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POV: Aegon Targaryen
Location: The Solar, Dragonstone
Date: 02 BC (2 years Before Conquest)
I stood alone in my solar, hands clasped behind my back, staring out through the narrow stone window as the sea hurled itself endlessly against the volcanic black cliffs below. Waves shattered against the rock with tireless fury, spraying white foam that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.
I had faced war.I had faced kings.I had faced things that screamed my name from beyond reality itself.
Yet waiting—this—set my nerves on edge in a way riding a dragon into battle never had.
My thoughts refused to settle. They circled endlessly around fire and shadow, around black flames and crimson eyes, around Myra's words and the truths she had only partially revealed.
A dragon cannot be chained.
The phrase echoed in my mind, heavy with meanings I had not yet fully unraveled.
The Warp.The gods.The Four.The Emperor.
And what I was.
What I had always been.
And what I was still pretending to be.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my hands to unclench. Whatever revelations awaited me beyond this room—whatever truths clawed at the edges of my thoughts—could wait. For now, I needed clarity rooted in blood and steel, not prophecy and flame.
A knock sounded at the door.
Sharp. Formal.
Before I could answer, the door opened, and one of my guards stepped inside, striking the stone floor once with the butt of his spear.
"My lord," he announced evenly, "your sisters have arrived."
"Send them in," I said at once.
The guard stepped aside.
Visenya and Rhaenys entered the solar together.
They did not need a ceremony to command a room.
They moved with the authority and grace of Old Valyria itself—each the opposite of the other, yet mirroring one another so perfectly it felt deliberate, almost ritualistic.
Visenya advanced like a drawn blade, every step measured, her presence sharp enough to cut the air. Rhaenys, by contrast, flowed forward like a living song, light on her feet, her expression warm but knowing.
Both were beautiful.
Their silver-gold hair spilled down their backs like molten metal caught mid-pour, catching the light with every movement. Violet eyes—bright as polished amethyst—took in the chamber in an instant, missing nothing. Their skin was pale and unblemished, almost unnaturally so, as if touched by something beyond the mortal world… yet it shone with unmistakable life.
I had seen visiting noblemen falter beneath their gaze. Merchant princes forget their rehearsed speeches. Sons of great houses flush and stumble, hearts captured before a single word is spoken.
Marriage offers had come endlessly over the years—some bold, some desperate, some insultingly arrogant.
All had been refused.
Without exception.
A dragon's heart is hard to obtain, my mother had once said calmly, yet worth every scar.
She had spoken those words when Visenya and Rhaenys rejected yet another proposal brought forth by our father. In time, even he had learned to stop asking.
My sisters halted a few paces from me.
Visenya's sharp eyes narrowed slightly, already sensing the tension coiled in the room.
Rhaenys tilted her head, studying me with that familiar curiosity that had always seen more than I liked.
"You called for us," Visenya said, direct as ever.
Rhaenys smiled faintly. "And you look like a man with ideas to relay."
I turned to face them fully.
"Yes, I did," I said quietly. "And I am."
I gestured toward the main table of the solar. The three of us took our seats together—no servants, no guards. I poured the wine myself, filling Visenya's cup first, then Rhaenys', before finally taking my own.
The act was deliberate.
This was family business.
"It is time," I began evenly, "that I address certain issues afflicting our house—issues that will affect not only our family, but the campaign we are preparing for."
I felt it immediately.
Their soft gazes sharpened.
Rhaenys tilted her head, her smile still kind—but now edged like a blade."And what issues would those be, brother?"
Visenya leaned back in her chair, arms folding across her chest, her expression a smooth marble mask. "Yes, brother," she said coolly. "What matters could threaten both our family and your future conquest?"
I glanced between them and allowed myself a slow breath.
They knew.
Of course they did.
"There are too few of our line," I said simply. "The blood of Old Valyria—the blood of the dragon—runs thin. Not in purity… but in number."
Silence settled over the table like a shroud.
The words lingered in the air, heavy and immutable.
The last trueborn dragons of Valyria sat within these walls.
Three.
Only three.
And there was only one true answer to the problem I had named.
"It is time," I continued after a moment, my voice steady despite the tension coiling tighter in the room, "for us to discuss marriage proposals."
The temperature seemed to drop.
Visenya's gaze turned glacial.
Rhaenys' warm smile thinned to a razor's edge.
Two pairs of violet eyes fixed on me—not in surprise, not even shock—but in something far colder and far more dangerous.
"So you wish to make us broodmares?" Visenya asked, her voice edged with venom.
"Sold off," Rhaenys added sharply, "to whichever lord offers the richest dowry and the strongest swords."
Their accusations struck like heated water—familiar, well-practiced weapons. They had used them often against our father, and with great success.
I did not rise to them.
"Stop," I said calmly, letting their words wash over me like the sea against the cliffs below. "Spare me such childish objections. I am not our father, and I will not be deflected by them."
That caught them off guard.
I had not raised my voice.I had not argued.
I pressed the advantage immediately.
"You both know I would never sell either of you," I continued evenly. "You are invaluable—not merely to my plans, but to me. You are the few people in this world I truly trust… and love."
The admission was deliberate, calculated—but not untrue.
Rhaenys seized upon it at once.
"If you do not intend to marry us off," she asked softly, her violet eyes searching my face, "then what is your plan, brother?"
Visenya's gaze mirrored her sister's now—watchful, intent.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to slow.
I felt fate's breath at the nape of my neck.
Within me, voices stirred.
We are Aegon Targaryen, one whispered—the echo of an older self, shaped by stories and history. We conquer Westeros with our sister-wives. This is how it was meant to be.
Another voice answered, colder, heavier with truth.
We are not even human. We are something else—something engineered. There may be no children. No future line. No House as it was meant to grow.
The debate had played out countless times within me, on countless nights.
Yet even as it raged now, I did not allow it to paralyze me.
I looked upon the two women before me—my sisters, my equals, the most dangerous and beautiful beings in both of my lives—and I knew, with absolute clarity, what I wanted.
And what I would say next would change everything.
"I will do as tradition demands," I said evenly, my voice steady despite the tension coiling in my chest, "as our ancestors once did, to keep our blood pure."
The moment the words left my mouth, I felt their gazes bore into me—sharp, unblinking, violet eyes weighing every breath I took.
For an instant, an absurd image flickered through my mind: Balerion the Black Dread, massive and unyielding, standing while Vhagar and Meraxes both stared him down with equal intensity. The thought nearly drew a smirk to my lips, and I had to school my expression before it showed.
"I will marry us," I continued, letting no hesitation touch my tone. "Brother to sister."
The silence that followed was not empty.
It pressed down on the solar like a physical thing—heavy, absolute—thick enough that I could hear the faint crackle of the hearth and the distant cry of the sea below Dragonstone's cliffs. Even the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
I watched as my words settled into them.
They did not react immediately — they never did. My sisters had always been opposites in temperament, yet utterly dynamic in how they thought, each approaching a problem from a different angle until they arrived at the same truth.
Visenya's eyes narrowed, her expression sharpening as her mind went to work. I could almost see it happening — the way her mind always thought through information as if she were astride a dragon's back, high above a battlefield, surveying enemy lines below. She searched for weaknesses, calculated angles of attack, and weighed outcomes with cold precision.
Rhaenys, meanwhile, leaned back in her chair almost imperceptibly. Not in retreat — in contemplation. It was the way she studied things she found complex or beautiful, as though she were trying to take in an entire mural at once rather than focus on a single detail. Her gaze drifted, thoughtful, assembling meaning rather than dissecting it.
Only when I felt they had fully grasped the weight of what I'd said did I continue.
"Tradition," I said calmly, "would have us wed the closest sibling in age."
The effect was immediate — though subtle.
Visenya's composure shifted by the smallest fraction, but I caught it. A flicker. A recalculation. For a heartbeat, the thought crossed her mind — Orys.
I saw it in the tightening of her jaw, the faint crease between her brows.
Her expression became that of someone biting into a piece of fruit only to find it sharper than expected — too fresh, too tart — uncertain whether she despised the taste or merely hadn't decided she liked it yet.
Rhaenys, on the other hand, went very still.
Her eyes found mine, and for a moment — just a fleeting heartbeat that somehow stretched toward infinity — the world narrowed until there was only us. The solar, the fire, even Visenya's presence seemed to fall away, as if reality itself had paused to watch what would pass between us.
Then the moment broke.
The weight of the room returned. The world resumed its breath.
And I continued speaking.
"Yet once I brought this up to our brother," I said evenly, "he refused."
The effect my words had on Visenya was immediate—and in most other circumstances, would have been comical.
The faint uncertainty that had crept across her features shattered, transforming into outright bewildered shock, as if she had been struck from an angle no sane opponent would ever attempt in a practice bout. For half a heartbeat, she looked genuinely unarmed.
Even Rhaenys stared, violet eyes wide. But her shock lasted only a moment before it shifted into something far more troubling—concern. The absence of our brother from this meeting, something easily ignored before, now became impossible to overlook.
Orys was not here.
And that mattered.
Not once had Orys been treated as anything less than a true brother by either of us, despite his lack of Valyrian features. To the world, he might have been born without silver hair or violet eyes—but within these walls, he had always been blood. Some even whispered that he was the true son of the last dragon, Aerion's only true male heir.
"What… he refused?"
Visenya's voice—normally calm, precise, unyielding—faltered.
For the briefest instant, her stoic mask cracked, revealing what lay beneath: confusion, hurt, relief, disappointment… and emotions too tangled for me to name before the marble surface slid back into place.
I nodded stiffly.
"I told Orys of my intention to have this discussion with all of us yesterday," I said. "He refused to wed you, Visenya. He explained his reasons to me—and while I do not agree with them, they are his reasons nonetheless. It is his choice. If you wish to speak with him later, you may."
My voice softened at the end, an olive branch offered.
Visenya did not take it.
She shook her head once—sharp, decisive—and just like that, the crack in her composure vanished. Her expression smoothed back into calm, as if nothing had ever disturbed it at all. Yet when she spoke, there was more force behind her words than before, a steel edge honed by pride and something far more dangerous.
"If that is our brother's choice, then so be it," she said. "But that leaves one question unanswered."
Her violet eyes locked onto mine.
"Who, then, is to be my husband, Aegon?" she asked. "Am I to remain unwed while you and Rhaenys fly together?"
The words were carefully chosen.
The poison lay not in what she said—but in how she said it.
I caught the almost imperceptible flinch from Rhaenys at Visenya's words, so subtle most would have missed it. Almost.
Even I felt my brow twitch in reflex, but I forced myself to remain still, composed. I understood Visenya's feelings—on more levels than she knew. Pride, fear, duty, rivalry… and the unspoken terror of being left behind.
Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.
Then, unbidden, a phrase surfaced in my mind—one spoken by historians, whispered by bards, carved into the bones of the future.
"Aegon married Visenya out of duty, and married Rhaenys out of love."
It was simple. It was true and false at the same time.
But even now standing here, breathing the same air as my sisters—I knew it would remain true.
I loved them both. That was never in question. My bond with Visenya was forged in steel, fire, and shared resolve. She was my sword and shield, my equal in war and will.
But my bond with Rhaenys…
That was something else entirely.
Yet in this moment, I could not afford such favoritism.
Visenya was hurting—and gentleness, now, would not soothe her. It would only insult her intelligence. I knew her too well for that. Careful words would only sharpen the wound.
So I spoke plainly.
"I shall be your husband," I said.
The effect was immediate.
This time, it was Rhaenys who froze—her reaction so sudden it bordered on comical. She gasped sharply, eyes widening as if the world itself had lurched beneath her feet, and then she brought both hands to her mouth, as though to hold the sound—and her heart—inside. I saw the glimmer of unshed tears gather at the corners of her eyes, bright and dangerous.
I did not give her time to retreat into doubt.
"And I shall continue to be yours as well, Rhaenys," I added, my voice steady, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
For the third time that night, silence claimed the solar.
Not the awkward quiet of uncertainty—but the heavy, thoughtful stillness that follows a truth too large to ignore.
My words forced my sisters to look beyond themselves, beyond jealousy and fear, and toward the shape of the future unfolding before us.
"You…" Rhaenys said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. "You wish to marry us both…"
She sounded uncertain—not frightened, not offended—but tentative, like a noblewoman lifting a finely wrought gown from its stand, unsure whether it would fit her.
Visenya said nothing.
She stared ahead, eyes unfocused, her expression unreadable as she weighed duty against desire, power against pride. The storm within her did not break—but I could feel it gathering, coiling, waiting for the moment it would strike.
And in that silence, I knew there would be no turning back.