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Westeros, she thinks, is a fascinating place.
Their ways are so different from her family’s Valyrian traditions. Siblings do not marry—bloodlines become muddled and mixed with each new marriage. Their features are commonplace and boring…blonde, brown, even red locks on the men and women, and eyes shining blue or green or hazel, but none are exciting, not like hers. Nothing like the blood of the dragon, boasting eyes like amethysts and hair as silver as steel.
The Common Tongue is somewhat brutish, but she doesn’t mind it much. High Valyrian will always be more sophisticated, but she indulges in the language of her people.
Still, even Westerosi gods are bizarre. Aegon insists that adopting the Seven is crucial, and reluctantly, she agrees, letting names like Balerion and Meraxes and Vhagar go unless they apply to their dragons. That doesn’t stop her from entering the sept and feeling wooden eyes on her back, sizing up her misdeeds as if waiting to see her in the seven hells of the Faith.
She being Rhaenys Targaryen, sister-queen to Aegon I, First of His Name.
“Rhaenys,” Visenya says impatiently, dismissing the maid with a twitch of her hand. “I was talking to you.”
“Senya,” Rhaenys parrots in a bored tone. “I was not listening to you.”
Her sister scowls.
“Aegon wants to see you.”
Rhaenys twirls a finger through the water of her bath, sulking. Proceedings for the realm are not interesting, yet Aegon demands the two of them sit in on a few a week to learn of the toils of farmers and merchants. Why go to any if she can’t even sit on the Iron Throne? She has to lounge at Aegon’s feet on another chair, like some lowly dog. There’s plenty of room, namely on her brother’s lap, but he thinks that isn’t appropriate for court.
“Now?” Rhaenys grumbles.
“Yes, now,” Visenya orders, snapping her fingers. “Hurry up, don’t make him wait.”
“But I love teasing Aegon,” Rhaenys mumbles, standing up to find a tunic, creating puddles of water in her wake. “He gets so whiny.”
“He is obnoxious,” Visenya allows, resting a hand on Dark Sister’s hilt, “but still, be quick about it.”
Rhaenys rolls her eyes and adjusts her dress, surveying her reflection in the mirror. The youngest of the three monarchs, she is fairest and most graceful, but less skilled in swordplay than her siblings.
The two walk together from one side of the half castle to the other, sidestepping architects and masons. Aegon commissioned the creation of a fortress on the hill he landed on in the city, so he could look down on his subjects and anticipate approaching enemies.
“You’re not coming?” Rhaenys asks, when her sister slows to a stop.
“No. I must oversee the construction of city gates,” Visenya answers.
“Thrilling,” Rhaenys remarks cheerfully, planting a kiss on Visenya’s cheek. “Enjoy yourself.”
Visenya’s hard expression vanishes for a moment at the gesture, but Rhaenys is already walking away with a skip in her step, looking like more like a swan than a dragon’s daughter.
“Aegon,” she sings, finding him on the Iron Throne, but for once, there are no knights nor courtiers at his side. Her eyes slide to his attire, admiring his black doublet, emblazoned with their house sigil and matching breeches, before returning to the circlet leveled on his ears, the rubies in the metal glittering in the midmorning light. Blackfyre is attached to his hip, as usual. He looks so kingly, she thinks with pride and lust.
“Sister,” he replies evenly, watching her approach.
She reaches him but does not curtsy—she ignores decorum, as her siblings do—and settles in his lap, feet tucked on his left side, careful to avoid a nick from the swords surrounding him. The weapons gleam and extend out from his seat like wings, forged by Balerion’s torrid breath. Several blades are positioned directly at her brother’s spine, making leaning back to rest impossible. He told his new people when it was finished that a king must never relax; duties of Westeros prevent comfort and he must be always on his guard.
Aegon’s arms encircle her automatically, and she gives him a kiss.
He groans when she pulls away, and tightens his grip.
“Not here, brother,” she mocks, amused. “Remember?”
“During court, I said.”
“Something troubling you?” She wonders, pressing her lips to his throat.
“Farmers,” he exhales, moody, “tell me that their herds are dwindling.”
“Huh.”
“Some crops were burned.”
“Strange,” she states, but he glares.
“Rhaenys.”
“Aegon,” she mimics. “What? Have you and Senya joined a mummer’s troupe?”
“You can’t let them out anymore,” he insists. “The pit is there for a reason.”
“They’re imprisoned like slaves,” she whines. “Locking them up is a bad idea.”
“My vassals will not be silenced for long,” he says firmly. “Families rely on these farms. Meraxes can adjust.”
“He misses the skies, husband,” she pleads. “He can’t stay cooped up like a rat for the rest of his life. Nor the others. Balerion almost burned through his chains and Vhagar howls day and night.”
“The dragons stay in the pit, Rhaenys. End of discussion.”
She stands and glides away from the dais in a huff, but he follows as she knew he would. He captures her wrist and pulls her to his chest, snatching her close by the elbows. Their lips meet, harsher than before, and her hunger for him blooms anew. He loathes disappointing her and Visenya, but can’t surrender the needs of his people for her whims, unfortunately.
“What can I do?” He asks, placing kisses on her nose, eyelids, and forehead.
Her eyes open in a show of submission but hold mischief.
“Myrish gems,” she breathes. Aegon nods, agreeable as any lovesick boy.
“A fleet will be needed to carry them all,” he promises fervently, kissing her again.
Her brother is nothing if not predictable.
She gets her gems.
Visenya disapproves. Naturally.
“Those are useless,” she remarks acidly as Rhaenys parades around in her chambers, forearms laden with bangles, hands weighed down with rings, and her throat fraught with necklaces. Pearls, emeralds, sapphires, jewels and trinkets without number decorate her sister’s body, making her look like a flamboyant, silver-haired peacock.
“Useless?” Rhaenys protests. “They are not. I look beautiful.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“You’re sweet,” Rhaenys interrupts, smirking. “Help me take them off, sister?”
“No,” Visenya retorts curtly, but does so anyway with a grudging huff, removing the bracelets and necklaces as Rhaenys stands as still as a stone. “Why do you need so many?”
“Aegon went overboard,” she admits. “He won’t let me unchain the dragons and this was the compromise.”
“Of course he won’t,” Visenya points out, starting a pile of rings on the nearest table. “The smallfolk are terrified of them.”
“Not you too,” Rhaenys mumbles.
“Ask to visit the riverlands or the Vale,” Visenya suggests. “That’s an excuse to take Meraxes out, at least.”
“Perfect,” Rhaenys exclaims, drawing Visenya in for a kiss. Her sister is blushing when they separate, making Rhaenys smirk in response. Aegon and Rhaenys often find amusement in their sister’s...modesty. Visenya Targaryen seems to prefer dueling knights rather than consummating their marriage. The High Septon in Oldtown almost refused when Aegon informed him of their desire to continue the wedding traditions of Valyria but Balerion’s roars from his hunt in the Whispering Sound made him reconsider the idea. It was a hard sell to the Seven Kingdoms, but the doubled chance of heirs seemed to appease everyone.
“You’re wanton, Rhaenys,” Visenya observes, although she unties the laces on Rhaenys’s corset with obvious urgency.
“So?”
Visenya laughs.
“Keep the crown on,” Aegon implores.
“As you command,” Rhaenys replies huskily, adjusting it to stay put on her brow, and Aegon envelops her in his arms. So strong, she marvels, feeling nothing but muscle under his clothes. He looked so powerful in battle. He and Visenya both looked like gods in chainmail as the Reach simmered and steamed and men were reduced to ashes before her eyes. She excelled as well as her siblings in the onslaught; a score fell to her sword and arrows. The words of their house seemed to mean more that day. Fire and blood had brought their enemies to a resounding defeat.
The Field of Fire, she muses. Though a different kind of fire burned within Rhaenys that night—she had Visenya and Aegon at the same time, consumed with excitement and triumph.
Rhaenys unties the strings of Aegon’s breeches, more languidly than he appreciates.
“Don’t tease,” he growls.
“You make it so easy,” she jeers, but squeals when he marks her up neck with lovebites, soothing the skin with his tongue. “Everyone will see those,” she sighs.
“So? They’ll see a king…thoroughly,” he drawls, sliding down her body with a devilish grin, “loving his wife.”
“Wives,” Rhaenys corrects, “if Senya would stop gambling with the knights every other night. The treasury shrinks with every card game she plays.”
“Everyone has their vices, even Visenya.”
“Hmm…”
Aegon makes better use of his tongue then and Rhaenys thinks little of treasuries or vices for the rest of the night.
Westeros, however odd it is, is easy to rule.
The once sovereign kings are scared to death of the dragons and Aegon’s cruelty (though his sisters disagree, as their brother spared many lives in the North when Stark bent the knee). He is titled Aegon the Conqueror for the scribes to add to the scrolls of the Citadel in Oldtown, and the name spreads across the country like wildfire. Rhaenys thinks that he actually enjoys the term. His chest puffed out in pride upon hearing it.
She visits the Vale twice in three months and Meraxes roars with delight at his freedom. They loop around the Mountains of the Moon like a large, grotesque bird, and she lets him hunt goats.
Aegon and Visenya are pleased when she reports obedience at every turn after feasts with each of the lords in charge. The three of them privately worry about secret coups and rebellions, but the Seven Kingdoms are complacent and meek to the Targaryens, at least for now.
“Good,” Visenya murmurs, braiding Rhaenys’s hair. “We must be respected.”
Aegon turns from the window, drawing the latch closed.
“Heirs bring respect,” he comments, raising an eyebrow. “Are either of you—?”
Visenya smirks, resting her chin on her little sister’s shoulder. “Ask Rhaenys.”
Rhaenys nods, hand placed on her stomach. She and Visenya waited until she felt it quicken, just to be sure.
“Already? And you didn’t tell me?” Aegon asks incredulously, marching back to the bed and pressing a kiss to each of their mouths, utterly delighted.
“I forgot,” Rhaenys yawns.
Aegon tuts like their mother used to. Visenya snickers.
“I will choose the name,” Rhaenys announces, but she’s too drowsy to say what it is.
Her sleep is short. In the morning, septas enter her chambers to advise her on her pregnancy, and explain a set of rules she must abide by. A litter will carry her if she wishes to travel outside the Keep. Her diet is restricted (no rabbits, a Tyrell bastard cautions, lest Rhaenys wants the unborn king to have Florent ears). She’s forbidden from stepping anywhere near the training yard and the Dragonpit. Even Aegon flees her rage at these admissions.
She’s assigned two men of the Kingsguard and escorted wherever she goes.
“Is this necessary, sire?” She sneers, though her ire gets less impressive as the months progress and her belly swells.
“Yes,” Aegon answers without looking up from his papers, courtesy of Lord Celtigar, Master of Coin.
“I don’t need them,” she insists.
“You do.”
“I will not stand for this.”
“You will, Rhaenys,” her brother orders, meeting her gaze at last. “You’re carrying the heir to the throne. I need you and the little prince in your womb to be safe.”
“Can’t Senya guard me?” She begs, abandoning her dignity.
“No. You two are prone to bickering more than camaraderie. The guards stay.”
Her anger does nothing to sway Aegon and the duration of awaiting her child is spent with two silent knights, half a dozen droning septas, and one aged maester, feeding her herbs and potions to promote her health and wellbeing. She’d rather perform the Conquest again before repeating this process.
Thankfully, the birth is easy, when the time arrives, and Aegon is right; a wailing boy is lowered into her arms to nurse.
“Aenys,” she decides, combining her name and her brother’s. Aegon is pleased.
The realm exhales a breath of relief. A prince to succeed the Conqueror and maintain stability. Peace is what everyone wants, after all.
Aenys isn’t the only prince in line to succeed Aegon. Maegor, Visenya’s boy, is born within two years. An heir and a spare, as their subjects proclaim (in compliments and elaborate blessings). The Targaryen dynasty will continue twofold (though none of the three are aware that Aenys will become a weakling and Maegor will be remembered for his cruelty) and their achievement will last through the centuries.
“A dynasty,” says Rhaenys, satisfied. “The country will know no others.”
“Or face Balerion,” Visenya opines, sardonic. Aegon laughs.
“He wouldn’t obey anyone but our blood, sisters,” he grins. “All others will burn.”
This is only the beginning, Rhaenys thinks. The time of the Targaryens is now—Westeros is theirs. Stags, lions, wolves, krakens…nothing can defeat a dragon, and nothing will. Fire and blood, they say. Fire and blood began the empire, and fire and blood will keep it together.