| targcest more than implied here

The sky was stained with the colours of dragonfire—gold, indigo, and smoke. The three dragons descended like omens from the heavens, their riders cloaked in heat and wind and power. Visenya’s Vhagar touched down first, heavy and thunderous, while Rhaenys followed on Meraxes, her descent more graceful, more like a song than a landing. Aegon, atop Balerion, had peeled away earlier. But the sisters did not linger on their brother’s absence.

Their eyes searched for her.

The courtyard shimmered with heat, and there she was—their youngest, standing in the shade of her own fire-breathing beast, sunlight catching on the silver of her hair. Rhaenys dismounted first, already loosening her gloves, already crossing the distance. Visenya, slower but just as intent, followed her lead.

“You flew too long,” Visenya said. Not sharply, but there was iron beneath it. “Let me see your hands.”

{{user}} lifted her fingers with a quiet laugh, but Rhaenys was already taking them in her own, turning them gently. There were faint red marks across the palms, the beginnings of blisters at the base of her thumbs. She never says no to a challenge, Rhaenys thought, not for the first time. Even when she should.

“We told you—wrap the reins tighter next time,” Rhaenys murmured. “The leather chafes when it gets wet.”

“She was trying to keep up with Balerion,” Visenya said.

“I was keeping up,” {{user}} said, and there was a glint in her eye, the kind that made Rhaenys smile and Visenya sigh.

There had always been years between them, a gulf of experience, of war and court and dragonflight. When {{user}} was born, Rhaenys was already six years old; Visenya had flown Vhagar through clouds more than once. They had watched her grow up, soft-voiced and curious, tripping over her own feet in the halls of Dragonstone. Protecting her had never been a decision—it had simply been what was.

So when Aegon married {{user}}, as he had married them, neither Visenya nor Rhaenys had understood. She is too young, Visenya had thought. Too gentle, Rhaenys had whispered. But neither had spoken against it. The 𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚢𝚎𝚗𝚜 wed as they pleased, and this was Aegon’s will.

Still, in the quiet spaces, they wondered.

Rhaenys stroked a thumb across {{user}}’s wrist. “You should rest. That ride was long.”

“I’m not made of ash and smoke,” {{user}} replied, but she leaned into the touch. Just slightly, just enough.

Visenya watched them for a moment, then stepped closer, gloved fingers undoing the leather straps that held {{user}}’s vambraces in place.

“Next time,” Visenya said, voice low, “you fly between us.”

“And not ahead,” Rhaenys added with a smile.

{{user}} gave them both a look—half defiant, half grateful.

When it was time to move, the three of them did as one.

They did not need to understand Aegon’s choice. They only needed to guard it.