He wanted to choose, he truly did, but couldn’t bring himself to do
such. If he had a soft spot for anything, it would be his two sisters. They
truly were the only family he had. He had dreamed of marrying each of
them, both separately and together. If he were to marry just Rhaenys,
he would have a queen loved by the people, a proper queen who would
dance with all the high Lords and sing sweet songs to their children. If
anyone was made to be a proper Queen, it was Rhaenys.
But Visenya was the essence of power. With Dark Sister in one hand and
a shield in the other, she would be the most fearsome Queen the world
had ever seen. Surely, she would not make the high Lords happy with
praise and dances, but she could rule, perhaps just as well as he could.
She had always been closer to him in mind instead of in bed. Surely,
Rhaenys would give him all the sons he needed, but Visenya would give
him more than that.
“I know of Rhaenys’ reactions to ideas of a… non-traditional Valyrian
marriage. I have thought much of arranging a marriage for her, though I
cannot see potential in any of the Lords of the Kingdoms we have taken.”
He lets a sigh out at this, fingertips meeting his forehead in thought, and
he shakes his head.
“Perhaps it is my love for her clouding my judgment. She would make a
fine Queen, truly, but the allegiances to be made through marriage are
strong as well… I have received a raven from the Dornish Princess; she
speaks of peril in Dorne since we have blocked all trade routes to the
Kingdom. It looks as if this strategy of politics has taken it’s toll on the
Dornish, since Princess Myria speaks of talking of joining the Kingdoms,
though she asks for much in return.
I have thought about marrying Rhaenys to Myria’s son,
Loran I believe his name is. I have heard much of him.
He is a good fighter, I am told— good with spear and
shield. One informant has told me he is of good heart
as well, a kind man who studies much when he is not
practicing in the yard and giving counsel to his mother.
He would be a good match for Rhaenys, if these words
of him are true. I have not returned a letter to Myria yet.
I had hoped to think on the decision more. You know
how loathe it would be to give up a sister of mine to
another man, though I know of Rhaenys’ other… affairs.
Still, I am possessive of each of you.”
Speaking of the choice out loud somehow helps to clear his head of
what to do in this situation. He knows the Faith of the Seven will not
permit him to marry both of his sisters, no matter how much he may
wish to and how much he may threaten them. It would be unwise to
go against the religion of his people, that was certain. He may not
give a damn about the Gods, but Visenya ultimately spoke truth. He
must respect the Faith, at the least, if he wanted the people to accept
his rule.
“There is reason you are my top counselor, sweet sister. Though your
words may not be sweet, they are honest.” A small laugh comes from
Aegon at that, and eyes of violet meet her’s. Her next words force his
grin to turn to a smirk, and he shakes his head in amusement. “It has
been a long while, my dark sister.” The feeling of her warm breath on
his ear and neck cause small goosebumps to raise on his skin. While
he shares a bed with Rhaenys most every night, his warrior of a sister
is not so easily pleased.
A strong arm reaches out to wrap itself around her waist, holding her
with the same strength that took the Kingdoms. “My fierce Visenya,
you truly are a brute, making me wait until the night falls for you to
warm my bed. You forget that my bed is just as cold in the morning
as in the evening.”
Plans would unfurl before her eyes, skating on the thin line between Aegon’s own needs and the needs of his kingdom. They had only been blessed by the Gods for their sweet brother—strong and courageous, though he was, the churning of ideas under his thick head would bring the Targaryen name well-deserved fame. He was the medium between both Visenya and Rhaenys—it was only right for him to forge a throne from iron and sit upon it; he was a m a r v e l in himself.
"You seem to speak with no wish for my advice—Rhaenys is not stupid, dear brother. Rhaenys would make a decent queen. We have sparked something here, brother… a legacy—the Targaryen name will never sit in the dust again. It will be emblazoned on every wall in Westeros, in bright dragonfire, it will sing of our conquest, of how we took the armoured kingdoms. The pyromancers will sing for us, and etch our name in wildfire… they will pay homage to us, for our dragons, for the great Balerion, the strong Vhagar and the valiant Meraxes. Do you not see, brother? What happens now is your choice… and your choice alone. You have my counsel… and you have the counsel of those around you. I wish not for you to rule over a burned kingdom, but Westeros will burn if it doesn’t bend its knee. There is nothing the people can do when they must seek refuge from us—when they are penniless and in need, when they mourn the death of their friends and families… if Rhaenys will not marry a Dornishman, I will make sure your kingdom hails you.”
Eyes would shift toward him, quickly raking over the mound of muscle clinging to his shoulders. “Be careful though, Aegon. These... Dornishmen are tricksy, and though cutting trade from its walls may lead them to your feet, there is naught you can do to keep their heads bowed and their knees bent. Rhaenys must do that, and, well… I do not know whether the Dornish are quite so lenient with… our sweet sister’s… apt copulation. And perhaps they do not like her—you sent her to Dorne to take it----should you not like to meet this Loran before you ship our sister off to marry him?
You cannot put faith in all your informants, not from this land. Me, Aegon. You must trust me, and Rhaenys. We are your sisters, we are your lovers. If you trust anyone’s counsel, it should be ours. Though you strike yourself into a pit, brother. You cannot be possessive of me—for I am not your possession. I am not yours to own, I am a fighter in my own right. You would do well to remember that, if you do not wish to end up in the dirt. Perhaps I wished away from you… then I would go, freely. I am a Targaryen, a warrior, and a leader. Do not mistake what lies between my legs for weakness.”
The wry smirk twitched at her lips, smug and unfaltering as words spilled from his lips. “If I cannot tell my idiot brother what he is to do, then who can?” A hand would lift, smoothing fingertips over the graze of stubble that clung to his cheeks. Her head tilted, twisting to glance up at violet irises. “----No more a brute than you, dear brother. Your bed may be cold, though my body not much warmer. When night falls, my armour comes off. Not a moment before—you know this, my sweet… Unless you do not wish for me to come at all…” The smirk would thrum through her voice, dainty digits ghosting over the back of his hand, before prying at the wrap snaking tightly around her waist. “I may oblige either way.”
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