Chapter Text
Vaenys Targaryen was only a few months old when her twin brother Maegor first tried to kill her via rolling on top of her. Although she kind of wished he had succeeded, her damned instincts kicked in and she wailed her lungs out.
There wasn’t a day passed without regret about that night, alas, it was too late. She had wailed and their mother separated their cribs.
Honestly, it was a miracle Maegor didn’t eat her in the womb, it really seemed on brand for him but somehow she not only survived the womb, survived the atrocious name combination of Visenya+Rhaenys= Vaenys, survived the crib she shared with Maegor and she survived to live eight name days in Westeros.
But it seems like this was as far as she would live. Eight years spent in Westeros and all she had to show for herself was the little red hatchling she named Cerberus. It just seemed to fit her gender neutral monarch that with all the number three thrown around. “Dragon must have three heads” the prophecy said and “Three children of the dragon” people called Aenys, Maegor and I so Cerberus fitted her weapon of mass destruction very much, thank you.
Looking back; she had a sickly body, a hatchling and a dream. Eight years of not only as the twin of Maegor the Cruel but also the daughter of Visenya Targaryen.
You know what, she’d like to see other people try. They wouldn’t even make it out of the womb for god’s sakes!
It was a sunny day in Dragon Stone, as if the gods welcomed her with open arms. “Come you, child o’ incest, today your twin shall claim your life and you’ll only be a few words in the history books.” They were saying.
“Now, Vaenys, I don’t want to see any pouting from you. You’ve been learning swordplay like a proper Valyrian dragonlord. This is no attitude to have when you have a new challenge to overcome.” Queen Visenya chided her spiritless daughter.
“But mom, Maegor is going to definitely kill me! If I die don’t let him claim Cerberus! Ooh, and pet Cerbie everyday because if you don’t they’d die of sadness and join me.” She said fluttering her eyes, desperately trying to guilt trip Visenya into letting her skip sparring with Maegor until she was ten.
She did not succeed.
“I’m sure Maegor won’t kill you over a stolen dessert Vaenys so don’t worry, you can spend all the time you want with your hatchling whose name won’t be Cerberus but a proper Valyrian one. Do you understand?” She said dragging her to the training yards.
“I’m telling you Cerberus was fearsome beast in Old Valyria. I definitely read it in an ancient tome. It’s even spelled as C-A-E-R-B-E-R-U-S.”
“Well, then surely you wouldn’t mind showing the ancient tome to me, daughter.” The exasperated queen said. “And you don’t pet a dragon, a dragon isn’t a cat. You spend time with a dragon, understood?” She asked but got no answer.
“Understood?” Visenya repeated her question.
“Yes, mother.” She said, her hopes her hopes crushed.
“Good.” Visenya said “I’m looking forward to see the ancient tome you speak of.”
She would’ve said D’Oh but no one in this universe appreciated her silly little sit-com references so she chose to keep her silence as she was dragged to the training yards.
Today the weather was too nice for Dragonstone and the training yard was nicer too. It was as if both agreed on mocking her by being too different from how she remembered it. Too bright, too hot, and filled with far too many overenthusiastic boys who actually wanted to be here. Where was the suffering, where was blood and mud?
Ah, yes the Targaryen words, blood and mud, hooray.
Maegor was already waiting, gripping a wooden practice sword that looked more like a club in his oversized hands. He was practically bouncing on his heels, eager to start and eager to kick her ass.
Vaenys, in contrast, was already exhausted.
Our master at arms, Ser Harrold Harroway, who was training me, stood before them. He was probably the uncle of Alys Harroway, the first of the many black brides, his expression unreadable as he handed Vaenys her newly crafted bastard wooden sword.
She nearly dropped it.
“That’s— heavy,” she said, her arms shaking under the weight.
“It’s a wooden bastard sword, princess.” Ser Harrold deadpanned.
Yes, she knew the bastard swords were heavier. Lengthwise a bastard sword fell in between a normal sword and a longsword but she didn’t think it’d be this hard to move with it.
Ugh, why did her mother had to choose today.
“Yes, and I’m a very small princess who, according to the maesters, still isn’t fit for physical exertion because her brother hogged all of the food in womb.”
Visenya hummed in disapproval.
“You’re of Valyrian blood,” her mother said. “Strength will come in time. For now, you will build it. I want to see your progress in a spar with your brother. Train hard now, so you may live comfortably in the future.”
That sounded like a fancy way of saying suffer now .
She turned to Maegor, who was already gripping his sword like he meant to take someone’s head off with it. Her eyes narrowed.
“I swear to the gods, Maegor, if you break my bones, I will haunt you.” She said.
“You wouldn’t die from broken bones.” He replied, unimpressed.
“Fine, then I’ll haunt you miserably .”
Ser Harrold cleared his throat. “We will begin with a spar to assess the princess’ progress.”
Vaenys rolled her shoulders, stretching out the lingering stiffness from training. It had been weeks of drills—footwork, stances, endless repetition—until her muscles ached and her hands were raw from gripping the sword. She wanted to be able to defend herself. This was a privilege a lot of Westerosi woman wouldn’t get.
Across from her, Maegor looked unimpressed. “About time.”
He had been waiting for this. She could see it in the way he adjusted his stance, eager to put her in her place. Maegor was stronger, faster, and far more aggressive. But she had trained. She wasn’t going to win maybe, but she wanted to save face if she could.
She once again reminded herself how really very lucky she was to be allowed to learn how to protect herself—even if, right now, the person she needed protection from was standing in front of her.
“Or, hear me out,” Vaenys chickened out, “I watch from the sidelines and take notes while my brother kick other poor sods. Like a scholar.”
“You are not a scholar, you will not be a scholar.” Visenya said.
“I could be!”
“You will train with your brother, who is already skilled with the sword. He is your age and will make a good sparring partner. You will learn from him. And you will enjoy it.” Her mother said sharply, leaving no room for argument.
Maegor smirked at her.
Ugh.
Ser Harrold gave a patient sigh, stepping back to gesture for them to begin.
“Prince Maegor, Princess Vaenys—take your positions.”
She took a deep breath. Alright. She could do this. She was a Targaryen. A dragon. She had the super special magic-elf-Valyrian-dragon-blood.
Dragon blood that, unfortunately, came with the muscle mass of a malnourished sparrow.
Damn you Maegor! If you’re going to try to kill her for the third time you better succeed this time. She wasn’t sure she’d survive a broken arm in Westeros.
The second Ser Harrold gave the signal, Maegor lunged.
Vaenys barely got her sword up in time before the impact rattled her down to her teeth.
Oh, absolutely not.
She instantly let go of the sword and threw herself to the ground, splaying out like a dead fish.
“I yield!” she declared, staring up at the sky. No, not in a ugly loser way; Claire, it’s French! “The gods have taken me!”
There was a long silence.
Maegor loomed over her, frowning in confusion.
“Get up, Vaenys.” Visenya ordered.
She groaned. “Mother, I have perished, avenge me.”
“Now.”
With a dramatic sigh, Vaenys sat up, rubbing her sore wrists.
“You should at least try .” Maegor muttered.
“Oh, I did try,” she shot back. “I tried surviving, and guess what? I failed .”
“Again.” Visenya ordered.
Vaenys groaned as she was handed her sword once more.
She was going to die. Not in some great battle, not on dragonback, not even by Maegor’s eventual descent into villainy.
She was going to die because her mother forced her to spar against her monstrous twin brother at eight years old.
And knowing her luck?
Maegor was going to love every second of it.
Once again her brother lunged at her but this time she was wiser, she knew she would get the cartoonish rattling starting from her arms to all her body so she dodged to the side making Maegor stagger.
And also making her trip on her own feet, falling right on her back.
The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain up her spine, knocking the breath from her lungs. For a moment, all she could do was lie there, staring up at the sky, teeth clenched.
She hated this. Hated the way her body never quite kept up with her will, hated how she felt so breakable next to Maegor, hated that she knew this feeling already.
Because this wasn’t the first time Maegor had hurt her.
She was six the last time—small, delicate, still catching up to her twin’s monstrous strength. He hadn’t meant to do it, she knew that, she kept telling herself that, but intent hadn’t mattered when he had yanked her away from her ladies by the arm so hard, her shoulder popped clean out of its socket.
She had screamed. Not just in pain, she had screamed bloody murder .
She had expected Maegor to be rough. To shove her, to knock her down when they wrestled, to hold her in place when he was bigger and stronger and knew it. But she hadn’t expected that.
The pain had been unbearable. The maester had to set it back in place while she bit into a leather strap, silent tears rolling down her face. And Maegor?
Maegor had stood there, stone-faced, watching.
She hadn’t spoken to him for two months. And for a child, that was a lifetime.
Now, as she lay on her back, winded, she felt that same pain creeping in again—not as sharp, not as unbearable, but enough to make her stomach twist.
She blinked up at the sky, willing herself to breathe through it.
Then, a shadow fell over her.
“Are you mad at me again?”
Maegor.
His voice was strange—gruff, like he didn’t actually care about the answer, but the way he hovered just a little too close gave him away.
Vaenys closed her eyes briefly, remembering how, back then, he hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t said anything at all. But she had felt it, in the way he had lingered, in the way he had glared at anyone who was so much as looked at her wrong while she healed, while she was in so much pain that she couldn’t use her shoulder.
Now, looking up at him, she saw that same look in his eyes.
Worried. Frustrated. Ready to hit something about it.
She groaned dramatically, dragging it out just to make him sweat. “I don’t know, Maegor,” she said at last, rolling onto her side with an exaggerated wince. “Are you going to rip my arm off this time?”
Maegor scowled. “You tripped.”
“Yes, well, you lunged at me, so really, this is your fault.”
His grip tightened on his practice sword, knuckles turning white. Not because she was wrong, but because he didn’t like being wrong.
And Maegor, being Maegor, didn’t handle guilt like a normal person. He handled it by looking for something to hit.
Unfortunately, she was the closest thing.
She saw the shift in his stance before he even moved, before he could even think about making up for his mistake by doubling down on it.
So she did the only reasonable thing:
She kicked him in the shin.
Not hard, but enough to make him stumble back, blinking down at her in shock.
“There,” she said, pushing herself to her feet with a groan. “We’re even.”
Maegor opened his mouth, closed it, then scoffed.
“That was weak.”
“I am weak!” She shot back, dusting herself off. “That’s the whole point.”
“Then fight harder.”
“You fight less hard.”
“That’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid.”
“Vaenys!” Visenya called, unimpressed.
Vaenys huffed. “Fine, fine. I’ll try .”
Maegor smirked, raising his sword again. “Good.”
She took her position, rolling out her sore shoulders. At least he wasn’t sulking.
And at least this time, he hadn’t dislocated anything.
Progress.