Hope you like the extra chapter!
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POV: Aegon Targaryen
The silence stretched between us, louder than any words. Rhaenys and I simply stood there, her hand still resting on the doorframe, violet eyes catching the torchlight. Questions neither of us dared ask seemed to hang in the air like stormclouds.
Come on, I told myself, you're a Primarch. A son of the Emperor. You've faced battlefields in another life—surely a girl should not undo you, especially one you call sister.
But even as I thought it, another voice whispered, softer, more dangerous.
Do we want to stay just brother and sister?
I crushed the thought with all the ruthlessness of a war engine, burying it deep, where neither I nor Balerion could dwell on it.
"I was hoping to find you here…" I said at last, keeping my tone light, casual, as though I hadn't just been waging war with myself.
Rhaenys tilted her head, considering me like one might a new wine brought for a feast. A hint of amusement danced at the corner of her lips.
"Oh? Is that so?" she asked. "And for what purpose do you need me, brother—or should I say lord?"
The words were velvet over steel. Subtle. Calculated.
I felt my heart stutter at the faintest emphasis she placed on those titles. Brother. Lord. It was a trap, as finely laid as any battlefield snare. To lean into one was to deny the other. To choose either… would have consequences.
I shook my head. "Neither, Rhaenys. You, Visenya, and Orys may be the only ones in this world who have the right to use my name."
Her eyes softened, and she gave a small approving nod, as though satisfied with my answer. The edge in her voice dulled—for now.
"Then tell me, Aegon," she asked, folding her hands before her silken gown. "Why were you looking for me?"
I let out an inward sigh, relief loosening something in my chest. The steel beneath her silk had retreated, and what remained was the sister I knew best—the dreamer, the singer, the rider of Meraxes who still looked at the world with wonder.
"A letter came from Pentos," I said, my voice steady though the weight of it pressed against my shoulders. "Its magister begs for aid. Volantis grows bolder by the day—its Tigers have already taken Lys and Myr, and now they march on Tyrosh. He asks for fire. He asks for us."
Rhaenys tilted her head slightly, silver-gold hair sliding down her shoulder. "And will you answer?" Her voice carried no judgment—only curiosity, though her eyes searched mine as if trying to glimpse the decision already forming. "Do you mean for me to ride with you to war?"
The question twisted in my chest. Her eagerness, her certainty, stirred something I could not name.
"I…" My words faltered for a moment. I drew a breath, grounding myself. "I do not know. Not yet. This isn't a choice to be made lightly. I would have us speak more of it when Visenya returns from her flight over Westeros. With her knowledge, the painted table will be closer to completion, and then we can weigh our course with clearer sight."
She studied me, eyes narrowing just faintly not in defiance, but in thought.
Then, with that uncanny intuition of hers, she tilted her head and said, "You mean to fly yourself, don't you? Alone. Atop Balerion."
Her words caught me off guard. For a moment, I almost laughed, almost denied her. But instead I only arched a brow. "And what makes you think that?"
Her lips curved into that mischievous smile I knew all too well—the smile of a cat toying with a mouse. "That's my little secret," she said lightly, though her eyes danced with amusement.
I couldn't help the quiet smile that tugged at my mouth in return. For all her softness, Rhaenys was sharp, sharper than many gave her credit for.
But the warmth of that moment bled away as my eyes drifted past her—toward the heavy black door at the end of the corridor. Mother's door. My smile faded, dimming like a candle starved of air.
"How is she?" I asked quietly.
Rhaenys followed my gaze, her own expression softening as she turned back to the door. For a heartbeat, she didn't answer. Then she gave the faintest nod. "Her mind is… foggy, most days. But now and then, she sees through it. She remembers. She laughs." Her voice trembled ever so slightly, but she steadied it with a practiced grace. "Those moments are fewer than they were. But they're still there."
I kept my face still, neutral, though the words pressed heavy against my chest. I only nodded once in reply.
But I had no wish to drown in that sorrow tonight. Not with her beside me.
So I drew in a breath, forcing a softer smile back to my lips, and extended my arm. "Then come, sister. Walk with me."
Her expression brightened, and without hesitation she slipped her arm through mine. Together, we moved down the black stone corridor, our steps in rhythm, our silence at least for the moment a comfort rather than a burden.
We wandered Dragonstone's halls arm in arm, our voices weaving through the empty black stone like echoes of the past. Rhaenys laughed as she reminded me of the time she had convinced Orys and me to sneak into the kitchens, only for all three of us to be caught by Mother when the bread oven collapsed under our weight.
I chuckled at the memory, though I remembered every detail more vividly than she did the smell of flour thick in the air, the exact words of the scolding, even the way Visenya had folded her arms and claimed she'd warned us all along.
That was the gift or curse of my mind. Perfect recall. The memories played before me like a moving picture, as sharp and alive as the moment they had happened.
Rhaenys often tilted her head at me when I recited details she could barely remember herself, half-amused, half-incredulous.
"Sometimes I think your mind is a vault," she said as we passed under a carved archway. "A vault that never loses its keys."
"Sometimes," I admitted, "I wish it would."
Her laughter was soft, bright, and for a while the memories carried us.
By the time we stepped out into the open air, the shadows had lengthened, and the sea lay spread before us—vast and restless, its wind rushing cool against our faces. We followed a stone path that curled along the cliffside. For once, silence lingered between us without weight, as steady and comfortable as the sound of the waves below.
Rhaenys brushed a loose strand of silver-gold hair behind her ear, her fingers delicate against the pale shimmer. For a moment she said nothing, then her voice came quiet, thoughtful.
"Aegon… tell me about your dreams."
I knew at once she didn't mean ambitions or desires. She meant my dragon dreams.
I breathed deep, the salt wind filling my chest as I considered my reply. The truth was, there was nothing new—no fresh visions, no revelations. Only the same fire-drenched images, the same shadows of wings vast enough to cover cities, the same echoes of conquest and ruin.
"There's nothing more to tell," I said at last, keeping my tone steady. "No new signs. No words I haven't already shared with you and Visenya."
I glanced at her, catching the way her amethyst eyes studied me, searching for some secret I hadn't spoken aloud.
"Nothing?" she asked softly, almost as if she wanted me to contradict her.
"Nothing," I repeated, though even as I said it, part of me wondered if I lied not to her, but to myself.
The sea whispered below us, waves breaking in endless rhythm, but my thoughts drifted far beyond the waters.
There was one part of me I never shared—not with Visenya, not with Rhaenys, not even with Orys. My dreams I had learned to speak aloud, to write down so that even if I forgot, the words would remain. But the other knowledge… the other life… that stayed locked within me.
The Imperium of Man. The Emperor. The galaxy that might yet come. That memory clung to me like a second soul, its weight heavier than dragonstone. For all my attempts to live only in this world, I knew: my very presence here already changed the weave of events. My choices could shift not only the fate of this land, but perhaps ripple outward—into futures I could only dimly imagine.
I pushed such thoughts aside with effort, burying them where they belonged—in silence and solitude.
I turned to Rhaenys. "And why do you ask about my dreams?" I said, keeping my tone even.
She didn't answer immediately. Her eyes lingered on the horizon, the wind tugging strands of silver-gold across her face. At last, she spoke.
"I thought," she said softly, "that perhaps you would fly alone to war… because of them."
For a moment, I said nothing. Then I nodded slowly, understanding her meaning.
But I would not leave her to that fear.
"It is not the dreams that guide me, Rhaenys," I said, voice firm. "It is strategy. The magister asked for fire, not an army. One dragon is enough to remind the world what it means to call upon us."
Her gaze flicked to me then, sharp as a blade but warmed by something deeper. She studied my face, as though weighing whether to believe me, whether to trust the steel in my words.
Some part of me thought about the pros and cons about ridding out now I was about to give some attention to that I was suddenly pulled out of my thoughts.
Rhaenys suddenly stepped ahead of me, forcing me to halt. Before I could ask, she jabbed a finger into my chest—hard enough to make me notice, soft enough to remind me she could. Her amethyst eyes caught the fading light, burning with a fire all her own.
"Good," she smirked, tilting her chin up. "Now that I have your undivided attention, we can actually talk properly."
Before I could form a reply, her hand lifted. Cool fingers brushed my cheek, then rested there, cupping my face as if I were something both fragile and unyielding all at once.
I froze. For all the countless drills and duels, for every lecture Father had given me, nothing prepared me for the simple weight of her hand against my skin.
Gingerly, I lifted my own and enclosed hers, as though afraid she might pull away. "I was listening, Rhaenys," I said softly. "I always do."
She shook her head, silver hair catching in the sea breeze. "No, brother. I know you. You've always had that strange gift—splitting your mind in two, in ten, in a hundred places at once. You can listen to me and plan wars and weigh the future all in the same breath. But I don't want just some of your attention."
Her voice softened, almost a whisper now. "I need it all. Here. Now."
A low chuckle escaped me, breaking the taut string of silence between us. I dipped my head in a slight bow, my smile faint but genuine. "Very well, Rhaenys. You have my undivided attention."
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Targaryen Histories: Writing by historitor Harry Sevenstar.
Notes recovered from Maester Adden.
It is often repeated by singers and scholars alike that "Aegon wed Visenya out of duty, but Rhaenys out of love." Yet such simplifications fail to capture the truth of the matter. The three were not merely bound by marriage contracts or the whims of statecraft, but by something older, deeper, and more dangerous.
They were the last of Valyrias legacy the last dragons in a world of stone and ash. Fire called to fire, blood to blood. Where else could they seek solace, if not in one another? To judge them by the standards of common men is to misunderstand the nature of dragons entirely.