tommos, Your Grace.”

“You will be seen to Tommos.” She said simply. “And you will not speak of this outside these walls.”

Tommos’ face paled further, but he nodded quickly, eyes dropping to the ground.

Vaenys’ stomach twisted.

Maegor had cut him. Had hurt him. Sometimes she would get too comfortable in Westeros and would be brought back to reality like this, mostly by her brother.

This was wrong. This was so wrong.

But she knew, deep down, that the boy -Tommos- was lucky to be alive and taken care of.

This world was cruel—much like her twin—but she could at least try to make it easier for those around her.

Unfortunately, that often meant managing Maegor.

So, she turned to Tommos, dropping her voice to something almost gentle. “You’ll be alright, I promise.”

The boy didn’t look convinced.

And as Visenya led them away from the mess, as Maegor walked beside her, still silent, Vaenys realized something awful.

Maegor had killed an animal and scarred a boy, and no one—not even their mother—seemed slightly surprised.

Notes:

I wrote this chapter from Maegor’s perspective because I wanted his actions to feel more understandable.

Technically, his reasoning will be revealed when he explains himself to Visenya later, but I’m unsure if I should share this POV since it would repeat some points.

If anyone is reading this, let me know a “Yay, share it!” or “Nay, tis unnecessary.” will be so appreciated by me 😭

Chapter 3: Unmoored

Notes:

HEAR YE! HEAR YE!
First of all—hi! How are you? Hope you had a great weekend.

Secondly, I ended up making this a series and will be sharing Maegor’s POV in Keeping Up with the Dragons, a fanfiction that will include other Targaryen family POVs at some point. Reading it is completely optional for those who prefer to keep the mystery.

For those curious about Maegor’s POV, I invite you to check out Keeping Up with the Dragons. And for those who’d rather not, I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

The scene at the stables drew a growing crowd, a wave of murmuring voices rising and falling like the tide. People craned their necks, whispering behind cupped hands or shouting to be heard over the commotion.

The dead horse, its ruined body a grotesque spectacle, was slowly lifted by a handful of stablehands and guards, its sheer weight making each movement a struggle. The stench of blood and ruptured flesh thickened the air, mingling with the scent of hay and damp earth, turning the stable into a suffocating tomb.

Vaenys stood amidst it all, small and unmoored, the words of the onlookers a blurred mess of sound that barely reached her ears. It was as if the world around her had been drowned out, reduced to a hazy, indistinct hum. She blinked, trying to focus, but her gaze kept slipping back to the carcass. Her breath came short and uneven, her stomach twisting into knots she couldn’t untangle.

A warm, steady weight settled on her shoulder. Ser Harrold.

She barely reached his knees, but the touch grounded her. Before she could stop herself, her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, grasping at it as if it were the only thing tethering her to reality. And when he gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, she clung tighter, pressing herself against his leg, seeking out the comfort and the warmth of the man.

Never in either of her lives had she seen something this disturbing.

The horse’s body was a ruined thing, its once-magnificent form reduced to a shattered mass of bone, flesh, and blood-matted fur. Its skull had been caved in, a jagged crevice splitting through where Maegor’s blows had landed. Splinters of bone jutted from the wound like broken teeth, and one of its eyes had burst entirely, reduced to a dark, gelatinous smear against the crushed socket. The other remained half-lidded, dull and empty, staring at nothing. Beneath its head, a thick pool of blood soaked into the straw, turning it a deep, viscous red. It seeped into the dirt floor of the stable, sluggish and unrelenting, like veins spreading through cracked earth.

Its ribs, too, bore the marks of violence—several had caved inward at unnatural angles, pressing against the loose, torn hide. A deep gash along its flank gaped open, revealing pulped tissue that no longer resembled anything living. Its mouth hung open, lips peeled back in a frozen grimace, the echo of its last breath trapped within a silent scream.

The stench was unbearable. The tang of blood, thick and metallic, clung to the air, the smell was so intense, she didn’t think it would ever leave the stables and it seemed like the stench was so thick that even the most hardened stablehands couldn’t take it.

Of course they couldn’t take it, she thought. They cared for them everyday and now one of them was… dead. The stablehands turned away, hands covering their noses and mouths, faces twisted in revulsion.

Already, the flies had come.

They buzzed hungrily around the gaping wounds, crawling over torn flesh and bloodied fur, their tiny legs sinking into the gore. Vaenys swallowed hard, but she couldn’t shake the sensation that they were crawling on her, their tiny bodies skittering across her skin, burrowing into her flesh like she was the one who had been torn apart.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the had image burned behind her eyelids.

When the men lifted the horse’s corpse, something inside it gave a sickening squelch. A fresh wave of blackened blood and bile leaked from the torn gut, spilling over the stable floor. The sound alone made her stomach lurch. She swallowed back the bile rising in her throat, but she couldn’t look away.

Death had never felt so raw. So cruelly undignified.

She gripped Ser Harrold’s leg even tighter, hugging it at this point, fingers digging into the fabric as if anchoring herself to something solid, something real.

A sharp voice rang out.

Visenya.

At her command, the crowd began to scatter. Slowly, reluctantly, people turned away from the spectacle, retreating back to their duties, their conversations, their lives. Maester Jorrel and the stableboy, Tommos, made their way toward the castle, their steps hurried. Vaenys wanted to follow them, wanted to make sure the boy was alright, but it was as if she had been nailed to the ground, her body refusing to obey.

Maegor followed after them however.

That was enough to shake her free.

With great effort, she loosened her grip on Ser Harrold’s leg, stepping forward on unsteady legs. She couldn’t let Tommos be alone with him.

The boy was just a stablehand. He had fought in no wars, served no kings or princes, yet now he bore a scar he would carry for the rest of his life. The scar similar to the one that Tyrion Lannister bore.

But Tyrion had been a highborn lord, the son of a powerful house, surrounded by gold and finery. He had gotten that scar during the Battle of Blackwater while protecting King’s Landing. Tommos had nothing and he had gotten that scar for nothing.

And yet, he would carry the same wound.

Her thoughts were abruptly cut short as she stumbled over something—her foot catching against the uneven ground. A hand caught her before she could fall. Ser Harrold again.

He ushered her closer, and she didn’t resist, simply reassuming her previous position, clinging to him like a lifeline.

He and Visenya were speaking, their voices a low murmur above her head, but the words blurred together. Something felt wrong. The nausea had faded, but in its place was something else, something heavier, more difficult to name.

She felt like she wasn’t entirely there.

Her gaze dropped to the ground, settling on a small stone nestled among the dirt and straw.

A heart-shaped stone.

It was beautiful, almost too perfect—one side larger and rounder, the other tapering just enough to resemble both the crude doodles of a child and the true shape of a heart. She wanted to reach for it, to add it to the growing collection of small treasures she had begun to gather in this world, but her hands refused to let go of Ser Harrold’s leg.

She wished Ser Harrold could read her mind and pick up the stone for her, she squeezed tighter for a second but no response came nor did he pick up the pretty stone-heart.

She internally flinched at herself. Stoneheart? Really? Just even thinking about her caused shivers and she looked away from the stone and squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her head against the leather pants she was hugging.

The name had sent a shiver through her, and she looked away from the stone, squeezing her eyes shut.

The scent of blood was still thick in the air, but when she hugged Ser Harrold’s leather tunic the only thing she could smell was, well, that- the leather so she buried her face against it, focusing only on the steady thump of her heartbeat.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

It was soothing, rhythmic, drowning out the noise of the world around her.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

A hand landed on her shoulder, firm and unyielding.

She was tugged—hard.

The warmth of Ser Harrold was gone, suddenly and the metallic stench of blood was back all too soon however she still hung onto the leather tunic, unwilling to let go.

She opened her eyes to see what kind of a monstrous person would make her smell this god-awful stench again.

She was met with her mother’s gaze.

Purple eyes, sharp and full of something she didn’t want to name.

A shudder ran through her, and before she could think, she ducked behind Ser Harrold’s leg, hiding herself from view.

No one chastised her for it.

No one told her to stand up straight, to face her mother with the pride and poise expected of her.

So she stayed there, curled against Ser Harrold’s leg, eyes closed. She wanted to open her eyes and listen- to learn what her mother was going on about, however with the blood stench and the reminder of Stoneheart, a woman who was separated from her family in an opposite way from her. Stoneheart had lost them all by death and Vaenys had lost hers by dying.

But there was no hiding forever.

She was lifted effortlessly into her mother’s arms, her grip torn away from Ser Harrold’s tunic.

She tensed, the rhythmic thump of her heartbeat faltering.

Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

Too fast. Unsteady.

But then—lavender. The scent curled around her, familiar and sharp, her mother’s hold unyielding but warm. A hand smoothed along her back, slow and deliberate.

The thumping eased.

And she hid herself in the crook of her mother’s neck and let herself think of more pleasant thoughts, like how she often liked to visit the lavender garden back in her own town where she didn’t even saw a horse close up ever.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to see a horse close up ever again, not until she forgot about what their organs had smelled like anyway.

Chapter 4: Unspoken

Notes:

HEAR YE! HEAR YE!

Just a minute ago I accidentally posted the previous chapter again because I’m watching the news sorry about that…

So There are ongoing protests in my country, and today is the second day. I was out all day yesterday and ended up with a terrible fever.

I feel guilty for not being able to join right now, but I’m following the news closely. I’m feeling better and will likely go out again tomorrow and the day after, so I won’t be sharing on Sunday.

I’m sorry for not responding to comments—I’ll catch up once things calm down.

If I don’t post, don’t worry too much! I have two more chapters already written, and I’ll be back to fangirl mode soon.

Stay safe, everyone.

Visenya’s study was not a warm room. It was not meant to be.

The walls were lined with towering shelves, filled not just with books but with scrolls, maps, and records that smelled of ink and age. A great table sat in the center, carved from dark wood, its surface near-flawless but for the deep scratches of a dagger’s edge—marks left behind by long nights of planning, of decisions too sharp to be made without a blade in hand.

A single brazier burned low in the corner, the embers barely crackling. The light was dim, the air thick with the scent of parchment, of wax, of the lavender oil their mother favored. But even the lavender could not mask the iron tang of dried blood still clinging to Maegor’s hands.

Vaenys sat where her mother had placed her—on the couch near the hearth, her hands folded in her lap. Still as a statue.

Maegor sat across from her, in a chair carved with dragon wings curling along the arms. His posture was straight, shoulders squared, chin lifted, but his knuckles were white against the armrests.

Visenya stood behind the table, her hands resting lightly upon its surface. The only one in the room who dared to move.

“Tell me what happened.”

Her voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it, a weight that made the air feel thinner.

Maegor’s jaw tightened. “The beast kicked me. I was checking the straps to see if the stableboy did them right because if she somehow fell, I knew I’d be the one to get the blame and- Mother, my… my ribs could have broke—I could have died.”

“It was an accident. Not only that but also a carelessness on your part for standing behind a horse.” Visenya said coolly.

“An accident? He didn’t check the straps twice as he should! He endangered Vaenys. If she had fallen, if she had been trampled—then what? Would he have just stood there and gawked like a fool? If I had done nothing, wouldn’t you be chastising me for letting my sister come to harm?” Maegor shot back. “I am his prince. And he put me in a helpless position then he mocked me for it.”

Vaenys listened.

She heard every word.

She wanted to speak—to tell him that humiliation was no excuse, that the stableboy had not mocked him. He had not laughed. He had barely even looked at him. Maegor had seen mockery where there was none. She wanted to scream that pain was no excuse either. That the boy had done nothing to deserve what was done to him.

But the words would not come.

“You let your anger rule you,” Visenya said. “And for what? A stableboy? A dumb beast? You could have walked away.”

Maegor scoffed. “Walked away with dirt on my face, a dent on my chest plate and bruises? Let them whisper about how the prince was played by a nobody?”

Visenya sighed and shook her head slightly “Better to let them whisper than to let them fear you as a brute. You already have trouble making friends while your br-Aenys has people wrapped around his finger.”

Vaenys saw the twitch in Maegor’s fingers. He wanted to clench them into fists but held himself still.

“You are a prince of the realm, Maegor,” Visenya continued. “That is not a title that only means power. It means duty. It means command. It means you must be a man whom others can respect and follow—not just fear.”

Maegor’s lips curled. “Father is feared.”

“Aegon is feared,” Visenya agreed with a sour face she always made when either one of us mentioned the deadbeat father. “But he is also obeyed. You think he would have cut the boy open for standing there like a fool? No. He would have wiped the dust from his armor, killed the horse cleanly, and walked away with his head high. And the stableboy would have spent the rest of his days trembling at the sight of him—not because of a scar, but because of his presence.”

Vaenys’ fingers twitched. Tyrek she wanted to say, that was what she named the horse, her mother gave her. Tyrek, after the lost Lannister that was theorized to be a horse. It was a silly theory and she would’ve come to love him like she’d come to love her pony, Rarity; yes after My Little Pony, duh.

Although the funny names warmed her soul a bit, she still couldn’t say anything.

She really should say something. She should do something, at least tell them that she would never ever ride a horse again.

But she could not move.

“You are strong,” Visenya continued, “but this—” she gestured, vaguely, to his bloodied hands, to the weight of what he had done “—this does not make you stronger. It makes you reckless. It makes you a brute. That boy was nothing, and yet, because of your actions, his face will tell a story for the rest of his life. A story of Maegor Targaryen, who lost his temper like a child and made himself a villain.”

Maegor’s jaw clenched. “He let it happen.”

“He is a stableboy.”

“He stood there and watched!”

“And so did everyone else, including Vaenys.” Visenya snapped. “They saw you lose control. They saw you humiliated, and instead of regaining your dignity, you let rage rule you. That is weakness, Maegor.”

A flicker of something crossed his face. Not shame. Not regret. Something colder.

Vaenys’ fingers curled in her lap.

Maegor exhaled sharply through his nose, his glare fixed on the table. Then, after a pause—his voice quieter now, strained—he asked, “What is wrong with her?”

Silence.

Vaenys blinked slowly.

She did not react, though she felt the weight of his stare settle on her like iron chains.

Visenya tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“She is quiet,” Maegor said. “Too quiet.” His gaze flickered to Vaenys again. “She is frail, yes. Weaker than me, weaker than you. But not in the mind. She has never been weak in the mind. Why’s she not shrieking about the horse and the stableboy like ‘Oh, Maegor how could you, I will never ever speak with you again!’ She’s being unusually quiet.”

His voice was still sharp and mocking, but there was something else there, beneath it. Something that almost sounded like concern.

“She looks weak now, you know, in the mind.” His hands clenched on the armrests. “Is she broken?”

Vaenys felt her mother’s eyes on her, sharp and assessing.

“She is not broken.” Visenya said firmly.

“Then what is wrong with her?”

“She has seen something terrible.” Visenya said. “And… she is still feeling it.”

Vaenys’ fingers curled in her lap.

Maegor had been in pain. He had been struck, humiliated, wounded. She understood that. She did.

But she had seen Tommos’ face. The way he had stared at his own bloodied hands, trembling, as if he could not quite believe what had happened to him.

She thought of his scar.

She thought of his eye.

She thought of how he would carry it forever.

She thought of how she would remember it forever.

“You will let her be.” Visenya said, voice final. “She will speak when she is ready.”

Maegor did not argue, though his eyes lingered on her for a moment longer.

Vaenys wanted to speak.

She wanted to say he was just a boy.

She wanted to say Maegor had not been the only one hurt that day.

She wanted to say she was angry, too.

But she sat still as a statue.

And said nothing.

Clearing her throat Visenya rose from her seat, stepping forward to cup Maegor’s face in her hands. Her touch was firm, steady, a grounding force rather than a comfort.

“My son, my strong and precious boy,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his brow. “You and Vaenys are my world. If I thought it would heal your bruises faster, I would tear ice from beyond the Wall with my own hands.” She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, her gaze sharp as a blade.

“I will see to it that the whispers are silenced before they reach King’s Landing. But you must swear to me that you understand what you have done—and that you will never let it happen again.”

Maegor did not answer at first. His jaw tensed beneath their mother’s hands, his shoulders drawn tight with the weight of her words.

Vaenys watched.

She had seen him like this before—when he was caught in the space between anger and obedience, when he wanted to fight but knew better than to do so.

“Swear it,” Visenya said. Her voice was quiet, but there was no softness in it. “Not as a child making empty promises, but as my son. As a prince. As a man who understands that strength is more than steel and fury.”

Vaenys thought he might argue. He always argued. He never let things go. But after a long, sharp breath, he forced the words out.

“I swear it.” There was reluctance in his voice, resentment curled at the edges, but he had said it.

Vaenys wanted to believe him.

Visenya studied him for a moment longer, then brushed a thumb over his cheek—a rare, fleeting gentleness. “Good,” she said simply.

She let him go.

Maegor stood stiffly, cast one last glance toward Vaenys—something searching, something wary—before he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

The door shut behind him.

Silence settled like dust. The embers in the brazier crackled faintly, filling the space where words should be.

Vaenys had not moved.

Her mother exhaled, the first sign of something like weariness. And then—without a word—she crossed the room and sat beside her.

She did not speak. She did not touch her.

She simply sat. And waited.

Notes:

Y’all, I wrote this chapter two weeks ago and haven’t looked at it since. Please give me some grace in the comments if there are any mistakes or weird phrasing.

Chapter 5: Steel and Silk

Summary:

Vaenys: Hey Mom, am I gonna have to commit war crimes when I grow up?

Visenya: Only if necessary, sweet child.

Vaenys: Cool, cool… so which brother am I supposed to marry?

Visenya: You are EIGHT.

Notes:

I’m sorry for not sharing a chapter last week—the protests are still ongoing in my country (write Pikachu Turkey Protests if you’re curious about what’s going on) and my university exams are next week. It feels like it’s been ages since I last posted a chapter. I really let procrastination win with this one ijbol

I hope you enjoy this chapter (of A LOT of dialogue between Vaenys and Visenya)

“What was that song you used to sing?” Visenya asked, her voice softer than usual—warm, almost delicate. Not the voice she used with Maegor.

Vaenys blinked, trying to focus. It took her a moment to register the lyrics of her old grandfather’s favorite song, sang by her new mother.

“No one here can love or understand me.
Oh, what hard luck stories they all hand me.
Make my bed and light the light, I’ll arrive late tonight.
Blackbird, bye, bye…”

Visenya’s voice low but steady, carrying an old kind of sorrow. When she sighed, it was deep, weary—like she was trying to decide which child troubled her more. The one whose rage carved through flesh, or the one whose mind wandered too far away, too often.

“You know…” she continued, quieter now. “When you were little and you fell ill—which was more often than I liked—when your fever burned like dragon’s flame, I would sit by your side with Maester Jorrel. You could barely keep your eyes open, barely speak, and yet… you would mumble that song.”

She trailed off, as if remembering the sound of it. The slurred lyrics from a fevered child. Vaenys heard what she said, but the thought slid past her like water.

Visenya’s fingers twitched where they rested on her lap. She wasn’t looking at her anymore, but at the painting just behind her, well, more truthfully, at nothing at all.

“I sometimes thought you were your aunt come again,” she murmured. “Aegon and I barely survived losing her the first time. And when you sang that… I dreaded losing you too. I dreaded that you were saying your goodbyes to us.”

Something in Vaenys’ chest twisted, but it was slow, muted. She should have said something. Should have felt something.

“Had you not come out of my womb, I’d think you were hers and not mine.”

The words brushed against her ears, cold and strange. A part of her wanted to reach for them, pick them apart, find something meaningful there—but they slipped through her fingers before she could hold onto them.

“You have her looks, her voice, her nature…” Visenya continued. Then, after a pause: “But you have my eyes. And my temper, I fear.” She exhaled, long and slow. “Sometimes, I think Maegor is Aegon’s, and you are…”

She didn’t finish.

Vaenys stared at her, at the way she sat—upright, still, not a hair out of place—and yet her hands curled against her knees like she wasn’t sure what to do with them.

“Come back, sweet child.” Visenya murmured then, reaching for her, smoothing a hand along her back, grounding her. “It’s all right now.”

Vaenys wasn’t sure what part of that was meant to be reassuring. That she was safe? That she was wanted? That she wasn’t someone else’s ghost, haunting a life that wasn’t meant to be hers?

She wanted to say something, anything—but the words dissolved before they ever reached her tongue.

So she let herself lean into the touch. Let herself listen to the sound of Visenya’s heartbeat, slow and steady beneath her ear.

Let herself believe, just for a moment, that she was here.

That she was real.

“Mom, will I have to burn castles too?” Vaenys’ voice asked before she herself could register the question.

Visenya looked surprised at her question for a moment, before regaining her composure. Vaenys herself too was surprised but this has been on her mind for a long while.

Vaenys is Visenya’s daughter through through, she really is. She’s been learning ever since she’s been born, learning High Valyrian, learning the customs both Valyrian and Westerosi, learning about how to maneuver around politicking lords and how to politic herself, learning how to fight.

But right now everything felt too real.

Witnessing the death of Tyrek, seeing the viscera… everything felt too real.

If she was wed to Aenys the faith would rise and she would have to fight.

Fire and blood.

If she was wed to Maegor, the faith would be placated… until Rhaena and Aegon wed.

Fire and blood.

If she was wed to another, if she remained unwed and a spinster, hells- even if she joined the faith, there would be a war.

Fire and blood.

Visenya regarded her question for a long moment. Not with surprise, not with reprimand, but with something quieter. Something careful.

“If you must.” she said at last, her voice even. “But only if there is no other way.”

Her hand lingered against Vaenys’ back, steady, grounding. “You are my daughter.” she continued, “And that means the world will demand much of you. Love, obedience, sacrifice. It will ask you to bend, to kneel, to smile while they weigh you down in chains of silk and gold.”

Her fingers drew soft circles against the fabric of Vaenys’ back. “And when you do not yield, when you do not bow, they will call you unnatural. Monstrous. And they will try to break you for it.”

She exhaled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Vaenys’ face. “But you will not break. Not while I still breathe. Not while there is strength left in you.”

Her voice dipped lower, like the crackling of embers before the flame. “So if the day comes when the only answer left is fire, then yes, sweet child—burn the castles. But let it be the last answer, not the first. Let them call you cruel if they must, but do not let them make you thoughtless.”

She pressed a kiss to her daughter’s temple, fierce and unyielding. “You are no mindless brute, Vaenys. You are my daughter. And you will be wiser and greater than all of them.”

“I’ll be wiser… I’ll try. Will Maegor be wise? Will Aenys?” She asked.

Visenya’s lips pressed into a thin line. She did not answer right away.

“Aenys…” she said at last, “has charm. A way of softening hearts, of making men love him before they even know why. That is a kind of wisdom.”

Her fingers traced absent patterns against Vaenys’ back. “But love alone is not enough to rule. And Maegor… Maegor does not charm. He does not soften. He takes what is his, and when he cannot take, he destroys.”

She sighed, weary. “Wisdom comes in many forms, sweet child. Aenys may learn to harden himself. Maegor may learn to temper his fire. Or they may not.”

Her gaze sharpened, locking onto Vaenys’. “But you—you must learn both. You must be steel wrapped in silk, fire held in careful hands.”

Her touch firmed against Vaenys’ shoulder, grounding her. “They are your brothers. You will love them. You will fight for them. But do not be a fool. One day, you may disagree with them, even have to fight against them.”

“Fight them?” Vaenys asked surprised. Was Visenya actually saying she might have to fight Maegor too?

Visenya’s expression did not shift, her grip steady, grounding. “Yes.”

Vaenys frowned. “You mean Aenys.”

“I mean both.”

Vaenys blinked, a sharp breath catching in her throat. “Maegor?” she asked, uncertain, like she had misheard. “You think I might have to fight Maegor?”

Visenya held her gaze, unflinching. “One day, you may have no choice.”

The words sent a shiver down her spine. Maegor was her brother. Her mother’s son. Even though she thought of a million ways how she could protect herself from becoming a black bride, she never thought of.. actually fighting him. She thought he’d either leave her to her own devices once he saw that she couldn’t get pregnant, giving her a chance to run away or butterfly the cruel away if possible.

“You mean one day when I’m wed to Maegor.” She then delicately added a question that gnawed at her “Or to Aenys?”

Visenya hesitated. It was brief—so brief that most would not have noticed—but Vaenys did. A breath sucked in and out ever so silently and quick.

When she finally spoke, her voice was measured, but not as firm as before. “You are eight my sweet girl, don’t worry your head with this nonsense. But if you are let me relive you, both Aenys and Maegor are your blood.” She said. “Aegon will likely want you wed to Aenys, just as I would see you wed to Maegor.”

Vaenys felt her jaw tighten, but Visenya did not allow her the space to argue.

“I know you are angry with him,” she continued, her voice softer now, though no less certain. “But I will not be here forever, sweet child. And when that day comes, I would feel far better knowing that you and Maegor were looking after one another.”

She brushed a stray strand of hair from Vaenys’ face, tucking it behind her ear with the gentlest of touches. “But as I said—you are only eight.

Vaenys did not argue, but the words only eight still sat uneasily in her mind. She had always known her future would not be hers to shape alone. She might be eight but she was mature enough to see the pieces moving around her—the expectations, the plans being made above her head as though she were nothing more than a stone to be placed on a cyvasse board.

She traced a pattern into the fabric of her sleeve, thoughtful. “And if I do not wish to wed either of them?” she asked carefully, she knew she was testing her mother’s patience.

Visenya exhaled through her nose, her expression betraying neither approval nor disappointment. “You are a dragonrider and the only daughter of house Targaryen.” she said simply. “You are obligated to wed and you are obligated to wed either Aenys or Maegor. Gods know they both need your common sense, my sweet girl.”

“How so?” She asked puzzled.

Visenya sighed “I have shaped Maegor into a sword. But even I cannot control where a sword will strike when it is left to its own devices. Maegor will be a great man as long as he is guided well.”

Her mother’s voice was calm, even—but there was something behind it, something unreadable.

Vaenys swallowed. “What about Aenys?”

Visenya tilted her head slightly. “Silk may seem delicate, but it can strangle and kill just as well as steel if used correctly. Should one day, to my loathing, you’re wed to Aenys, you must use his charm to keep the lords placated, content even. You will understand better in the future but the realm’s strength and unity comes first child.”

She let the words settle, their weight pressing against Vaenys’ chest like an iron gauntlet.

“You mention Grandfather often,” Vaenys said carefully. “That’s what he taught you, isn’t it? Using your siblings’ strengths and to cover their weaknesses as well. To harden Rhaenys. To ground Aegon’s dreams—his ideas.”

Visenya’s gaze darkened, her fingers stilling against Vaenys’ shoulder.

“He taught me many things,” she said, voice measured. “He taught me that dreams without strength to uphold them are fleeting. That love without wisdom is a leash. That power without discipline is a blade turned inward.”

Her thumb brushed absently against the fabric of Vaenys’ sleeve, as if lost in thought.

“He was not a kind man. Nor was he a gentle teacher. But he was never a fool.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Neither am I and when the time comes, you and Maegor won’t be either.”

Vaenys studied her mother’s face, searching for something beneath the iron—something softer, something uncertain. But Visenya’s mask did not crack.

“He did not harden Rhaenys,” she said at last. “And for all Aegon’s might, even he could not ground her.” There was something rueful in her tone, something almost bitter. “Rhaenys was the wind. She was the sea. She was fire, yes, but never the kind that could be contained.”

She exhaled, a slow and quiet thing.

“And we were not wrong to love her for it.”

A silence stretched between them. Heavy. Thoughtful.

Then, more firmly, Visenya turned her gaze back to Vaenys. “You are not your aunt. Nor are you your father. You are my daughter.” Her grip firmed, grounding, steady. “And I will see you grow into yourself—not a dream, not a shadow, not something that slips through my fingers. Not everything in life will go your way, Vaenys but when the the time for facing the adversities comes, you’ll face them as strong as I did.”

Vaenys swallowed. “And if I am not strong like you?”

Visenya’s expression did not soften, but there was something else there now. Something quieter.

“Then I will make sure you are strong enough to stand as you are.”

Notes:

I’ll try to share a new chapter next week too, as long as I’m not arrested, molested or injured (by the cops, because all of these things happened). See you when I see you people, take care.

Chapter 6: An Alliance Made

Summary:

Vaenys and Maegor, twin tornadoes of chaos and questionable morality, join forces to accomplish the impossible: convincing their war-hardened mother, Visenya Targaryen, to let their deadbeat dad come to their nameday party.

Notes:

HEAR YE HEAR YE!!!!

In this chapter, I introduce Aenys and show the first time Maegor and Vaenys met him. It’s done through a flashback, blended with exposition—but don’t worry, it’s handled with enough flare to keep it from dragging.

(And for those wondering why I didn’t start the story with the children at six: I just didn’t want to. Even eight feels a bit too young. I didn’t want to risk writing them as older than they are, or falling into that “precocious fantasy child” trap. The dynamic I’m going for works better when they’re a little older.)

I hope everyone enjoys this chapter. Honestly, I’m a bit nervous about this one. Fingers crossed it lands the way I intended.

Ah, was there anything quite like a reluctant alliance? A foe you call friend, until you cross the bridge.

Nothing brings people together like a common goal to chase and a shared enemy to glare at.

Vaenys and Maegor were no different.

The proposal was made during a covert meeting—by which one means a dramatic corner-huddle in the stables—where the Prince of the Stables, the Unkickable, the Horsebane (Vaenys had gotten very creative after The Incident) was informed that Aenys—their beloved brother who had never killed a horse—had convinced Aegon the Deadbeat to attend their ninth nameday celebration.

In his letter, Aenys had also assigned them a critical mission: Convincing Visenya to agree with co-existing in the same room with Aegon, without combusting.

This was no quest for the weak.

Vaenys, ever the mastermind, roped Maegor into her scheme on one condition: a public apology to Tommos, who was currently living his best life squiring for Ser Harrold in hopes of becoming a knight.

Vaenys had even declared—very loudly—that should Tommos want it, he’d be her sworn knight, and he’d have the most sacred duty of all: crowning her the Queen of Love and Beauty at future tourneys.

When Maegor finally stood and offered his apology, the poor boy had been a stammering mess. It was glorious.

And so, the alliance was forged.

The twins were united.

And together, they began the noble, arduous, utterly impossible task of begging and nagging their mother into inviting Aegon the Divorced to their nameday.

Their strategy began with caution. A gentle approach. Subtle hints. Slight nudges.

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” Vaenys mused over breakfast, stirring her porridge with all the innocence of a scheming little snake, “to show Father how well we’ve grown? A real family moment. A triumph of parental collaboration.”

Visenya blinked once, very slowly, and resumed slicing into her blood sausage with the intensity of a woman fantasizing about stabbing someone else.

Maegor, sitting stiffly across from her, offered a brave, “He might bring gifts.” His voice cracked halfway through.

Silence.

Then Visenya said, “I know flies older than your father’s sense of responsibility.”

So. Subtlety had failed.

The next day, they tried guilt.

“We’ve never had a proper nameday with both our parents…” Vaenys said mournfully, sitting just a touch closer than usual, wide-eyed and tragic. “Not once. Not like the other children at court.”

“Other children at court don’t have fathers who disappear for months chasing after lords and having midlife crises,” Visenya replied, not looking up from her map of the Stepstones.

Still, she hadn’t said no.

Progress.

By day three, they moved on to Phase Three: Emotional Blackmail.

“We’re going to be nine,” Maegor said solemnly, standing at her side like a loyal bannerman. “Practically adults. What if we die before ten?”

“Maegor, you cannot emotionally blackmail me with your hypothetical funeral. Besides, nine is not practically adult, and you will not die before ten.” Visenya said coolly—though she did put down her quill.

Vaenys swooped in for the kill.

“We just want one day,” she said softly. “One day with all five of us. Even if you’re glaring at each other from opposite ends of the room. That still counts.”

For a long moment, Visenya said nothing.

Then she sighed.

Deeply. The sigh of a woman already regretting every life choice that led her to this moment.

“I will consider it,” she said.

Victory.

Vaenys and Maegor didn’t whoop or cheer or high-five—this was a covert operation, after all—but there was a lot of intense eye contact and one shared nod that felt very important.

They had done it.

Now all they had to do was make sure Aegon actually showed up.

Which, knowing Aegon, was about as reliable as a paper boat in Blackwater Bay. But they had to trust Aenys to do his part.

If he succeeded too, it would be their second meeting.

Vaenys had been six the first—and only—time she met Aegon and Aenys. They had gone to the Aegonfort (not to be a hater, but what a dorky name) for Aenys’ tenth nameday, upon her insistence.

She had begged and badgered her mother, roping Maegor into the scheme—for the first, but not the last, time—so she could meet Aegon and Aenys.

Aegon the Conqueror. Her father. She had expected a legend made flesh, a man larger than life, a presence so overwhelming that even Visenya would pale beside him.

Instead, she’d found a quiet, watchful man—sharp-eyed and steady—but not as grand as the stories made him seem.

And Aenys—

Aenys had smiled at her. A wide, true smile, warm and open in a way that made her chest feel strangely full.

Now, of course, Vaenys knew Aenys was up there in the rankings of Worst Kings of Westeros, right alongside Maegor. He had a lot in common with Viserys I Targaryen, so she’d half-expected to meet a jovial dunderhead. Instead, she’d met just a good—maybe a little naïve—ten-year-old boy who had been lonely, and was trying his best to make people forget his position just for a moment of kinship and camaraderie.

Vaenys had known Aenys for half a day, but if anything happened to that sunshine child, she’d kill everyone in Westeros and then herself.

Unlike Maegor, Vaenys had pretty much ghosted Aegon afterward—much to Visenya’s irritation, especially since Vaenys had convinced her by dramatically saying, “I must meet Aegon. Dragons must stand together,” and whatnot.

She had masterfully deflected once there and instead latched onto Aenys.

Maegor had stayed close to their father, absorbing his every word like the world’s thirstiest sponge. No wonder he turned out the way he did. This little dude craved validation from the man who was a living legend. How miserable for him that the man he most longed for was also the one who left him behind…

Vaenys, meanwhile, had sung. She and Aenys had exchanged songs, their voices weaving together in a friendly competition—a bardpetition, if you will.

She had won, of course, outbarding him thanks to her bardcore obsession from her past life.

Her songs were richer, stranger, full of melodies neither Aenys nor Maegor could know. Songs from another life. Another world.

Aenys had clapped, delighted, declaring her the greatest bard in the land, as he should.

To everyone’s shock, Maegor had not been as pleased.

You see, a while later, Aenys and Vaenys had drawn quite the crowd, and Aegon the Deadbeat had brought Maegor along to listen.

Maegor, of course, had joined in. He couldn’t lose the legend’s attention, after all. Vaenys had been delighted—this was a chance for Maegor and Aenys to bond. A win for the dynasty.

Maegor had a taste for sea shanties and had learned a few from her over the years. But where Aenys had played, Maegor competed. And when he lost—because he didn’t have the biggest song repertoire—he scowled and declared:

“Fine! If you like singing with Aenys so much, then you’re not my twin anymore! You can be his!”

Aenys, to his credit, had simply laughed. “Then we’ll be triplets, won’t we?”

Vaenys had laughed with him.

Maegor had not.

Even back then, when they were six, his pride had been a fragile thing. Now that they were eight-going-on-nine and Aenys was twelve, she wondered what their reunion might be like.

Vaenys knew their family reunion would never be filled with warmth. There was too much bad blood, too many years of silence and unspoken grievances between Visenya and Aegon. No matter how much Aenys and Maegor might want it, she knew better.

She had asked Visenya about their relationship once, long ago. Her mother had been quiet when Vaenys approached the subject, eyes drifting away. It wasn’t anger that filled her gaze—it was something deeper. Something sadder. But there had been no venom when Visenya spoke.

“It is not for the ears of little girls,” she had said softly, her voice holding a quiet sorrow Vaenys would never fully understand even with her extra years. “If you want to find out, you must sleep and grow strong.”

That answer had haunted her for years.

As she grew older, Vaenys tried to piece together the fragments of that story. She had asked for the letter from Dorne but no answer was given to her.

The strange distance between her parents. Aegon’s inexplicable indifference towards his other children—his “trueborn” children, as Visenya put it.

Vaenys suspected—no, she was certain—that part of Visenya’s anger stemmed from something this. Aegon’s disregard for them. His absence. It was as though he could never find the time to care for them, and instead only doted on the sickly Aenys, the child who could do no wrong in his eyes.

It had all started when Visenya had spoken to them, the first time they had begged her to let them meet Aegon.

“Vaenys had been as weak as Aenys.” Her mother’s voice had been tight, a subtle flicker of bitterness in her eyes. “I’m not saying you two should hate your father, but I will never forgive him for abandoning his trueborn children.”

Trueborn children.

That was the phrase that lingered in Vaenys’ mind. Visenya was certain that Aenys was the child of a common bard and Rhaenys. She couldn’t help but wonder how her mother could be so sure—did magic DNA tests exist? Did they have some secret truth Vaenys didn’t know?

But despite all the bitterness between them, Vaenys couldn’t deny one thing: Visenya didn’t hate Rhaenys. Far from it. There was a warmth in her mother’s gaze whenever she spoke of the woman—something longing, something yearning. A quiet ache in her voice that Vaenys could never quite place.

Visenya wasn’t mad at Rhaenys for having a child from another (as she believed)—no, she was mad at Aegon himself. Mad at the man who could not see the worth of his own blood, his own children.

The look in Visenya’s eyes when she spoke of Rhaenys made Vaenys wonder if there was something deeper between them. Was it love? Yearning? That’s how it seemed to Vaenys—her mother was someone who mourned more than a sister, missed more than a sister.

Visenya had always had that look in her eyes whenever she spoke of Rhaenys. It was a small, secretive thing. Not something one could easily catch, but Vaenys had learned how to read her mother’s expressions.

Perhaps it was love. Or maybe just regret. Either way, Visenya didn’t speak of Aegon in the same way. Aegon had broken something in Visenya—something that Vaenys knew she’d never fully understand.

But despite it all, she had still agreed to their wishes. She had agreed to see Aegon and Aenys—for their sake—and she was doing so again.

Vaenys didn’t take this for granted. She loved her mother with all her heart, and whatever Aegon had done, she would learn one day. When she was no longer a little girl, as her mother had said, she would understand it all—and she would make sure Visenya never felt that grief and betrayal again.

Notes:

NEXT CHAPTER WE FINALLY MEET AENYS AND AEGON!!!

Chapter 7: Princess Boo Boo the Fool

Summary:

A royal sibling-off—surprisingly not between Maegor and Vaenys, or Maegor and Aenys!

Notes:

I missed the 16th. At this point, I think I need to stop pretending I’ll ever post regularly. I never stick to a schedule, and honestly? That’s fine. I’d rather share when it feels right than force it just to hit a date.

Hope everyone had a wonderful last week!

Dragonstone had not felt this alive in years.

As the sunset drew nearer, the wind carried the sharp tang of salt and something else—expectation. Servants darted through the halls like startled birds, arms laden with clean sheets, polished goblets, and fresh fruits as they rushed for the floors. The castle’s heartbeat thrummed in its stone walls, echoing with footsteps and voices, as if the very rock of the island held its breath.

King Aegon had not yet arrived—he would come from the sky, astride Balerion, with young Prince Aenys beside him on silver-winged Quicksilver (showoffs). But ahead of the dragons came the tide. Ships bearing the King’s retinue broke through the dusk like dark knives, their sails catching the dying light. And from them spilled knights and lords, banners of crimson and black snapping in the wind.

Lord Celtigar came first, white-haired and regal in crimson velvet, his sea-born wealth displayed in a dozen jeweled rings. Behind him marched stern-faced Lord Massey and Lord Darklyn of Duskendale, his banners high. The courtyard swelled with the clatter of hooves and the murmur of reunions as each nobleman passed beneath the carved archway of Dragonstone.

Vaenys had watched the ships arrive from a high window at first, her breath fogging the glass, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. Dragonstone had never felt so alive. The booming of horns, the clatter of boots, the thundering of hooves—it thrilled her as much as Aegonfort had, and yet made her feel small.

When at last she and Maegor were summoned to join their mother in the courtyard, they found Visenya already out, waiting for them. Dark Sister was at her hip and her expression was carved from stone. Vaenys smoothed her skirts and stood tall beside her, Maegor straight-backed and silent on Visenya’s other side. Together, the three waited beneath the shadow of the gatehouse as the ships’ passengers made their approach.

The castle stilled as the first of the Dragonstone banners crested the hill, sea-spray still glistening on their mail. Guards blew their horns, long and low.

“Lords Corlys and Alton Velaryon of Driftmark, the Lord Commander and the Master of Ships!” the herald called. “And the lords of Crackclaw Point and Massey’s Hook!”

Steel clinked and boots rang out on stone as the lords came into view, banners snapping in the sea wind. At their head rode Ser Corlys himself, silver hair swept back, his eyes sharp and crinkled with mirth. He dismounted easily, and the moment his gaze landed on the children, his face broke into a grin.

“Little dragons,” he said, arms wide as the sea. “Come have a look at your kin.”

Technically, he was their mother’s cousin, as grandmother Valaena was Corly’s aunt; though the family tree looped and tangled in the way of all old Valyrian blood did. Vaenys had tried once to understand it and given up shortly after. Uncle would be close enough and “close enough” worked just fine.

“You smell like the sea,” Maegor observed, blunt as ever.

“Maegor!” Vaenys hissed, elbowing him roughly.

“And you smell like a stable,” Corlys replied with a booming laugh, ruffling the boy’s hair. “I’ll take no offense if you don’t.”

Vaenys grinned, her earlier nerves lifting like mist in sunlight.

Visenya herself had a soft smile, contrasting her cloak flaring behind her like the wings of a bat. She approached the gathered lords with regal surety, the children flanking her like twin shadows. A servant stepped forward with a tray of finely carved blackwood, atop which rested a crusted loaf and a small dish of salt.

“In the name of ancient guest right,” Visenya said, her voice clear and cool, “Dragonstone offers you bread and salt. You are welcome, and under our protection while you dwell beneath this roof.”

Each lord took a portion in turn, bowing low as they did. Corlys was the last. His expression sobered as he dipped his bread in salt and met Visenya’s gaze.

“And we are honored to be here, Your Grace,” he said. “Though the winds nearly thought otherwise.”

“Then be glad Aegon does not rule the winds,” she replied, but there was a flicker of humor beneath the statement.

As the lords and their mother ordered the knights, their baggage, and everything in between, Vaenys slipped away to the safety of Ser Harrold Harroway.

She didn’t want to be crushed oncoming baggage, thank you very much.

Vaenys didn’t need to say a word; Ser Harrold simply bent and picked her up with the ease of someone used to carrying tired little princesses. She settled into the crook of his arm like she belonged there—because she did—and rested her cheek against the cool steel of his gorget.

No one jostled her. No one asked anything of her.

Maegor stuck to their mother for a while—trailing at her heels like a particularly nosy shadow—but he was soon ushered to their side as Visenya and Corlys began speaking in the low, purposeful tones of people exchanging state secrets.

More likely, they were gossiping about Aegon.

Much to Maegor’s visible annoyance.

He stomped over, arms crossed. “They’re whispering,” he said darkly. “They never whisper when I’m there.”

Ser Harrold, standing watch nearby with the patience of a stone wall, crouched slightly to meet him eye to eye. “Some whispers aren’t meant for little ears Prince.”

Maegor’s frown deepened. “I’m not little. I could be a knight right now if they’d let me.”

Harrold chuckled. “Aye, you’ve got the scowl for it. But knights wait their turn, lad. Speaking of—heard you wanted to spar with Ser Corlys?”

Maegor lit up immediately, fire rekindled. “Yes! He’s so fast! And his sword is longer than yours, but he holds it funny—sideways, like—”

“I’ve seen,” Harrold said, amused. “He’s fought pirates, corsairs, sellsails with poison on their blades. And now you want to face him after a day on the waves?”

Maegor squinted, suspicious. “He laughed! He’s not tired!”

“Laughter’s just armor of another kind,” Harrold replied with a wink. “He’ll give you a proper spar when he’s rested. Trust me, you’ll want him sharp. Wouldn’t want to win just because his knees are stiff.”

That gave Maegor pause. “I want to win because I’m better.”

“Then wait.” Harrold straightened and clapped a hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder. “In the meantime, you can help me wrangle the Kingsguard squires. Keep ‘em from tripping over themselves. You’re loud enough to scare ‘em straight.”

Maegor grinned. “I am loud.”

“I noticed,” Harrold said, smiling as Maegor puffed up and marched off toward the squires like a little captain.

Ser Harrold could lead the knights and her mother could command armies and Maegor could bark at squires—Vaenys, for now, could simply exist.

Soon, the chaos dulled to a rhythm. Orders were shouted less frantically, retainers found their places, and the once-clamorous courtyard began to settle. Some lords vanished towards hot baths and soft beds; others strode off to inspect the preparations for the evening feast.

When the crowd had thinned and the noise faded to a manageable murmur, Vaenys slipped down from the safety of Ser Harrold’s arms. She didn’t say a word—just gave his sleeve a parting pat before dashing across the flagstones.

She found an empty bench near the edge of the courtyard and climbed onto it, legs hanging and swinging, chin tipped up toward the sky.

Two dragons would come soon and she would see them first.

The last rays of sun turned the sea to molten gold, and the sky, once blue, blushed with streaks of rose and amber. That was when the shadows came.

They cut across the heavens like omens—one vast and terrible, the other bright and swift. Balerion and Quicksilver.

Vaenys did see them first!

Balerion descended like a mountain pulled from the clouds, wings casting the castle in rippling shadow. His scales drank the light, swallowing color until only black remained—black like obsidian, like the grave. Even from a distance, the sound of his wingbeats stirred the stones beneath her feet.

Quicksilver followed, a streak of the silver moon, against the dying sun. Where Balerion loomed, Quicksilver danced. He was small—so small compared to Balerion Vaenys blinked at the sight of him. Perhaps smaller than Cerberus, although that might be because Balerion was distorting her view or perhaps it was the absence of Dragonmont’s smoldering heat, away from smoke and stone and flame.

Still, he was beautiful.

The two dragons circled Dragonstone once—twice. Then a roar was heard- Cerberus! They were greeting their dad!

How absolutely adorable!

Soon after the bellowing roar, the people spilled into the courtyard, pointing, shouting, marveling.

Vaenys leapt from the bench and ran to join the others. She slipped between elbows and armor until she found her place beside her mother and Maegor just as Vhagar gave a warning bellow from her lair.

Compared to Balerion, even Vhagar—huge, fearsome Vhagar—seemed like a beast of moderate size. Balerion’s wings could cover the yard three times over. He moved as if he had nothing to prove, a king who knew all would kneel.

Visenya’s eyes were already on the sky, her lips set in a tight line.

“Where were you?” she murmured, not taking her gaze from the dragons.

“I was watching,” Vaenys replied, a little breathless.

“You vanished.” Her tone was mild, but the edge was there, sharp and flint-like. “Don’t you do that again.”

But that was all. Visenya turned without waiting for a reply, her cloak catching the wind. “Get them in order!” she called, and the guards leapt to obey.

Within moments, the courtyard formed into ranks, banners raised, helms doffed. The castle held its breath.

After seven years not stepping a foot inside, the Conqueror had returned to Dragonstone.

And he did so with flair.

Aegon might’ve had made his show of power—Balerion in the sky, black wings blotting out the sun, flames trailing in his wake. But now it was Visenya’s turn.

Aegon and Aenys had landed on the black sands of the beach below, where a modest greeting party had been stationed. No lords. No bannermen. Not even King’s guards! Just a few tired retainers a standard bearer and a herald.

Because make no mistake: Aegon might be the King of the Seven Kingdoms, but Dragonstone was not his and on this island he not only had an equal ruler to Seven Kingdoms but he also had someone who was his superior.

Dragonstone belonged to Visenya and Visenya had authority over him here.

She was the Queen, the eldest daughter of Old Valyria, the one born with fire already in her blood. The castle recognized her in the way the wind curled around her like a lover, in the way the stones hushed beneath her feet. She ruled this place by right, as she had reminded Maegor and Vaenys countless times as if saying Aenys might get the throne -for now- but Dragonstone will always be rightfully ours.

So there they stood—above him, high on the steps of the courtyard, watching the King arrive below. Waiting for the royal speck on the beach to climb to the castle.

Now, even though Vaenys daydreamed for a while and counted the stones on the ground and ranked them from most interesting to the least interesting, she still had the brain of an eight year old. To say that she was bored out of her mind wouldn’t be wrong, so in an attempt to entertain herself, she put her index finger and thumb in front of her right eye and closed the left one, trapping Aegon and his horse in between her fingers.

“Why, he fits between my fingers,” Vaenys whispered with glee. “Look, Maegor, he’s no bigger than my thumb!”

She squashed him between her fingers, laughing quietly to herself at the imagined the sibling squabble. Oh, she hoped she and Maegor would be just as petty when they grew up—kings and queens or lords and ladies, sure, but still willing to bicker over titles and doors left open. So cute!

Maegor must’ve twin-sensed her thoughts because suddenly- wham!

An elbow jabbed her clean in the stomach.

“Aw!” Vaenys wheezed, stumbling back and throwing herself into her mother’s side for safety. “Maegor!”

Visenya’s head did not turn from the horizon, but her eyes left the climbing King just enough to give Maegor a deliberate look—one brow arched high.

“She was being weird,” Maegor said, not the least bit repentant. “And she had a wicked smile. Like she was going to pinch someone like she’s been pinching father!”

A ripple of amusement passed through the crowd. Even some of the guards dared to grin.

“Hey, snitches end up in ditches!” Vaenys snapped back, pouting. The crowd laughed louder, if the competition was who could make a bigger clown or a fool of themselves, she wasn’t going to let Maegor win without a fight.

Visenya’s gaze dropped at last, that same eyebrow still raised—not in confusion, but in demand of an explanation.

“Look, Mother,” Vaenys began, hands up in defense but her grin still firmly in place, “Aegon is tiny. Why, he’s no bigger than a beetle down there! I can squish him him in between my fingers!”

She leaned forward dramatically, peering down the cliffside as if truly measuring. “Are you taller than your little brother, Mother?”

The childlike wonder in her voice did its job. Someone behind them coughed to hide a chuckle. Even Maegor snorted.

Ser Corlys answered her question in between the laughter “No, Princess. Your mother isn’t as tall as your father the King.”

Vaenys furrowed her burrows as if deep in thought “But mom is older than Aegon! Does that mean I’ll be taller than Maegor one day?” She ask skipping with joy.

Visenya’s lips twitched—just slightly. She was trying very hard not to smile.

“Perhaps,” she said, with a tone that was both diplomatic and dry. “But I wouldn’t count on it. Targaryen men can be… annoyingly tall.”

Maegor, beaming at the implied compliment, stood a little straighter and puffed out his chest.

“I’m already taller than her,” he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“You might have the high ground but I have the looks!” Vaenys retorted, sticking out her tongue.

“You don’t have sense either,” Maegor replied.

Before Visenya could cut in, Ser Corlys raised a hand with theatrical gravity. “We shall measure you both properly one day, with witnesses present and rulers blessed by the Faith.”

There was a ripple of laughter again—warm, easy. Even Visenya allowed herself a quiet chuckle, eyes flicking once more toward the approaching dragons.

“Enough now,” she said at last, though her voice was gentle. “Your father is arriving. Try not to insult the King before we’ve even bowed.”

They waited.

To Vaenys’ immense dismay, Aegon and Aenys took their time.

She huffed. Then she paced. Then she sat on a low wall, then slid off it again. “How long does it take to ride up a cliff?” she complained, arms crossed, kicking a loose stone. “They have dragons. They should’ve flew here.”

“They flew,” Maegor said, entirely too pleased with himself. “Then they landed. And they don’t want to knock over walls so now they’re riding to the castle, like normal people.”

“Boring normal people.” Vaenys muttered, but no one paid her much mind.

The golden light had nearly slipped from the courtyard by the time they appeared—two figures climbing the stone path up from the beach, shadows lengthening behind them. Retainers parted. Guards straightened. The air turned heavier somehow, even as the wind picked up.

And then she saw him.

Aegon Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, stood tall in the fading light, a half-cloak of black and red trailing behind him like a dragon’s wing. His hair, long and silver-gold, caught the last light like it had been forged from a sword. He didn’t walk like a man burdened by a crown. He walked like someone who had never doubted it belonged to him.

He looked… the same. Mostly.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with that same easy, commanding stride. His silver-gold hair was tied back from his face, and the cloak over his shoulders caught the wind just as it should.

Although three years didn’t change Aegon a lot, next to him, Aenys all but glowed.

Slighter in build than Aegon, and far softer in manner, the boy-prince had an easy grace about him. His armor gleamed, his hair was neatly braided back, and he smiled when he looked up and spotted the gathering above. He was wearing a grin matching hers.

That’s Aenys? she thought. He’s grown so much! He looks like a harp. Or a swan. Or something ridiculous and soft.

She turned to Maegor. “He looks like a harp,” she said accusingly, she was getting cuteness overload.

Maegor frowned. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know,” Vaenys admitted. “But he’s taller than you.” She said triumphantly. Seems like he Aenys got his growth spurt and would stand a head taller than Maegor for a few heavenly years.

Visenya’s voice cut in then, steady and clear. “Stand straight. Your father is nearly here.”

And just like that, all the laughter, all the jostling and chatter fell into place, like pieces of armor clicking into place.

The King had come home.

The herald’s voice rang clear across the courtyard, catching on the sea wind and the breathless silence of the gathered retainers.

“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 and Protector of the Realm.”

“And His Grace, Prince Aenys Targaryen, firstborn son of the King.”

The final word echoed like a challenge.

All around her, Vaenys felt knees bend in practiced unison. Cloaks swept the stone. Swords dipped. Helms bowed. Her own skirts whispered as she dropped into a curtsy, eyes flickering upward despite herself. Beside her, Maegor bowed low with the rigid pride of someone who hated the act but had perfected it nonetheless.

But Visenya did not move.

She stood at the head of the courtyard, tall and still. Her hands rested on the pommel of her sword, Dark Sister, and her expression—what little Vaenys could see—was carved in disdain.

There was a moment.

A pause that stretched, uncomfortable and strange.

Vaenys knew she ought to keep her gaze to the flagstones like the others. But she was too curious. Her eyes flicked up—and in doing so, caught a most dreadful sight.

Aenys Targaryen, all golden charm and lovely robes, was standing quite happily upright, not an inch bent.

Vaenys gasped quietly and leaned slightly closer.

“Pssst,” she hissed, loud enough for Aenys to hear, her lips barely moving. “You’re supposed to bow in front of the Queen. Just like how we’re bowing in front of the King, silly.”

Somewhere behind her, someone snorted—probably Ser Corlys. Another failed to stifle a chuckle.

Aenys startled and glanced towards her, then towards Aegon as if asking for permission—but Aegon and Visenya were locked in a silent game of don’t blink, don’t look away, and no such permission was granted. Still, he bowed.

Visenya’s lips curved. Not quite a smile—something sharper.

And then Vaenys felt it: a hand on her shoulder.

Ah. That’s what Visenya had been waiting for.

Sheesh… these two…

“Welcome to Dragonstone, little brother,” Visenya said coolly. “Seven years you have been gone. And you have not aged a day.”

No Your presence has been missed. No Dragonstone is yours, Your Grace. Still, the greeting was pleasant enough. On the surface.

Aegon did not return the pleasantry. Instead, he nudged Aenys upright—who, like Vaenys, was no longer wearing a grin.

A beat of silence followed—longer this time. Heavier. And this time, it was Aegon who held it.

The King’s gaze swept across the courtyard, his expression carved from ice. His eyes passed over the faces before him like a general surveying his men. For a heartbeat longer than was comfortable, they lingered on Visenya.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Rise,” he said. “You may all rise. My loyal subjects—my kin. I thank you for your welcome.”

And so they did, one by one, rustling like reeds in the wind.

But that strange stillness lingered in the air, humming between the three dragonlords like a storm held barely at bay.

Vaenys cleared her throat and forced herself to smile as brightly as she could, before flinging herself at Aenys with uncontained energy.

“I can’t believe it’s been three years! You’ve grown so tall—and Quicksilver too! He is even bigger and taller!”

Aenys laughed—soft, a bit sheepish. He caught her in a light embrace, careful not to wrinkle the lace at his cuffs.

“Vaenys! I swear, you haven’t changed at all,” he said, though his voice was a touch fainter than it had been just moments before. “Still jumping on people like a wild cat.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Vaenys teased, eyes glinting. “I bet if I asked, you’d still let me ride on Quicksilver with you.”

“You’d only have to ask.”

She puffed proudly “That won’t be necessary, Cerberus is big enough now! We can ride together!”

He beamed at that—until she noticed how stiff his shoulders were. His smile was there, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was still watching Aegon from the corner of his gaze, and now and again, his glance flitted toward Visenya, as though bracing for something.

Vaenys sighed internally. So much for a warm homecoming.

Maegor had stepped back by then, face unreadable. He gave Aenys a nod—nothing more—and did not speak.

Visenya finally turned her gaze on her—stepson? Nephew? Half-son? Whatever he was, her eyes found Aenys at last, something unreadable flickering behind them. Not fondness. Not pride. Something older. Heavier. Like a ghost only she could see.

“You’ve grown into your name,” she said to Aenys. “It suits you better now.”

Aenys blinked, unsure if it was praise or mockery.

Aegon said nothing. His silence pressed down like a stone slab.

Vaenys tilted her head, as if waiting for the tension to break, but the moment just… held. Stretched like glass under heat.

She couldn’t stand it. Apparently she would play Boo Boo the Fool today, so she turned to her “father” with her arms crossed and huffed “If you and mom want to look at each other with lovey-dovey eyes all day then you should meet more often and not make people kneel or curtsy in front of you all day! My back hurts!” She wagged a finger at the King.

Aegon blinked.

It was a slow, imperious sort of blink—like a man trying to decide whether to laugh or declare war.

Beside him, Visenya let out a quiet exhale that might’ve been a snort. Or maybe a breath she’d been holding.

Aenys gasped—properly scandalized.

“Vaenys,” he whispered. “You can’t talk that way to the King!”

“He’s my father too,” she whispered back with a shrug. “If he wanted reverence, he shouldn’t have made me.”

Behind them, someone—definitely Ser Corlys this time—failed to stifle a bark of laughter. Even Maegor twitched at the corners of his mouth.

For the briefest second, something flickered behind Aegon’s eyes. Amusement. Just a spark. Then he rolled his shoulders and the cold mask settled back into place.

“You may rise,” he said again, voice clipped. “All of you. I would not keep my daughter’s spine in agony.”

That got a few more laughs, though quiet and uneasy, like courtiers unsure whether the court jester had just been executed or promoted.

Vaenys gave a dramatic sigh of relief, rubbed her back with great flair, and marched over to Aenys with all the self-satisfaction of someone who’d won. She threw her arms around his and practically dragged him forward.

“Come on,” she said sweetly. “I’ll show you to your rooms. I told the servants to air them out, but if it still smells like mildew, I claim no responsibility.”

Aenys stumbled after her, half-laughing, half-dazed. He looked back once at Aegon and Visenya, still standing rooted in their strange, silent war. A small group of knights followed them from behind. One can’t leave the royal hind undefeated after all.

“What was that?” Aenys asked horrified.

“That was a family squabble.” Vaenys said.

Behind them, Maegor followed without a word, the scrape of his boots echoing on the stone like a second, quieter heartbeat.

They passed under the arches of the old keep, the sea wind replaced by cool stone breath and the scent of smoke, salt, and age. Torches flickered on the walls, though it was still daylight—Dragonstone never bothered to feel welcoming.

Vaenys chattered as they walked, her voice bright and insistent, like she could drive out the mood with sheer force of will.

“…and you would not believe the state of the rookery. One of the ravens flew into the tower and knocked over the inkpot—again—and Maester Orwel nearly had a stroke. I told him maybe the birds were trying to revolt against the Queen.”

Aenys laughed softly, still a little pale. “Gods, I missed you.”

“I know,” she said, smug. “I’d miss me too honestly, everyone in the family is such a bore.”

Maegor made a quiet scoffing noise behind them. Vaenys whirled on him with narrowed eyes.

“You disagree, brother dearest?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly. Suspicious.”

But her grin softened. She bumped Maegor’s shoulder with hers—lightly, almost like an apology. He didn’t smile back, but the set of his jaw relaxed by a hair.

He was probably upset about not being recognized by Aegon the Deadbeat.

They stopped outside a carved wooden door with iron hinges, the familiar three-headed dragon etched deep into the frame.

“Here,” Vaenys said, gesturing. “Your own princely accommodation in Dragonstone. I decorated the room myself because mother has such dreary taste and I knew you like lilac most! I hope you visit more often now!”

Aenys glanced at the door like it might bite him. “Thank you,” he said, hesitating. “But… Vaenys, what happened between them? Father and Visenya? I- I would’ve bowed too but father said not to. And They don’t see each other often but I thought… I mean I didn’t think…”

He trailed off.

Vaenys leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed again, her earlier brightness dimming.

“They did get along, once upon a time.” She said finally. “But ruling together isn’t the same as—being together. Not for them. And not since…” She shook her head. “I don’t know. They never got along but they used to tolerated each other. Whatever happend they never talk about it, At least mom hasn’t. They just… stand there. And look like they’re carving each other into statues. It wasn’t this bad when we were six. They must’ve had a fight or something the last time.”

Aenys swallowed hard, hand still on the door.

Maegor stepped forward at last, his voice low and matter-of-fact. “The only thing holding them together is the realm.”

Vaenys arched a brow. “Well. That and us. Don’t forget about poor, old us.”

Aenys looked between them— he seemed unsure of being part of that us.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” he murmured. “I used to dream of visiting Dragonstone. I thought… when I finally did, it would feel… right.”

Vaenys’s smile returned, smaller this time, as if the weight of her words was settling in. “That’s because it isn’t right. Especially for our parents, I think. Dragonstone is the graveyard of their sister and their childhood. In a way, it’s haunted.” She paused, her gaze drifting to the craggy shore where the waves crashed relentlessly against the rocks. “You can’t go back to a place like this. It’s a shadow of what it used to be, and it’ll never be what they imagined it to be.”

Notes:

Ta-da! We finally met Aerys and caught our first glimpse of Quicksilver. I’m so relieved this chapter is finally done—I kept adding one tiny detail after another, and suddenly I was knee-deep in lore and emotional damage.

Fun fact: I wanted to write both Visenya and Aegon seeing glimpses of Rhaenys in Aenys and Vaenys—full haunting vibes—but alas, Vaenys isn’t omniscient, and her POV can only handle so much haunting per chapter. Aegon’s ghost-sighting will have to wait.

God, I wish I could just play, read stuff and write fanfiction all day. But noooo, we have to deal with life and responsibilities. Rude.

Chapter 8: Dress to Impress

Summary:

Maegor has feelings and does not appreciate it. Aenys smiles through the pain. Featuring: sick girl slay, twin drama, the curse of inherited trauma, and one pink dress that does more political damage than a sword.

Vaenys came to be the glue of House Targaryen… and accidentally resurrected her dead aunt’s fashion sense. Whoops.

Notes:

I’m not not back, or am I?

For those who forgor because I haven’t posted in a minute, here’s what you missed on Glee:

Vaenys and her twin brother Maegor are about to turn nine and want to invite their father and half-brother to her birthday party. Nothing too complicated, right?

Wrong!

Dragons are about to dance (at a feast, of course), and the only burns are going to come from Visenya’s sharp wit.

After Maegor unceremoniously dragged her out of Aenys’s chambers so the newly arrived prince could bathe before the feast, Vaenys barely had time to sulk before they were summoned by their mother—to review battle strategy, apparently.

 

“Has Aenys settled in well?” Visenya asked, not looking up from the parchments in her hand. “I do hope he appreciated your efforts, Vaenys.”

 

Parchments. Before a feast. What was she even reviewing? An ancient curse ment for Aegon? Procurement requests? Vaenys leaned in, curious, but couldn’t make sense of the scribbles so, tired from running around all day, she just gave in and sat down.

 

“Yes, yes, of course,” Vaenys said, waving a hand. “He loved it. Although… he did seem a little taken aback by your and the King’s, uh… showdown. Honestly, I thought it was kind of awkward too.”

 

Visenya raised her head slowly. “Pray tell, daughter,” she said in the tone she reserved for courtrooms and executions, “did you find it awkward that I asked for the reverence I am due?”

 

Beside her, Maegor crossed his arms in silent support, a clear gesture of you messed up , and Vaenys instinctively took a step back.

 

Her voice pitched upward—Maegor would call it shrill. “Mother! I wasn’t blaming you or Aenys! I told him to bow, remember? Then Aegon jabbed him and made him stand.”

 

She deflected Visenya’s glare with practiced ease. She’d grown up with parents who should’ve gotten a divorce—last life, maybe, but the principle stood. Rule one: don’t get caught in the middle.

 

Visenya’s lips curled in a smile. “So you’ve noticed it too. I agree with you on that matter, tala . It seems Aegon really wants to—” She cut herself off abruptly, as if she’d bitten her own tongue. “That is Aegon for me, by the way” she corrected coldly. “For you, it’s Father . Or the King . Understood?”

 

Vaenys gave an exaggerated pout. “Yes, Mother —”

 

“What does Father want?” Maegor cut in. “Why didn’t Aenys bow?” Maegor asked, taking the heat off of her.

 

Bless his little soul, he just wanted to know the tea!

 

Visenya exhaled slowly. “That’s not— No, Maegor. It’s fine. Just enjoy your nameday celebrations.”

 

“It’s because he’s his heir, isn’t it? But why would he—”

 

“Maegor.” Visenya silenced him with a look. “You two wanted your father, and now you have him. If you have questions, ask him . Not me.”

 

She turned back to Vaenys, voice sharp. “ Not publicly , might I add.”

 

“Hey, I’m not stupid,” Vaenys huffed, heart pounding too fast in her chest—like it always did when she got worked up.

 

“I don’t know, Vaenys,” Visenya replied coolly. “Today you seem like one. Disappearing on your own. Making tasteless jokes. Disrespecting the King before he even arrived. Calling Aenys silly while the courtyard was quiet as a tomb. Are you the Princess of Dragonstone or the fool of the Dragonstone, tala?

 

She stood. Oh, gods.

 

“And the audacity —” Visenya’s voice rose, thunderous. “Saying your father and I were ‘looking at each other all lovey-dovey’? In front of the court?”

 

Vaenys snorted involuntarily.

 

“Wagging your finger at him like you were chastising a servant! What were you thinking, child? What possessed you today?”

 

“Well someone had to say something!” Vaenys blurted, arms flailing. “You and the King were just staring at each other like… like tragic sibling-lovers in the middle of a…and, and everyone was just standing around pretending not to notice! The silence was unbearable! I thought if I joked, it would break the tension!”

 

“It did break the tension,” Maegor muttered. “Just not in our favor.”

 

Visenya’s expression didn’t soften. But it shifted—slightly. Less wrathful, more assessing.

 

“So… you were uncomfortable,” she said coolly. “So you made everyone else uncomfortable too. Bravo.”

 

“I was trying to help!” Vaenys shouted, exasperated now. “Would you rather I stood there and made pained eye contact with Aenys while we all slowly died of secondhand embarrassment?!”

 

There was a long pause.

 

Then, almost in spite of herself, Visenya let out the faintest huff of air. Not quite a laugh. But close.

 

“You are not a fool,” she said. “But sometimes you work very hard to pretend to be one.“

 

Vaenys blinked. “…Was that almost a compliment?”

 

“No,” Visenya snapped. “Fix your hair before the feast. You look like you lost a duel with a broom.”

 

Maegor smirked. “She did.”

 

“I swear, I will make you eat that smirk,” Vaenys growled, already retreating.

 

“Both of you,” Visenya said firmly, already turning back to her parchments. “Behave with dignity tonight. You are Targaryens. Not actors in a pantomime.”

 

“Yes, mother.” Maegor and Vaenys chanted together.

 

With that, the meeting was over.

 

The twins fell into step, perfectly synced one another to Vaenys’ annoyance. Genetics were so annoying sometimes and it caught her off guard in the strangest of times.

 

Her thoughts were interrupted by Maegor suddenly leaning in “Do you think he hates us?”

 

Vaenys surprised asked “Who hates us?”

 

“Him.” Maegor said. “You know, Kepa …”

 

Vaenys looked at her brother’s downtrodden eyes and sighed. She opened her mouth and then closed it again. She didn’t know what to say to him when he looked at her so intently.

 

“Forget about it.” He said abruptly and stomped away.

 

“No, wait! Maegor! No, the answer is no.” She said in a panicked state. She wasn’t in the best place to deal with a emotionally vulnerable Maegor. Especially after the Horse-Slayer Incident, when the thought crossed her mind—half in horror, half in morbid curiosity—that Maegor might be one of those cases. The kind she’d skimmed in articles: no empathy, no remorse. But what did she know? She wasn’t a doctor neither in psychology nor in medicine…

 

Not that people who had antisocial personality disorders killed horses and maimed people left and right but that just made her doubt… stronger?

 

Was Maegor a case of “nature or nurture”?

 

Vaenys cursed herself for not reading about psychology more as she held Maegor’s arm, her heart pitter pattering in her chest to match her racing mind. And she whispered in a hushed tone that matched his when he asked the question.

 

“He doesn’t hate us Maegor. This isn’t about me and you or Aenys. This is about him and mother. He stayed away from Dragonstone and by extension by us so no, I don’t think he hates us.” She said, rushing as if this moment would the one Maegor would decide either being her twin or Maegor the Cruel going down in Westeros’ history books.

 

Maegor’s reply to Vaenys’ wisdom was silent treatment served with a nod and even though he didn’t have the pep in his step back, he didn’t look all that downtrodden right now. Small mercies and small wins…

 

After parting with his brother and leaving him with his unasked and unanswered questions, Vaenys started preparing for the welcoming feast.

 

She dressed in pink that evening.

 

Not red like her house’s banners, but a softer, warmer hue—the color of ripened pomegranate and sunset-streaked skies. Gold embroidery traced the hems of her sleeves and the edges of her bodice in delicate, winding patterns: dragons in flight, roses in bloom, sunbursts and stars. Her skirts swayed when she moved, a whisper of silk and light. It was a gown made for movement, for music, for stepping boldly into a hall and making it hers.

 

She didn’t want to look lovely.

She wanted to look brilliant .

 

Her hands trembled as the final braid was tied—always the last to stop shaking. She’d been tired all day, breath catching on staircases too steep and hallways too long. But she wouldn’t show it. Not tonight. Not when she needed them to see her.

 

Everyone knew, even if they pretended not to. Visenya did her best to smother the rumors, but there was a reason she always rushed back to Dragonstone whenever she went to Aegonfort. Her daughter’s health was no secret.

 

Vaenys didn’t know what was wrong with her body—only that it had always been too small, too slow. She wasn’t premature, but she may as well have been. Maybe it was because Maegor wasn’t her same-egg twin and got a head start before she barged in and decided to exist. Or—her favorite theory—he hogged all the nutrients in the womb and left her with lemon cake crumbs from their mother. Very Sansa Stark of her, really.

 

Whatever the cause, her stamina was always lower. Her body, slower to grow. Her skin, paler than anyone else’s. Vaenys once again wished she’d read about medicine more seriously—maybe then she could name it: anemia? A heart condition? Something with letters and meaning, no doubt.

 

But names wouldn’t fix it. So she straightened her back, quieted her breathing, and counted her heartbeats until they steadied. She refused to be sent to her chambers early again, no matter how tired she felt.

 

Her hair, at last, was finished—twisted into thick braids and left to fall loosely down her back, bound with golden dragonfly clips that caught the candlelight. The handmaidens brought rubies, Visenya’s usual choice.

 

Vaenys asked for pearls instead.

 

Queen Rhaenys had loved pearls.

 

Vaenys had decided, not long ago, as her mother held her gently and told her, with sorrow in her voice, that she needed to be both steel and silk. She needed to be the glue that bind the realm and the house.

 

Visenya was steel just as Maegor was but sometimes truth cut deeper than steel and she felt the grief in Visenya’s voice as she admitted what she really thought of Rhaenys.

 

The dragon must have three heads.

 

Be it as a lover, a sister or a glue for the house, the three headed dragon lost one of it’s heads and it was never the same again.

 

But Visenya’s wish for Vaenys to be the glue for the next generation of dragons was wrong. Vaenys knew better. Glue might hold a family together—but only for a while. Eventually, the cracks return. She knew this from her own family and she knew this from the Dance of the Dragons, from how Viserys’ incompetence and death eventually caused the death of dragons.

 

Vaenys knew she would have to do better. But for now, let her play the glue. To make her mother proud. And to make the old man cry.

 

It was her birthright as the firstborn daughter after all.

 

Done with her dress to impress session, Vaenys made her way to Maegor’s room, they still needed to escort their brother Aenys to the great hall where the feast would be after all.

 

Twins walked among the carved wyverns and grotesque statues of their home. The halls of Dragonstone were never quiet but always cold.

 

Even in stillness, it whispered. Wind threaded through the narrow, slitted windows, and Vaenys shivered as it slipped down her spine—like a flame wrapped in paper skin: bright, brilliant, and always at risk of being snuffed out by a careless gust.

 

The sea churning against ancient black stone, and the ever-present groan of a fortress not too old and yet heavy with history. The torches did little to push back the shadows here; they only made them flicker.

 

Grotesques leered down from every arched entryway—gargoyles with fanged grins, wyverns in mid-snarl, and winged horrors whose eyes seemed to follow them as they passed. The ceiling beams were shaped like talons. The columns twisted into coils, some like flames, some like serpents.

 

Maegor walked beside her in silence.

 

Then he slowed. Stared.

 

“What are you wearing?”

 

Vaenys didn’t look at him. “Clothes.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

His tone was flatter than usual, but it still held something—discomfort, suspicion, maybe even wariness.

 

“You look like…” He gestured vaguely. “Her.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“ You know which one. ”

 

Vaenys finally turned to him, the faintest smirk playing at her lips. “And why is that a problem?”

 

“You usually dress like Mother.”

 

She shrugged. “Tonight I wanted to dress like other mother.”

 

Maegor’s jaw ticked. He looked at her as if trying to figure out if she was mocking him, or worse, changing into something unfamiliar. His discomfort showed in the way his shoulders rolled, how his hand went to the pommel of the sword at his hip—not threatening, just grounding.

 

“You could still change,” he said gruffly. “There’s time.”

 

Vaenys raised a brow. “Do you want me to?”

 

He didn’t answer.

 

They walked in silence again, the hem of her pink gown swishing against stone, soft as breath, as the ancient walls of Dragonstone seemed to close in around them as the servants rushed. And then—

 

“I just don’t like surprises,” Maegor said finally, eyes still ahead while they waited Aenys.

 

“No,” Vaenys murmured. “You don’t like change.”

 

He didn’t respond. But his scowl deepened.

 

The door to Aenys’ chambers creaked open, and the scent of rosewater and sandalwood greeted them. Aenys stood in the center of the room, half-turned toward the mirror as a servant adjusted the fall of his embroidered black-and-pink cloak.

 

His tunic was deep pink, edged with black braid. Lighter than Maegor’s usual style, but striking. Fitting. And it made the faint blush that crept over his cheeks when he saw Vaenys all the more charming, dressed in a similar color.

 

“You look lovely,” Aenys said, with the gentleness of someone who meant it. His eyes took in the pearl-bound braids, the dragonfly clips, the sun-warmed red silk. “We seem to match.”

 

Vaenys gave a small curtsy, half-playful. “That was the idea.”

 

“You look dashing as well,” he added to Maegor.

 

Maegor gave a curt nod. No thanks. No words. His jaw had gone rigid.

 

Aenys’ smile faltered, just a moment. But he recovered it with grace, gaze returning to the twins.

 

“It must have been strange… growing up here,” he said, voice soft. “In a place like this. In Dragonstone.”

 

Vaenys glanced around the stone chamber—arched ceilings carved with flames, the heavy tapestries, the thick obsidian hearth with dragon claws for feet. It was strange and gloomy too but Vaenys loved Dragonstone unlike some ungrateful Targaryen descendants (Cough, Stannis the Mannis shade, cough.)

 

“Strange,” she echoed. “But ours and I rather love it here. Although I’m very curious about the other castles of the realm, maybe you can tell us about them and your travels tonight, brother.”

 

Aenys looked at her with a bitter smile for a moment. “Yes, my travels… it sounds nice, being able to stay in one place, growing up here as the last true heirs of Valyria.”

 

Vaenys’ surprise must’ve showed on her face because before she could ask what he meant, Aenys had given a quick smile and took Vaenys by the arm then continued to talk about his journey and how many households he visited, yet how none impressed him as much as Dragonstone while Maegor led them to the great hall where the feast would be held.

 

He said nothing, no pleasantries, no polite laughter. Nothing. But Vaenys saw his grip tighten on his swordbelt. Wonderful. Guess she knew who her first dance was with if she wanted to avoid bloodshed.

The hallway leading to the Great Hall narrowed like the throat of a beast. The stone walls were slick with salt and lined with ancient braziers. Ahead of them, the great carved maw of a dragon opened into firelit grandeur.

 

The mouth was gaping—jagged teeth overhead, the upper jaw forming the archway itself. Its eyes were rubies the size of apples, glowing with reflected torchlight. Smoke curled faintly from its nose. It had been designed to look as though it were about to breathe flame on all who entered.

 

Beyond it, the roar of voices. Laughter. Music.

 

Lit by hundreds of flickering torches and fat wax candles, the Great Hall of Dragonstone seemed to pulse with molten light. Smoke coiled like lazy ghosts through the rafters, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, sweetwine, and salt carried in from the sea.

 

The chamber was shaped like a dragon’s belly—dark, ribbed with carved stone arches, and crowned with a vaulted ceiling painted in black and gold flames. Obsidian pillars loomed like sentinels. High above, gargoyles crouched in silence, their grins fixed as though amused by the pageant of mortals below.

 

Their parents were waiting for them to make their entrance it seemed like. But not long enough that they started talking with each other, gods forbid…

 

They waited, poised just beyond the great maw of the dragon—its jaws open to flame and glory. Aegon and Visenya at the front, and behind them was Aenys and Maegor, and lastly it was Ser Corlys and Vaenys.

 

The knight, standing tall beside her in his white and silver, turned his head as she nodded in greeting. His eyes caught her fully now—trailing from the pearls in her braids to the dragonflies, the way the candlelight warmed the silk of her gown.

 

And then he froze .

 

Corlys stood beside her, tall and quiet in his white cloak and polished plate. When he turned to speak, his voice wasn’t flippant. It wasn’t knightly.

 

It was soft . Disbelieving.

 

“She used to wear your hair like that,” he said, eyes tracing the braids bound in pearl and gold. “When she was small. She said it made her feel like her mother, like she was of sea and salt and not fire and blood.”

 

Vaenys blinked. She hadn’t expected him to get emotional. She didn’t mean to make an adult man cry.

 

Maybe Aegon a bit but you know… not actually!

 

Sorrows… sorrows… prayers…

 

His gaze lingered—on the dragonfly clips, the soft pink silk, the light in her eyes that was hers but not entirely hers. He looked at her like a man looking through time.

 

“By the gods,” he whispered. “For a heartbeat, I thought… I thought Queen Rhaenys had walked through fire and come back to us.”

 

A few courtiers standing nearby heard him.

 

The air rippled with movement.

 

Aegon turned.

 

Visenya turned.

 

And for the first time that night, both monarchs acted in unison,surprised staring their daughter.

 

Not a word passed between them. But something shifted. Something unspoken. Something seen.

 

Then, as if summoned by the gods themselves, the herald’s voice rang out—

 

“His Grace, King Aegon Targaryen, First of His Name, and Her Grace, Queen Visenya Targaryen.”

 

From beneath the shadow of the dragon’s carved maw, Aegon and Visenya stepped into the light.

 

Aegon was the every inch of a King, Vaenys imagined him to be while she read Fire and Blood a lifetime ago: tall, severe, cloaked in smoke-dark velvet trimmed with black. His crown was polished to a mirror’s gleam as the rubies shone with flickering fire light.

 

Visenya moved like the shadow his fire cast. Regal in black and garnet, her hair braided into the crown of thorns she favored, her sword at her hip. Vaenys could imagine her mother’s face, with no smile, but her eyes dared anyone to speak out of turn.

 

The courtiers bowed. Slowly. Some nervously and not without reason.

 

Behind them, the second call rang out.

 

“Prince Maegor of Dragonstone, son of Queen Visenya and King Aegon, and Prince Aenys of House Targaryen, son of Queen Rhaenys, Heir to the Iron Throne.”

 

It should have been Aenys announced first—he was the heir, after all. But this was Dragonstone, and Visenya wanted her revenge. If Aenys wouldn’t kneel at Aegon’s command, then Maegor would walk first by hers. Not just first—but named as Aegon’s son, while Aenys was quietly stripped of that title.

 

Death by a thousand cuts. And the ones left bleeding were none other than the boys themselves… A+ parenting.

 

Maegor looked like a younger shadow of his mother—dark-clad and silent, his step unyielding, his stare cool and appraising. His hand rested near his sword hilt, as if unsure whether tonight was a feast or a battlefield.

 

Beside him, Aenys moved with a gentler elegance. His garments echoed the others but the fabric and the colors shimmered softer. Aenys wore no blade. He smiled faintly, though his eyes searched the crowd for something… or someone.

 

Then the last pair.

 

The herald’s voice shifted to something almost reverent.

 

“Princess Vaenys Targaryen, firstborn daughter of Dragonstone, and Ser Corlys Velaryon, sworn sword of the King’s Guard, Blood of Driftmark.”

 

Vaenys stepped forward, radiant in pink. At her side, Corlys strode in polished white plate and silver. Silent. Dignified. The sword at his side gleamed in solemn honor.

 

They crossed the threshold together, under the mouth of the carved dragon that marked the entrance, teeth jagged above, smoke wafting faintly as if to remind all present:

 

You walk not into a hall—but into the belly of the beast.

Notes:

In earlier chapters, I mentioned that Visenya suspects Aenys is a bastard—born out of wedlock and possibly the son of a bard.

George R.R. Martin seems to enjoy playing with familial relations, complicated bloodlines and hidden truths, so while I don’t think this theory is officially canon, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some truth to it.

There’s also the intriguing idea that Aegon might have been fully sterile, meaning neither Aenys nor Maegor is truly his son. The reason for that is his long marriages to Rhaenys and Visenya—years before the Conquest with no children. There are other theories for that of course, like being gay, asexual or just the wish of staying a tink -three income no kids- throuple. Who knows.

Of course, in my fanfiction, I don’t plan to reveal whatever really happened—unless I feel like it.

I didn’t like this chapter for so long. Best to post and move on.
Have a nice day, and thanks for reading!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of The Children of the Dragon