Full Summary: The balance was skewed. Maegor was Visenya's son to the extreme, severe and savage, while Aenys was Rhaenys's shade, frivolous and fickle at turns. That was when the Targaryen Troubles began, some whispered, for neither had a matching Aegon to stay Maegor's sword, or embolden Aenys's heart. Yet, what if they did? A story of fanatical faith, the ever spinning wheel of fortune, and the twist and veers of fate. Maegor/Haraella/Aenys & Visenya/Aegon/Lily/Rhaenys. (Will contain Femslash for the Visenya/Aegon/Lily/Rhaenys pairing and, quite clearly, incest for both pairings)
Where Many Become One
AEGON TARGARYEN I
The Great Histories stated Aegon Targaryen never visited Westeros before his conquest. Undeniably, that was a falsehood, or at the very least, an embellishment. In his youth, along with his older sister Visenya, before the birth of Rhaenys, Aegon had visited the shrewd sprawling towers of Oldtown, and the sea-foam lipped Arbor in the Kingdom of the Reach, and had, once, supped at the tables of Lannisport itself, in the Kingdom of the Rock.
In truth, Aegon had seen more of Westeros than many of the men who called themselves Kings had, locked in their own Keeps in their own Kingdoms, casting suspicion to every shadow that fell too close.
Aegon had seen, and Aegon had dreamed.
It was how the Painted Table came to be, the allure of the Westerosi lands hot and heady in Aegon's veins from a young age. The chart became a marvel, his Painted Table, a stretching slab of oaken wood, chiselled and shaped to the scale and form of the lands to the West of Dragonstone. There was only one disparity the Painted Table took that contrasted reality.
No borders were decorated.
The stretch of the North bled into the Riverlands, and they together surged into the Stormlands unhindered, and down it all trickled, from Rock to Dorne, from Reach to the Iron atolls, they stretched and stitched and joined.
You see, Aegon dreamed of a day where Seven became one.
He was, along with his sisters, and the benefit of a very lost Witch, perhaps mad enough to see that dream come true.
Aegon Targaryen tempted fate only once, in an off the cuff comment. It was enough to spurn that unpredictable mistress into throwing everything she had at him, bound in the locks of sunset hair, flesh as white as cream, and eyes the hue of wildfire.
Yet, that came later.
First came the Storm King, Argilac Durrandon.
Argilac, later known as Argilac the Arrogant, sent a raven to Dragonstone one salt smoked morn, offering a marriage between Aegon and his only daughter and Heir, Princess Argella. With her hand came all the lands east of the Gods Eye, from the Trident to the Blackwater Rush in a somewhat bloated dowry.
It was funny, to be true, for the lands did not belong to Argilac to gift in the first place.
They belonged to Harren Hoare, styled King of the Isles and the Rivers, neighbour, and long time rival, to Argilac. Aegon saw through it at once, as swiftly as Visenya, and perhaps as merrily as Rhaenys.
Argilac had audacity, one could not argue otherwise.
You see, Argilac was struggling to build a buffer between his Kingdom and that of Harren's, and thought to use the Targaryens of Dragonstone as such a shield by giving lands not his own, but lands that suspiciously sat between the two warring Kingdoms.
Aegon declined his offer. He did so with a jest.
"I have no need of a third wife when I have two already."
And so, Fate veered.
In the end, Aegon offered an alternative. Instead of his own cloak for Princess Argella, and in turn Visenya's and Rhaenys's, for the three would not, and perhaps could not, be split asunder by war, conquest, or wedding beds, their bond so deeply rooted within them, Aegon offered the cloak of his bastard half-brother, Orys Baratheon.
Aegon received his answer one moon later.
Insulted and outraged at the imagined slight to his pride, Argilac sent back, boxed and bowed, the severed hands of Aegon's envoy, along with a short missive.
These are the only hands you shall receive from me.
Those men he had sent in peace. Those men who Aegon had to give news of their terrible fates to their weeping widows and babes not yet grown. Those men who he had known as a boy, who taught him sword and song.
Aegon, on Visenya's urging, called his Banners together, and sat beside the Painted Table in discussions, his sisters and wives at his side. Six days later, a horde of Ravens flooded from the towers of Dragonstone, so many some said the skies bled black at dawn, flying to every fen and valley and Lordling's castle of Westeros. Each Raven carried only one sentence.
Bend the knee, and you may keep your titles and land, do not, and feel the Dragon's fire.
Visenya, Aegon, and Rhaenys landed with their army, some one thousand strong, on the eastern coast of Westeros at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, where, amidst the dark waters and the rolling hills, they constructed the Aegonfort.
It was nothing spectacular, and less than worthy of a King's seat. A motte-and-bailey fort atop a knoll of grass and rock, come to be known as Aegon's High Hill. Later, like a pregnant belly, it would swell and rise. Fifty feet high walls would rope around the fort, a vast longhall cresting below. Across from the bailey, a stone kitchen would be erected, topped in slate, courtyards dotted with stables and granaries. The watchtower would double in size, spilling over to barracks, armouries, a Sept and a drum tower. Later still, the Iron Throne would be mounted in the smoky longhall, a soaring structure of Targaryen might and wroth.
Yet, in those beginning weeks, it was scarcely more than a lodge made of kindling and scavenged timber, nestled in mud made sludge by rain and river. From here, between river reeds and open bays, Aegon's conquest began.
Houses Rosby and Stokeworth bent the knee with minimal resistance, but Aegon and his sisters were not left without opposition. Lord Darklyn of Duskendale and Lord Mooton of Maidenpool, fearing the Dragons so close to their ancestral seats, joined power and marched south with three thousand men. Three times that of the Targaryen host.
Darklyn and Duskendale thought victory was assured.
How very wrong they were.
Visenya spied their armies from the back of Vhagar when they were three leagues out.
Aegon sent Orys Baratheon to meet them on the march, supported by the Targaryen soldiers, to scramble and break their lines whilst Aegon, himself, descended upon the army from above astride Balerion.
Lords Darklyn and Mooton left the battlefield as nothing more than a steaming heap of blackened bones.
The Targaryens had won first blood.
Faced with the deaths of their Lords, and perhaps the chance of meeting a similar fate, Mooton's brother, Jon, and Darklyn's son yielded their castles and swore their swords to House Targaryen. Visenya claimed the riches of Duskendale, the only thing the Targaryen's truly took, a principal port on the Narrow Sea. It was a keen move on his sister's part, as the Targaryen resources grew considerably large.
In the light of this, provincial castles and small Lords of the area fell one by one, bent by knee or fire, and at Aegonfort, on the slope of Aegon's High Hill, for those who survived, they gathered to watch Aegon be crowned in a Valyrian steel circlet studded with rubies by Visenya, hailed as King of All Westeros by Rhaenys at his side. Upon his breast, for the very first time, was emblazoned the three-headed dragon.
Perhaps it was because of this, the eye drawn to black and red and glittering crown, that no one, least of all Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys, looked to the ground, to where their feet stood, to what held dragons to earth and not sky.
A bed of lilies bloomed.
House Hoare had ruled the Iron Islands and the Riverlands as Kings undisputed for three generations, and what awful, dreadful generations they were.
King Harren Hoare, renowned as Harren the Black, had dedicated most of his long reign, nearly forty years long, to the construction of Harrenhal, the greatest, largest, and most impenetrable castle in Westeros, which stood proud and untested on the northern shore of the Gods Eye.
Thousands had died while erecting the castle, backs broken by carting stone, toppled from scaffold, buried in dirt and the slow deaths too, feeble from fatigue and whipped too many times. The Riverlands herself bared no better than the men and children building the black scar upon her face, her quarries and pits plundered for the stone needed, her forests stripped back to saplings, her fields burned and salted to make room.
It was fate then, perhaps, that on the very same day Harrenhal at last stood done, Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys landed at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush and the Targaryen Conquest commenced.
Black Harren thought himself safe in his high castle.
Black Harren thought himself untouchable.
Black Harren was wrong.
Having many great Ironborn Lords and Warriors in his ranks, and emboldened by his castle of stone, Harren made the first move. Raising his Banners, his men fought Aegon's host in the Battle of the Reeds, too close for Harren's comfort and just a short push forward for Aegon.
The Targaryens won, but had lost many a good man.
At the battle of the Wailing Willows, however, Harren's host was triumphant and, some thought, perhaps the tides of favour were turning against the Targaryens.
Nevertheless, Harren's fate would not be decided on what he was doing, but by what he had done, long before the Targaryens came screeching out the skies. After years of plundering, stealing and bathing the soil in innocent blood, looting and pillaging the Lords of the Riverlands, Harren the Black was hated in his own home.
Lord Edmyn Tully of Riverrun, the most formidable and well liked of the Riverlords, laid down his Banner, denounced Harren the Black, and stole away with his large forces to join the Targaryen's side. At Lord Edmyn's signal, numerous other Riverlords met his example. The Blackwoods, the Mallisters, the Vances and Brackens, Pipers, Freys and Strongs, one by one, rebelled against Harren and his ruthless Ironborn, and marched to stand beneath a banner of black and red.
Outnumbered, encircled by once thought of subordinates, and finally facing the Targaryen host now ballooned by men Harren had snubbed and slain, still thinking he was, perhaps, safe behind his walls of stone, Harren stocked his cellars and closed the gates of Harrenhal.
He could, in supposition, last through a siege for years due to his well stocking of supplies, where Aegon's army, surely, would disband in a few measly months.
Harren the Black would never know how long he could have held out for.
Aegon never gave him the chance.
Striving to talk sense into Harren, having felt the loss of the Wailing Willows heavily, wishing for no more blood to be spilled needlessly, to give Harren one last chance to bend the knee, Aegon met the Ironborn at his thick gate in parley.
"What is outside my walls is no concern to me. These walls are strong and dense."
Aegon frowned beneath his crown, violet gaze dark and keen.
"But not so high as to keep out dragons. Dragons fly, my Lord. I advise you sincerely, take my offer and you will be Lord of the Iron Islands. Decline and-"
"Your threats mean coin in a whores hand to me, boy. Stone does not burn."
Aegon had but one thing to say.
"When the sun sets, your line shall end."
Harren returned to his castle, and Aegon to his dragon, Balerion. To his men, Harren promised riches untold and the beds of daughters of the traitor Riverlords to anyone who could slay Aegon's dragon in the upcoming battle, and they supped together, hooting and teasing over mutton and ale.
The laughter stopped when the sun went down.
All was silent.
All was anticipating.
As the minutes drew on, Harren and his men eased, thinking it all a would be King's ruse, a hollow threat and-
And then Aegon Targaryen came sweeping down astride Balerion, high above Harrenhal, before plummeting down hard, fire unleashed and billowing in huge plumes of amber devastation. The castle lit like a torch, all that was flammable, both supplies and Ironmen, catching fire within, while Harrenhal's towers cracked and softened, dripping like wax.
Stone does not burn.
By dawn, Harrenhal still glowed orange, ignited and enflamed.
As for Harren and his sons, they died in the greatest of the towers, cooked in their own castle and armour like suckling pigs.
The ruined swords of the Ironmen, twisted and smelted in places by the fire, were foraged from the scorched fields and castle, loaded into carts, and hauled back to the Aegonfort. Yet, that was not the only thing to come from Harrenhal.
When the black smoke cleared, and the stone cooled enough to touch, Aegon ventured into the castle to see what he had wrought. A King must look, he knew, at even the ugliest parts of himself, if he were to be a better man for his people.
No one survived-
No one could have survived the blazing blitz.
Their bones sat searing in mounds and piles, breastplates melted into puddles jutted with black rib cage. Rooms evaporated into themselves, collapsed. Hallways warped and stooped. Courtyards sat sagged and crooked, puddled and pottered.
No one could have survived.
Then how, Aegon thought, did he find a woman in one such courtyard, asleep on a bed of lilies, the very same he was crowned upon, dressed so strangely, untouched by fire or melted stone, not a speck of dust or ash upon her fair skin, hair as bright as his own dragon's breath, slumbering.
Slumbering until Aegon, in disbelief, staggered over, peered and bent and she came blinking awake with a wildfire gaze.
"Merlin, James! I told you not to touch it! I-… You're not James… You're really not James… Who the hell are you?"
A.N/ Don't blame me for a new story, I was reading Fire and Blood and, well… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
As for the pairings of this fic, specifically the Visenya/Aegon/Lily/Rhaenys, I do want to say there will be femslash included with that pairing. As when I say Visenya/Aegon/Lily/Rhaenys, I do mean every iteration of that pairing. I.E: Visenya and Rhaenys will love Lily as much as Aegon and vice versa.
As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it, and if you wish to read more don't forget to drop a review, and I will hopefully see you all soon. Until next time, stay beautiful ~AlwaysEatTheRude21