Chapter Text
It was said that the Targaryen twins were the truest remnants of Old Valyria - two heads of the same dragon. Anyone who angered one, angered the other, and one was rarely seen alone.
Such was evident as ever during the tourney in honour of their sixteenth nameday, the day when their mother Queen Aemma had begun her labours for their soon-to-be brother or sister.
The lances before the stand slammed into each other, toppling some Baratheon boy face-first into the mud. Beside Rhaenyra, Alicent jumped. Despite the girl being a few years older than herself, Alicent was far more comely than the dragon princess.
“I heard he hits his sister,” Rhaenyra whispered to her friend, leaning over so the nobles behind them couldn’t hear.
“I am sure he’s one of many,” Alicent responded.
As the field was cleared, Rhaenyra spied a look down champion’s row, the sight of her uncle’s tent on the end, adorned with sigils of House Targaryen. Despite sharing her nameday with Aerion, it was her honour that the champions were defending, as Aerion chose to enter the lists himself.
She had spent over an hour now watching knights she simply didn’t care for going head-to-head, watching as one would triumph and one would fall. They were all nobles, naturally, but none of them would come close to entertaining her as much as her brother would.
She felt her heart quicken as the herald announced the next competitor.
“Son of King Viserys and Prince of House Targaryen, Aerion Brightflame!”
She smiled, applauding as Aerion galloped through the field, noting the spikes and dragon images all over his armour, the most ornate being the red flames reaching from the back of his helm. The head of a dragon indeed.
Aerion lifted his visor, his violent smile directed straight at Rhaenyra, who found herself excited and breathless. With the champions all lined up, waiting to be chosen, Rhaenyra knew there would be no question as to who Aerion would challenge. It did not, however, stop her from watching as he rode right up to the Rogue Prince.
“Will you cheer for your uncle or brother?” Alicent asked.
Rhaenyra sighed. “That would depend on the outcome,” she responded, her brow raising as the knights took their place on either side of the post, their lances in hand.
Despite how bloody the day had been, there was nothing that could water the adrenaline that was rushing through her from right there in her chair.
The horn blew and they were racing, their lances pointed at each other, the two very different dragon helms flying through the air. Daemon was so close, or he would have been if Aerion hadn’t gone wide.
His horse dipped to the right, putting him just out of reach of Daemon’s lance. Rhaenyra couldn’t hide the slight smile on her face at the spectacle of two dragons, neither afraid to play dirty.
Daemon spurred his horse on as they took a second before charging again. Rhaenyra’s knuckles were white as she gripped the arm of her chair with anticipation. As if watching everything in half speed, Daemon pointed his lance down at the last second, sending it right into Aerion’s stomach, sending him clean off his horse.
Cheers and shouts came from the crowd as some applauded the victor, a select few too scared to applaud the Mad Prince’s defeat. Her uncle sauntered right up to the stand and she stood up at the rail, not bothering to cast a glance back at her father. No doubt he was displeased at the lack of sportsmanship.
“Nicely done, Uncle,” she said as she leaned on the bannister, Alicent joining at her side.
“Thank you, Princess,” Daemon soothed. “I would ask your favour for my next victory.” His arrogance had her scoffing quietly but beside her, Alicent bit down on her lip. She had heard.
“I’m afraid it is not permitted!” Aerion called, now on his feet, his helmet in his ground. He was swaggering as he joined their uncle, glaring at him. “For I would ask your favour, sister. It is my nameday as well!”
Rhaenyra could have sworn that Daemon rolled his eyes. He was a good ten and six years older than them and, despite his love for jests, the man clearly was over the pettiness of his nephew. Rhaenyra bit back a smile and dropped her wreath down to her brother, even if just to act as a gift for his nameday.
The way he looked at her, the way he shifted on his feet, a smirk on his lips, a predatory look in his eyes, sent a shiver down her spine and she let out a long breath as he walked back to where his squire was waiting for him with his horse and weaponry.
“Well, I’m fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent,” Daemon was addressing her now, “but having your favour would all but assure it.” He held out his lance for her.
Alicent shared a look with Rhaenyra, exchanging flirtatious smiles. As she turned back to pick up her wreath, Rhaenyra looked down at her uncle, the spare heir. Viserys had never officially named Aerion as heir but all could agree that Daemon was certainly not first in line for the throne. Still, he gave her a pointed smile before Alicent gave him her favour.
Sitting back down, ready for the next joust, Rhaenyra noticed the absence of her father. One look at Ser Otto Hightower’s face told her all she needed to know for her heart to race with worry for her mother.
✥✥✥
Viserys had permitted Rhaenyra's dragon Syrax to burn the bodies of her mother and infant brother. As she stood at the pyre, noble lords and ladies surrounding them, she couldn’t help but stare at the small bundle wrapped for cremation.
Beside her, Aerion was still as a stone wall. When the twins had heard of their mother’s death, neither of them had cried, only gone silent. One might have been driven to hysterics, screaming about why such a kind and loving person could have been ripped from their lives, but the truth was that they were well capable to live without her and whenever they looked upon each other, Rhaenyra knew they could see Queen Aemma in the both of them.
The two hadn’t even spoken to each other about it. Rhaenyra had noticed Aerion’s lips twitching but that was all the emotion he would show. She had, of course, grieved greatly for her mother’s death but as she stood beside her brother at the funeral pyre, she didn’t feel the gaping hole in her chest that it seemed was expected of her, particularly given the sympathy Alicent had shown her.
Their father had been broken by his wife’s death and Rhaenyra wondered if she would ever care so deeply about someone to feel such sorrow after their passing. She could feel Aerion’s eyes on her as everyone waited for her to say the words, but all she could do was stare at that little bundle. Succession in the Targaryen line had never been easy. There had always been a struggle, sometimes a war. Aerion, Daemon, even she was now a possible contender, though her great cousin Rhaenys had been passed over simply because she was a woman. Would the same fate befall her?
“They’re waiting for you,” Daemon whispered from behind them.
“Aōle lykemās,” Aerion threatened lowly. She could feel the two of them stare at each other now, the wind suddenly sweeping hot across her cheeks.
“Dracarys!” she called and looked away sharply as the flames engulfed the corpses.
✥✥✥
That night, a knock came at her chambers. Furrowing her brows, she put down the brush in her hand and heard the call from the kingsguard at her door.
“Prince Aerion, princess.”
She looked at herself in the mirror. “Send him in,” she called back and a moment later, Aerion was closing the door behind him. “What do you want?” she asked.
“Father is meeting his council,” he said as he warmed himself by the lit fire. She observed his attire. He still hadn’t changed from the day, his knife still in his belt even.
“What for?” she asked though she knew the answer. He looked back at her.
“The succession.”
“You were spying on him,” she said, returning to brush her silver hair.
“I am the heir apparent. There should be no conversation. I was always the heir. I don’t see why the death of our mother changes that.”
Rhaenyra’s hand faltered at the lack of compassion at his words, then remembered who she was talking to. “And does his council prefer Daemon’s violence to yours?”
She could see from this angle how his cheekbone stuck out, a smirk no doubt. “As far as Ser Otto is concerned, Daemon would be less favourable than a common whore.” He turned fully to her now, warming his back. “They spoke of you.”
“Their cup bearer?” she scoffed.
“Well, Lord Corlys said that just as Rhaenys was eligible as Jaehaerys’ successor, you are as eligible for Viserys’.”
She put down her brush and looked him in the eyes. “I don’t imagine you were happy about that.” She made her way to his side, warming her hands, the fire turning her pale creamy skin a hot red.
“I am the natural heir. I am the dragon, the Prince of Dragonstone.”
They called him the Mad Prince for a reason but Rhaenyra wouldn’t dare say as such to his face. He knew exactly why their father was hesitant to reaffirm his position. “I ride a dragon,” she raised a brow.
“Mine is bigger.” He murmured but it was anything but soft.
She looked down at his hands, which were now playing with his knife. If she were anyone else, she might worry about him killing her, securing his place, but she only inclined her head.
“I have no intention to live as a wife and attend to boring wifely duties. I’d rather live as a dragon, either on the throne or not.”
He pursed his lips, amused but not surprised. They watched each other for a moment.
“Shame you did not win the joust,” she taunted.
His jaw clenched, the only sign he showed that his loss bothered him. “Yet, it was me who had your favour.”
She failed to hide the proud smile on her face as she turned back to the fire, falling into a sizzling silence between them.