"You are the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires."
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The tale of the Prince Aegon Targaryen and his marriage to Princess Valeria Martell.
Aegon Targaryen FF
HOTD
18+
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As the first century of the Targaryen Dynasty came to a close, the health of the King, Viserys the Peaceful, was failing. In those days, House Targaryen stood at the height of its strength with seventeen dragons under its yoke.
No power in the world could stand against it.
King Viserys reigned over nearly thirty-six years of peace and prosperity, but tragedy had claimed his first son, Baelon, the Heir for a Day, thus leaving his succession in doubt.
So, in the years following, the Peaceful King called a great council to choose an heir.
Over a thousand Lords made the journey to King's Landing. Two succession claims had divided the kingdom of Westeros...Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, the King's eldest child and Prince Aegon Targaryen, the King's eldest son.
"It is declared by all the Lords Paramount and Lord Vassal of the Seven Kingdoms that Prince Aegon Targaryen be made Prince of Dragonstone."
Princess Rhaenyra, the King's eldest child and a woman, would not inherit the Iron Throne.
The Lords instead chose Aegon, the oldest living male son, as tradition decreed.
Viserys called the Great Council to prevent a civil war being fought over his succession. For he knew the cold truth...there was a threat far greater that lied South of the Capital.
Ten thousand Dornish warriors were storming northwards on ships to join the Triarchy in the fight over the Stepstones. The self-proclaimed King, Qoren Martell, would not bend the knee to the house of the dragon just as his ancestors did not, not yet.
And as the Prince, and now Heir, Aegon and his brother, Aemond, stormed into battle on the back of their fully-grown dragons, they demanded the King Qoren bend the knee and save his men or his head would be offered to the Crown and his armies would die in dragon-fire. On that day, King Qoren Martell bent the knee, saving nearly half of his army and his vessels to ride home.
In order to prevent Dorne from betraying the Crown, King Viserys, as one of his last orders as King, declared a reward for Aegon's valiant victory over the Stepstones--a wife by the name of Princess Valeria Martell, the eldest daughter of Qoren Martell.
The blade that cut along Valeria's bottom lip was pure dragon-glass. Copper filled her tastebuds while she tried her hardest to ignore the sting.
No emotion. She reminded herself. Not here, not now.
The man standing before her was a stranger, just as the High Septon was a stranger, and these halls and all. She knew not of this strange land, only catching a glimpse of it all this morning when she arrived by ship.
Now, only a few hours after landing on port, she was standing before the man she was expected to call husband, but instead held another name for him in her mind; Targaryen Bastard.
His thumb ran across her lip to pick up the drop of blood from her lip, where he marked her forehead with the oath and vows of a marriage.
His eyes were strikingly purple, almost too terrifying to look into. The striking silver hair that was kept short was defiant of Targaryen customs, and to be completely honest, he did not look happy in the slightest either. His expression was as cold as his welcoming when he took her hand upon the altar.
All eyes were on them as they cut into each other's palm—hers soft like velvet and that of a princess—and his rough and calloused from combat like a dragon-rider.
When their hands clasped and their blood spilled onto the floor together, it was now bound by blood that she was his—and he was hers.
And as they were now proclaimed to be together and bound forever before the Gods...all was left to seal their oath with a kiss.
Valeria stared into Aegon's eyes with so much contempt and hatred, as he did hers. Both of them looking as though they had been given death sentences.
He didn't give her a loving kiss, or even a gentle one.
Aegon pulled her forward by her bleeding hand, their faces only centimeters apart as they glared upon one another.
Wordlessly, he leaned forward and kissed her lips with a hard way that hurt a little. It took all of her strength not to push him away, and she did not kiss him back—only glaring at him further.
There was no love to be found between them: the Heir to the Iron Throne and his future Queen.
Long may they reign.
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