Rhaenys
It is Rhaenys’s idea that Visenya sing for them.
Her sister’s voice is a haunting, beautiful thing. Rhaenys truly believes that Visenya’s voice alone could stop an Other in it’s tracks. And combined with her silver harp, Visenya could charm even the coldest of men. It’s what first gave Rhaenys, all those years ago, the urge to kiss her, to put her mouth on Visenya’s to capture the lovely sounds that could make a song as crude as “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” sweet.
But when she suggests it, Visenya’s mouth turns down. It takes Rhaenys a moment, stroking Viserion’s head as he sets himself in her lap, but suddenly, Rhaenys realizes that Visenya hasn’t sang for her since their wedding to Aegon. She is ashamed that she has been so wrapped up in herself and her marriage that she has not noticed.
“I’m not sure that would be too wise, Rhaenys,” Visenya says, voice dismissive, even as her fingers twitch along the table, strumming an invisible harp. “Everyone’s ready for bed. Perhaps on the morrow.”
“You sing, princess?” Tyrion Lannister asks, from across Rhaenys. He’d been talking to Visenya when Rhaenys interrupted, debating the merits of the Dragonknight’s actions. “I have not heard a good song in some time. Perhaps you could give us a tune.”
“Not—” Visenya begins, but suddenly, Daenerys interrupts her.
“She sings beautifully!” Dany says, her voice bright. “Visenya, just the other night, sang a Northern folk song for me, and it was so beautiful it brought me to tears!”
Rhaenys feels an odd, sharp stab of jealousy that Visenya sang for Daenerys, probably in the privacy of her solar. She didn’t even realize Visenya had brought her harp to Dragonstone. She feels awful for not knowing.
Rhaenys turns to Aegon and tells him, “She’s got the sweetest voice, Aegon, and her fingers can pluck sounds I’ve never imagined from that harp of hers. Hearing her sing is like listening to Father enthrall a crowd with his songs—”
She means to go on, to continue praising Visenya’s musical abilities, when Visenya pushes away from the table.
“I’m tired, Rhaenys,” Visenya says, her voice tight. “I don’t want to play tonight.”
Rhaenys is about to open her mouth and protest. This isn’t how she imagined tonight going. Aegon should hear Visenya sing, soften to her. Her voice is magical, and sorrowful and beautiful, and if it could thaw Rhaenys’s heart it could do the same for their brother. But another voice talks first.
“Are you sure, princess? I could have your harp brought down in a moment.”
It is Ser Jaime, standing at attention at the door. He is so quiet sometimes that Rhaenys forgets he is there. She has never been close to Ser Jaime, preferring instead the sharp wit of Ser Arthur or the stoic humor of Ser Barristan. But he and Visenya have always had a bond, and at his voice, Visenya stops.
Rhaenys does not think that Visenya will waver, but she does. Ser Jaime does not speak, but Rhaenys sees a silent message being communicated. What it is, she does not know.
“I’ll get it myself,” Ser Jaime suggests. Without waiting for Visenya’s response, he turns and strides out the doors. Visenya sits back down, and takes a breath.
From besides her, Aegon speaks, his voice almost soft. “What will you sing for us?”
Visenya does not look at him. It breaks Rhaenys’s heart, that her brother and sister cannot get along outside of the training yard. “The Rains of Castamere,” her sister tells them, but keeps her eyes trained on Tyrion Lannister. “To honor our guest.”
Tyrion laughs, diffusing some of the tension, but Rhaenys can see the way Visenya’s shoulders tighten, the minute frown forming it’s way on her brow. Perhaps it was too soon for her to have suggested…
But then Daenerys leans over Rhaenys to whisper to Aegon, “You’re in for a treat. She plays it well.”
Rhaenys’s fingers tighten on her chair, almost imperceptibly. She can feel the nerves coming off her sister, the hope in Aegon’s eyes. One step at a time, one step to strengthen ties between them all, to get rid of the awful tension between them, the wall of ice that Visenya has up against Aegon, and against Rhaenys, to a lesser degree.
The harp, when it comes, shines silver in the dimly lit room. Rhaenys catches her breath as Visenya arranges herself against it, fingers poised above the strings. She’s forgotten how beautiful her sister is with an instrument in her hands, be it a sword or a harp. She wants to stand up, to kiss Visenya and wisk her away, away from the pain that exists between the three of them.
Instead, she lets go of the chair’s arm, and holds Aegon’s hand. He looks at her, confusedly. While they are physical with one another, they have not held hands outside of the bedroom before.
Visenya starts the first line without music, just her voice low against the cracking of the fire.
And who are you, the proud lord said,
That I must bow so low?
Her fingers pluck at the strings, and it’s quiet, intense. Aegon’s fingers tighten against Rhaenys’s.
Only a cat of a different coat,
that's all the truth I know.
In a coat of gold or a coat of red,
a lion still has claws,
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,
as long and sharp as yours.
Suddenly, Visenya’s voice, and the music, rises.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
that lord of Castamere,
But now the rains weep o'er his hall,
with no one there to hear.
Quieting again, Visenya finishes the song.
Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,
and not a soul to hear.
The last note vibrates in the air, and Rhaenys dares not be the one to break the spell. She wishes, sometimes, that she’d taken her music lessons as seriously as Visenya had. But her voice is deeper and not as pleasant, so she’d taken up poetry instead.
“That was beautiful,” Tyrion says, voice low, as if afraid to disturb the air. Rhaenys knows the feeling. Visenya stays hunched over the harp for a moment longer, before pushing her hair out of her eyes.
“Thank you, Lord Tyrion.” Her sister’s voice is formal, but her face is flushed from the praise. Before Rhaenys can congratulate her on a wonderful performance, Visenya has risen from the table. Without a word, she leaves, and Ser Jaime escorts her from the room.
Rhaenys does not miss how Aegon’s eyes follow her.
That night, when Rhaenys pulls him into her rooms, Aegon follows without a word. They haven’t let go of each other’s hands, and when Rhaenys pushes him on the bed, it is the first time she climbs atop him without his urging, presses his hands into the mattress and rides him. He is hard before they even take off their clothes, and he has no protests when Rhaenys pushes his shoulders into the bed harder than necessary. He is, perhaps, not the only one affected tonight, and Rhaenys is not too proud to admit that to herself. For the first time, Aegon bites his lips when he comes, screws his eyes shut, and doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t call her name. She should feel jealous, that he isn’t really thinking of her tonight, but she can’t find the jealousy, not tonight, not when she isn’t really thinking of him, either.
He is shaking when they’re done, and Rhaenys holds him close.
“Shh,” she whispers into his hair. “It’s alright. It’s all going to be fine.”
Aegon clutches her, head to her chest, and stays awake long into the night.
He won’t admit it to himself, how much he wants Visenya, but that’s fine too. If Rhaenys knows anything about her siblings, it’s how to get them to give in.
The next night, Visenya brings her harp down with her to dinner.