Chapter Text
Rhaenys hummed contently, and she played with the strands in her fingers. The Queen got to enjoy her sister’s silver-gold locks every morning. Yet, that did not make it any less of a luxury. After all, only Rhaenys had the privilege of laying her hands on Visenya’s hair.
Well, that was not the entire truth. Aegon could touch her mane without losing the hand or his head. However, he was not allowed to play with it, to tangle and braid it into the most intricate of patterns.
That was a pleasure exclusively reserved for Rhaenys.
Oh, how the young Queen delighted in it.
Every morning, they would sit together in Rhaenys’ bed. The younger would take her time in, and she gently ran her fingers through Visenya’s mane as she softly, patiently, lovingly braided it into her older sister’s preferred style.
But something was different today.
Visenya was tense.
Rhaenys knew this stress was not borne of unease. For her sister was a woman of action, anything that threatened to become an anxiety was quickly dealt with by her sister before it had a chance to form. Sometimes it had even led to a few heads being separated from their shoulders.
No, this was something else. It was anger; it was frustration.
So Rhaenys did more than simple braiding. She ran her finger all the way through her hair to Visenya’s scalp, offering a gentle caress with every pass of her hands. Her persistence was rewarded with a small, quiet groan of pleasure escaping Visenya’s lips.
Those were worth more than jewels, but Rhaenys was especially adept at coxing them out.
“You are taking longer than usual,” Visenya commented, gruff voice laced with the anger and frustration Rhaenys knew was not directed at her.
Rhaenys ignored the question and leaned forward, burying her nose in her sister’s hair. “What ails you, my Love?” Rhaenys breathed out by her ear and placed both hands on Visenya’s shoulders.
Stiff.
Rhaenys smiled, not caring that her sister would feel the upturn of the lips pressed against her ear. Only one person could get so utterly inside Visenya’s skin and live to tell the tale.
Aegon was being stubborn.
“Nothing ails m-” the elder Targaryen gave another involuntary grunt of pleasure as Rhaenys squeezed between her shoulder blades.
“Something…” she whispered once more against her ear. “or rather – someone – occupies your mind.”
Visenya was a lot more entertaining than Aegon. Getting something out of her brother was an exercise in tireless discipline, futile for someone like Rhaenys. But her sister was different; she did not hide. That meant that with clever prodding, Rhaenys could coax anything out of Visenya.
It was simple. If Aegon was a siege, then Visenya was a hunt – and Rhaenys was very fond of hunts.
“It is n-”
Rhaenys dropped a kiss on her neck and then bit down.
“- It is Aegon. It is your brother,” the warrior rasped out.
The hunt was disappointingly short, but something in her sister’s tone made Rhaenys bite back the disappointed growl. Beneath the fury, the frustration was genuine worry. One that she seldom heard in her sister.
So instead, Rhaenys rested her chin down on her sister’s shoulder. Her lithe arms wrapped and legs around Visenya, completing an embrace. Then the younger Targaryen simply hummed, prompting the elder to continue.
Though her sister did not seem to notice the reassurance and simply continued her irritated tirade.
“His guards are fat, simple, and lazy,” she spat out with unmeasured vitriol, “and he refuses to replace them or take any more.” The elder Queen threw up her hands; disbelief evident in her voice. “What image would that give my subjects?” she mimicked in a mocking and outraged tone. “Did you know I had to kill another dornish assassin a few days past?” the edge crack of desperation punctuated the question.
Rhaenys understood why.
Aegon had always been her “Little One.”
None else could so easily get over the elder Targaryen’s skin, so easily beset her with worry.
Visenya, always the elder sibling, worried over all of them. Rhaenys did not question that she loved both her younger equally. Yet Aegon had always been that slightly larger chink in her armor.
The reason was simple.
There had once been a moment in which there was only Aegon and Visenya. And just like Aegon and Visenya’s eternal companionship had indelibly marked Rhaenys, her short absence would forever affect her siblings.
Perhaps none more than the sister in her arms. Visenya, all alone until the arrival of a small boy. Her first little one – the charge of him hers alone. Rhaenys felt that protectiveness, that initial instinct of care, would never truly leave Visenya.
Aegon would always be her “Little One,” and there would never be another one like him. Not even Rhaenys, for she was born a shared responsibility rather than a single one – born with two protectors instead of a solitary one.
In the past, it had rankled Rhaenys. The younger version of herself constantly feeling deprived of the attentions of her older sister and the perception she was left out of the bond between Aegon and Visenya. Little did she know that her siblings felt much the same. Young Rhaenys remained unaware of how attentive Aegon was to her and how Visenya seemed to rage in an effort to recover his attention. Aegon himself doted so on Rhaenys out of an insecurity borne from the focus she seemed to have on their elder sister.
Back then, they had been but children learning the world. Filled with insecurities and anxieties. The product of Aegon and Visenya’s inevitable nuptials – and the fear of how it would divide them.
Yet, they had found a way. It was a solution the Westerosi, the bunch of unwashed savages they were, did not understand. They saw a man with two wives and did not have the mental fortitude to grasp that Rhaenys and Visenya were as much wives to each other as they were to Aegon.
And once they had figured it out, once they had taken to the marriage bed, the three of them could accept and flourish in the dynamics between them. Visenya would always care for her Little One with increased attentiveness. Aegon would always pamper and spoil Rhaenys that much more.
And Rhaenys….
The Young Queen tightened her arms around her sister. Rhaenys brought her lips to Visenya’s neck once more, trilled into the tender flesh, and was rewarded with another of her wife’s precious groans.
She had this. This space and ease of providing comfort for her sister. Aegon might be Visenya’s chink in her armor, but the woman lowered the drawbridge for Rhaenys, displaying a vulnerability that even Aegon did not witness as often.
It was her responsibility and privilege, and she would not exchange it for any other.
“He is not as accomplished as you are…” she breathed into the crook of Visenya’s neck, “but he has Blackfyre. He is still a warrior.” Rhaenys snuggled into her sister, filling herself with her scent. “Besides, you are always by his side,” she muttered, almost as an afterthought.
“That is not-” if it was possible steel laced whine to exist, then it was what escaped Visenya’s lip. “He is just one man, even with Blackfyre by his side.” The older woman shuddered, a thin sheen of sweat beginning to cover her skin.
“Then you will be there, by his side,” Rhaenys repeated the comfort, hitching her sister’s hard body with her arms. “Just like you always have.”
“Rhaenys!” it was a plea, and it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “I will not always be here. For you or for Aegon,” and for the first time, she heard the resignation of defeat in her older sister’s voice.
Rhaenys separated herself from Visenya, enough to gaze into her eyes but still tightly pressed together. Visenya’s eyes flickered in a rare display of discomfort. It pained her to think of it, dawned of Rhaenys.
“I am the oldest; it stands to reason that…”
Rhaenys did not let her finish. Her lips rose to meet her sister’s. It was not the passion-filled touch they have had many a night but a gentle caress filled with comfort.
“Do not speak it,” she husked out, lips drawn away but centimeters from each other as their foreheads touched. Rhaenys would not let her utter those words.
Yet it was a selfish thing Rhaenys was doing.
Deep inside of her, an ugly unease uncoiled. Confronting one’s mortality was bound to happen after fighting in a conquest. Rhaenys had felt the uncomfortable lurch of her stomach when something came too close, when it seemed all too possible for everything to just end.
Yet only Visenya would consider where her death would leave her siblings – the elder sister as always.
Ironic since Rhaenys considered Visenya to be different. Her sister could not die. It was not the delusion of an awestruck younger sister. Rhaenys was sure of it. The young Queen felt it both deep in her bones and her gut. Visenya would outlive both her and Aegon.
It was no comfort either. Rhaenys was certain that it would be the greatest tortures for Visenya.
That is why she could not let her finish. Because Rhaenys herself could not bear to imagine that outcome. And such talk brought those images to mind.
The young Queen took her sister’s face in her hands and pushed their forehead even closer. “There is still much more time for us,” she said in a breathless chuckle. Rhaenys landed another small peck on her sister-wife’s lips.
Rhaenys closed her eyes and stayed with her forehead against Visenya’s, enjoying the simple warmth of her breath. Letting the images slip away.
“But I understand your concerns. When I return from Dorne, I will join my voice with yours to bring that stubborn fool back to his senses.”