This AU was born from a conversation about how one would write Rhaenyra Targaryen as a boy. My answer was that realistically one would have to write an entirely different character *or* make Rhaenyra a trans woman, and that frankly I would prefer the latter option. I then combined this with one of my longstanding headcanons about gender in the Valyrian Freehold, and Wildfyre Wives was born!
Many thanks to @mothematics and @ScottishMongol for listening to me yap about my brainworms, and @lesbianlightbringer and @assassinfox for betaing this!
As always, all mistakes are mine, and I appreciate any and all feedback.
Visenya had been prepared for many things when she stopped at the door to her brother's chambers. She had expected the potent stench of alcohol, Aegon's disheveled appearance, and a messy room. What she had not expected was her brother-husband to be in the middle of fucking what appeared to be a silver haired whore.
"Aegon!" she shouted, causing her brother to start, frantically scrambling away from the whore. As for the woman herself, she bore a look of pure terror, clearly frightened of Visenya and her bloody reputation.
Visenya could admit her first instinct had been to run the woman through, but realistically speaking it wasn't her fault. Aegon was the king, and no whore had the capacity to resist him if he so chose. Shooting the woman an apologetic look, Visenya turned to the Conqueror, who had been trying to scramble to his feet, and punched him in the jaw. Fixing the unfortunate whore with her gaze, the Queen spoke as calmly as she could:
"I will not hurt a whore just because she was made to sate the lusts of this fool. Go now, and tell absolutely no-one what you saw or what you did today, or I will personally run you through with Dark Sister."
A hint of Visenya's fury must have bled into her voice, for the wench flinched at first, before her eyes widened with astonishment. As the woman babbled her gratitude, gathering her clothes with great speed, Visenya had already turned her attention back to her brother.
"Aegon," she hissed, "what in the name of the Gods do you think you are doing?" Her brother was thankfully not too intoxicated, and the shock of her arrival was already wearing off, his lust and fear bowing before his considerable self-preservation instinct. Good, maybe he would actually listen to his gods-damned sister-wife this time, even if only to avoid her becoming a kinslayer.
"Visenya," he tried weakly, "I…." He swallowed, and visibly gathered his resolve. When Aegon next spoke, it was not Aegon, Visenya's younger sister speaking, but Aegon the Conqueror, the First of his Name:
"I have been mourning our sister for over a year, and yet her loss still hurts. I was lonely, and you and I both know why I did not seek you out instead."
Visenya's unamused look has made Lords grovel before, but count on an annoying little shit of a brother to meet her gaze without flinching, as if he was being earnest and not blatantly lying through his teeth. Vhagar's rider's fury had cooled, and she now spoke with an ice cold derision punctuated by the movement of her hands.
"Can't you think with your brain instead of your cock for one fucking second? I miss Rhaenys too, I feel her loss daily, feel the hole in my heart where she once was, but you do not see me moping around and refusing to engage with matters of the realm. As you once told me, the Westerosi are stupid, and they see my lack of a child as an opportunity to foist their own Andal brides upon you. I already have a reputation as a frigid bitch; if word got out that you were fucking whores instead of your wife, then the pressure would become unbearable to have us divorce and you remarry."
Aegon paused for a moment, his mind examining every aspect of the dilemma. For all that Visenya will never love her brother the way she is supposed to love him, she respects his skill, and if nothing else he is an invertate political operator. "Fuck" he whispers, "our not so loyal vassals want us to have a child don't they?" His sister's grim expression was enough of an answer for him.
They could argue about this, neither of them wanted to do it in the first place, but the political logic is clear. Better to suffer through this and avoid giving a house of Andals or First Men the privilege of being royalty, explaining why exactly Visenya hasn't borne any children of Aegon's, or risking it all on the health of a sickly son. Yes it will be unpleasant, but their bloodline will be secure, and both brother and sister have been taught to prioritize its survival above all else. They will do their duty.
Aegon hung his head defeatedly. "I am truly sorry you must endure this, mandȳs," he said, his tone regretful, "when we are done here, go and gather the requisite "materials" for the ritual."
His sister nodded, her expression serious, but then a playful expression overtook her sharp features. "Perhaps," she teased, "the mighty king might put his clothes on, so that we may talk about his sister." A pause, and then Visenya is speaking with the familiar mix of familial love and chiding commentary which had Rhaenys nickname her sister's tongue "Pink Sister". "It is one thing to mourn Rhaenys," she says softly, "but you are destroying yourself and damaging our grip on power, and I cannot allow this."
Before Aegon can respond, his sister is headed for the door, where she turns back towards him. "Get some clothes on," she drawled, "and when you are presentable come to my chambers, we have much to discuss, and I am not letting you shirk your duties for a moment longer."
Prince Viserys Targaryen was not a religious man, but at this moment he could think of nothing else to do but pray to the gods; that they might protect his wife and child in his time of need.
He needed a son, a prince, for there was much more on the line than just the succession. Aegon's dagger gleamed in his mind's eye, the destiny of his family, a destiny which now lay in peril. House Targaryen grew fewer in number by the day, the Old King's prodigious brood of offspring vanishing one after another. Viserys had not wanted to try for children so soon, especially not when Aemma was still young, but his duties were clear.
Viserys had done all he could. He and Aemma had followed the instructions of the maesters to the letter, such that they might bring forth a child as speedily and painlessly as possible, and now his wife was in the hands of the most esteemed Maester in all of Westeros, Grand Maester Runciter. The Prince had been excited for the pregnancy, hopeful even, but now that the child was coming he felt naught but dread.
A scream of pain, but one of many he had heard this day, emerged from the closed door of the birthing chamber, and Viserys flinched. He had been pacing outside the door for hours, his thoughts chasing themselves in circles. He needed to take his mind off of sweet Aemma's pain, lest he drive himself mad with anxiety. Maybe he could go talk to Otto? The man had children, surely he knew what to do in this situation. Viserys was just about to step away when the door was thrust open, and he heard the squalling of a babe.
Runciter, a soft smile on his face, ushered the Prince into the chamber. Purple eyes met Arryn blue, and the cloud of anxiety and fear which had so consumed Viserys burned away. Aemma was alive, and she held a babe - their babe - swaddled in cloth. His wife looked exhausted, but a small smile graced her lips, and in a hoarse voice, she sent her husband's heart soaring into the Seven Heavens:
"Viserys, dear, meet Rhaegar, our son."
Visenya woke slowly, warm and luxuriously drowsy, her entire body tender and aching sweetly. It was a novel sensation, altogether unlike the saddle sores she was used to accruing. She hoped to become very familiar with it, in time. The Sword of the Conqueror, the mighty warrior who had slaughtered the entire Arryn fleet, did not feel like getting up right now. The Queen's body was pressed against perhaps the comeliest woman in all of Westeros (only surpassed by sweet Rhaenys), her arms wrapped around Sharra's oh so grabbable waist, and she could think of no place she would rather be at the moment. Nestling into the older woman's neck, Vhagar's rider breathed deeply of her scent, her eyes fluttering closed once more.
When they next opened, Visenya was greeted by strikingly blue eyes, set into features that made her heart flutter. Sharra cupped the Queen's cheek before placing a chaste kiss upon the younger woman's lips. When the Lady Regent (formerly Queen Regent) withdrew, her eyes gleamed with affection, and she spoke with regret in her voice:
"I waited as long as I could to wake you, but it is nearly midday, and you told me in no uncertain terms to not let you sleep beyond noon."
Visenya, cursing her past self, groaned in displeasure. She wrapped her arms around Sharra and buried her face in the other woman's chest, whining petulantly:
"Could we not linger for a while longer? I do not wish to leave either this warm bed or the comfort of your arms, and I am your queen now, am I not? You must obey my orders, and I command you to remain abed with me for another candlemark."
Lady Arryn's laugh, so high and free, made Visenya's heart skip a beat. Visenya never thought the day would come when someone not named Rhaenys would look at her and see Visenya the Bookwyrm instead of the Sword of the Conqueror. The Targaryen queen wanted to get to know Sharra as intimately as possible, to learn what made her laugh, to delve into the depths of her history as comprehensively as she had explored the older woman's body. She dreamed of a life spent with a woman she loved (for she would never stop loving her sister).
Alas, the Lady Regent was correct; Aegon and Rhaenys were expecting her, and it would not do to leave them high and dry. With a sigh, Visenya disentangled herself from Sharra, her eyes roaming across her lover's sharp features. Normally Visenya would have said that the Westerosi had no taste in anything, but Sharra's reputation for beauty was more than deserved. What the bards and lords had failed to mention was that the Regent was also witty, charismatic, and whip smart.
Sharra must have known that the Queen needed more incentive to get out of bed, for after shooting Visenya a wink, she threw back the covers and slid out of bed in a single fluid motion. Dark brown hair fell across her bare back, and Visenya could not help but let out a gasp at the sight of her lover in the nude. The Queen's eyes traced supple curves, and in the blink of an eye she slithered out of bed embraced and her lover from behind., eliciting a fond chuckle. They stood there for a moment, relishing the feelings of closeness and intimacy.
When the pair separated, they both wore wan smiles. They dressed quickly, slipping on clothes with the efficiency of women used to dressing in a hurry. The air was thick with melancholy thoughts, for neither woman was a fool. Neither was willing to forsake family and duty, even for the sake of love. The soft blues of Sharra's dress were as much armor as Visenya's dark leathers and steel cuirass. When Sharra finally spoke, it was with a sad sense of inevitability:
"Visenya, I know we have known each other for a few days, and yet I find myself hopelessly besotted. You have conquered my heart as surely as you have conquered the Vale. I shall be endlessly loyal to you, I shall take no other to bed with me, and I will gladly give you that sweet succor only a lover can provide whenever you return to me. All I ask in return is that you do not forget me, o radiant daughter of Valyria."
Purple eyes widened, and a soft "oh" escaped Visenya's sculpted lips. She had only one answer she could give to such a confession.
"I shall never forget you Sharra, so long as I still draw breath. I swear upon the Fourteen Flames that until I vanish from this earth I will return to you as often as I can. I vow to defend you from harm, to offer aid when you are in distress, and to love you with all my heart.."
The lovers would find space in the margins of history and on the periphery of their duty. In whispers they swore to write to each other regularly, to find a time and place where they could meet once more. They would come together whenever possible, and find that they ached for more that could never be.
They shared one more kiss, savoring the salt of each other's tears, and made ready to break their fast. By the time they were seen by the rest of the keep, there was no hint of tears, only the commanding presence of two of the most powerful women of Westeros. They ate lunch at the same table, and after eating her fill, Visenya courteously thanked her hosts for their hospitality. It was time to go.
Sharra Arryn, Lady Regent of the Vale, and her son, Ronnel Arryn, Lord of the Vale, bid goodbye to Visenya Targaryen, Queen of Westeros, in a polite but otherwise unremarkable ceremony in the courtyard of the Eryie.
In 37 AC, Sharra Arryn was butchered in her own bed, the victim of a coup d'etat by the younger of her two sons. Not long after, Jonos Arryn had his older brother Ronnel thrown out of the Moon Door, remarking that Ronnel would fly one last time.
Viserys Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, King of the Andals and the First Men, was not a happy man.
He had found exactly what he had been looking for in his books, and he knew exactly where he could find more information on the topic. It had confirmed all of his fears.
Aemma and Rhaegar didn't know. They didn't have the cultural or academic context necessary to understand what exactly Rhaegar's behavior pointed towards. The King, however, was a scholar of Old Valyria, someone intimately familiar with their cultural practices, and thus he was burdened with the gift of knowledge.
According to the records of the Freehold, this was not a malady that Viserys could save his son from. A condition like this was not curable, nor did the rulers of the Freehold think it needed to be cured. He would have cursed himself for not thinking of the possibility, but the odds had been slim: some books said as little as few as one in a thousand babies would show such signs. Yet this… peculiar condition was an inevitable consequence of the special bond the Valyrians shared with dragons, for the bond between dragonriders and their mounts was well known to flow in both directions.
Many thought the Targaryens to be masters of their dragons, but Viserys knew better. He had been bonded with Balerion, felt the weight of that ancient and mighty beast upon his mind, and had feared what it meant for him. Balerion was not just the Conqueror's dragon, but Maegor's as well, and both men had left their marks upon the Black Dread. Even the melancholy and solitude that washed over Viserys when Balerion passed could not quench the thought that he was free, free in a way most Targaryens would never be.
The King sighed, for Rhaegar would never be free.
The boy had bonded with his dragon to a degree that surprised everyone in court. The young prince's cradle egg had hatched rapidly, and his connection with the hatchling was such that he had first ridden Syrax at the tender age of seven, just a year prior. A stronger connection was sometimes a sign that a dragon rider was one of the perzqrogor, and it was not long after his first ride that Rhaegar had first seriously began to exhibit odd behavior.
It had started innocuously, refusing to cut his hair, something which Viserys had assumed to be in imitation of his parents with their silver locks. It was when he talked to Rhaegar after the fact that Viserys realized something was amiss. The boy had insisted, specifically, that he wanted to be just like Visenya when he grew up. Rhaeger's dedication to his combat training and dragon riding, once heralded evidence of his masculine potential, now took on an entirely different character in the mind of his father.
Shaking his head, Viserys shoved the thought down. He did not need to ponder the evidence any longer, he needed to make a decision. His mind told him that there was no alternative to following the wisdom of his ancestors, that no Maester had ever confronted such a problem. His heart, however, refused to give up his son. Viserys had his heart's desire, and he did not want to lose the boy he so cherished. What was a man to do? Should he follow his heart's desire, or should he succumb to cold reason?
Then, a flash of inspiration. Standing suddenly from his desk, Viserys reached for a blank piece of paper. Sitting back down with a grunt, he picked up his quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write.
There was only one person he could talk to about this matter: Daemon.
"Sister, stand down."
Aegon's tone was calm, his tone gentle. If not for the men at arms behind him and Dark Sister pointed at his throat, one might have mistaken this for a friendly conversation between siblings. It was no such thing.
Visenya could hardly contain herself. Aegon, her younger brother, was usurping her, stealing her birthright for his own use. He was a fool to think she would take this lying down. First she would separate his head from his body, and then she would cut her way through every last filthy traitor and reclaim her seat.
Aegon, looking rather perturbed, cleared his throat before continuing:
"I am not doing this for power and glory, Visenya. I have seen something, seen it in my dreams. Just as Daenys the Dreamer foresaw the Doom of Valyria, I foresee the Doom of Westeros if we do not act."
Visenya had expected many things, but not this. She felt her lips open in shock, and Aegon, noticing her weakness, pressed his case:
"In the future, a great evil will come from the north, a freezing cold which will stop at nothing until all living things are destroyed, a great army of the dead led by men of ice. Only dragons, creatures of the Fourteen Flames, the embodiment of Fire itself, can stop them.
The Westerosi will be like helpless babes to the slaughter, but unlike the Doom, we, the last heirs of Valyria, can avert the coming apocalypse. We must unite Westeros under one banner, crush the petty kings, make the Andals and First Men alike cleave to our orders. They will not listen to reason, and so it is our duty as their superiors to conquer them, to rule over them with Fire and Blood, just as our ancestors would have."
It sounded mad, but Visenya knew her brother, and he was not one to entertain delusions without good reason. There was one thing that bothered her however.
"If you are driven by a vision of the future, why does it matter that it is you sitting atop the throne?"
Her brother got a sad look in his eye, and he looked away from her eyes. His next words bled guilt from every word:
"The Westerosi will never accept a woman, let alone a perzābra, ruling over them. You know how backwards the Andals are, even the very concept is likely to send them into fits. Furthermore, you have not been yourself for quite some time. I am truly glad that you have found yourself, but in the time where you secluded yourself in the archives and threw yourself into training, you neglected your duties in regards to our men-at-arms and other staff. Many have given up on you as a lost cause, especially those who do not know the traditions of old Valyria. I do not wish to do this, but it is the only way to ensure that the conquest goes smoothly."
Gods damn him. Aegon was right. Her little brother might be lacking in several respects (his understanding of trade and taxes was embarrassing for someone of his station) but his logic was sound. Visenya had been so wrapped up in her own misery that she had failed to see the fractures forming around her, and now she was confronted by the consequences.
She lowered Dark Sister, her eyes dropping to the floor. When she spoke, her voice was naught but a whisper:
"You really believe that, don't you."
His silence was answer enough.
Visenya breathed in, and sheathed Dark Sister. "Very well," she sighed, "this family and our legacy is more important than my own wants and desires."
She swore an oath to Aegon the very next day.
The day after that, Aegon wed Rhaenys, and the joy in the younger woman's eyes hurt more than giving up her birthright ever could.
Aegon had taken not just her throne, but her sister.
Daemon Targaryen was not a man known for being reluctant to share his opinions, and as soon as Viserys heard Caraxes' screech, he knew he was in for an earful.
When the wheelhouse carrying Daemon arrived, Viserys had gathered Aemma and Rhaegar to greet his brother as a family. Daemon was all smiles and presents (he had brought a dagger from Lys for Rhaegar, which Aemma immediately confiscated), but his eyes were serious, and he wasted little time on pleasantries.
"Come brother!" he proclaimed, perhaps a bit too boisterously, "we have much to discuss."
The appearance of a jovial family reunion lasted until the door of Viserys' chambers slammed shut, at which point an awkward silence settled over the pair of brothers.
Daemon sighed, pinching his brow, and broke the silence with a gentle reprimand.
"Viserys, I don't know what you expect me to tell you, but this is not your choice to make. If you truly suspect Rhaegar of being a perzābra then you know as well as I do that this is not something you can prevent."
The King scoffed, his temper rising. "I am not an idiot, Daemon," he snapped, "but I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to keep my son." A pause, and his expression softened. "I always wanted a son, I love Rhaegar, I really do, and I do not want to lose him."
Daemon was blatantly exasperated, and his voice was incredulous:
"Brother, you and I have both read Visenya's diary. You can try and withhold the relevant information, but in doing so you will condemn Rhaegar to needless suffering. This is not a choice between your beloved son and a stranger, but a choice between having a dead son or a living daughter. If you truly love Rhaegar, you'll be entirely forthcoming and supportive. I, for one, would vastly prefer to continue spoiling my niece instead of burning my nephew's corpse."
Viserys hated to admit it, but Daemon was right. Clinging to his son would do absolutely no good, for according to the scholars of Old Valyria, to try and deny a perzqrogor their nature was to condemn them to a slow death. It had been compared to deliberately murdering a dragon rider's mount in front of them (a most horrific punishment), and Visenya's diary was quite clear that before becoming aware of her true nature she had been suicidal and listless.
Daemon must have sensed he had won over his brother, for he cracked a smile.
"Chin up Viserys, it is not every day that one has the opportunity to parent the second incarnation of Visenya."
~~~
Visenor was miserable. He had not always been so, but it seemed hard to remember a time in which he was happy, to remember a time before the world's colors had dulled. Visenor felt as if he were controlling his body at a distance, as if his life was happening to someone else. Mirrors were hard to look at, for a stranger looked back at him, a man whose eyes held a torment none seemed to see. Existence itself seemed a nightmare, only fitfully interrupted by the reprieves of sparring, reading, and sleeping. His siblings had tried to help, but they knew as little of what ailed Visenor as he did. The Prince of Dragonstone went about his days in a daze, as if by rote, escaping into the words of others or the mind-numbing routine of training whenever he could.
So it was that Visenor found himself in the Targaryen family library that fateful day. He had been reading one of the histories of the Freehold when he found a passage that would change his life.
It spoke of how the dragons had changed their riders too, of how some dragonriders took on aspects of their dragons, how some had changed their sex, defying the limitations of their inferiors and embracing their true nature. A dragon's sex is as ever changing as fire, and so those who, like dragons, transcended the limitations of mere men came to be known as perzqrogor. Visenor was consumed by the need to know more, animated by a burning desire which he could not name, and he began to look for more information, searching through the library until he found the book which proved the key to his salvation.
It was written by one of the perzābra, one of those who had seized her womanhood from the flames, and detailed everything. She wrote of the symptoms a perzqrogor might exhibit, of draconic blood magics which could reshape their body, and of how she had managed to bear children despite her lack of mortal womb.
It was the hour Visenor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, eldest of three siblings, breathed his last, and Visenya Targaryen was born.
