After a week of mourning, the court slowly shifted its focus to the next grand affair. A feast here, an upcoming tourney there, and time flowed ceaselessly onward.
In those days, distractions abound within the walls of the Red Keep, a vibrant tapestry of diverse things and faces. King's Landing, indeed, stood as a multicultural hub, drawing sailors from far and wide who sought to trade and negotiate. It was a city where visiting lords from distant lands was a common sight for a prince like me.
Undoubtedly, these encounters aided in preserving my sanity as I grew up. Listening to tales of foreigners transported me to dreamlike realms, stories that served as doorways to the farthest reaches of the stars.
Occasionally, someone truly extraordinary would grace my father's court, radiating charm, exuding bloodlust, or displaying overwhelming intelligence. Some men evoked such malevolence that their mere presence sent shivers down your spine, while others embodied unbridled virtue. Queer priests and skilled jugglers, men who dared to swallow flaming swords — each brought their unique allure.
Among them, one of my personal favorites was Xhadho Zhalas, an intrepid adventurer hailing from the Summer Isles.
Standing tall and muscular, with olive skin and almond-shaped eyes, Xhadho crossed paths with me during the initial year of my father's reign.
I was a mere eight years old then. I couldn't resist the urge to laugh and jest, remarking how his leopard-skinned cloak made him resemble a 'pimp.'
I took it upon myself to explain the concept to him. Xhadho chuckled and wondered how a young Prince like myself had come to know of such things.
"In the Summer Isles, no such 'Pimps' would be welcomed," Xhadho shared, his voice carrying a sense of solemnity. "The union between man and woman is considered sacred worship."
Four years later, as I gazed upon a swan ship gracefully gliding into the Blackwater, I knew that Xhadho must have embarked on yet another one of his daring escapades.
I sat with Xhadho at a beautifully arranged round table nestled within the royal gardens, shielded from the sun's rays by the canopy.
Xhadho Zhalas and I formed a bond rooted in our shared curiosity and thirst for knowledge.
"Tell me," I asked eagerly, "is it true that Nymeria once graced your homeland with her legendary ten thousand ships?"
Xhadho Zhalas nodded, plucking a grape from the platter. His expression showed disappointment at the taste, "She visited our shores. Some of their descendants still remain on the Isle of Woman. However, our stories do not speak of the ten thousand ships."
"The stories etched onto tree trunks?" I inquired.
A smile played upon Xhadho's lips. "It may sound peculiar, but Tall Trees Town holds great significance for my people. Our entire history is carved into those ancient trees."
"Fascinating. I would love to read those tales," I remarked.
Xhadho's response was swift. "I'm afraid that chance is slim. Our history is zealously guarded, reserved for our people."
His words inspired me to refill his wine cup. "An outsider, you say? Such a classification wounds me," I teased. "Tell me about the Swan Ships.
Xhadho Zhalas stretched his neck, indicating that it was a lengthy tale. "Our oldest maps only depicted the Isles. It wasn't until the Ghiscari accidentally ventured our shores that we realized there was more beyond the horizon. They landed on my home island of Walano, and since then, my people have dedicated resources to sea exploration."
"You hail from Walano?" I asked.
"Yes," replied Xhadho Zhalas, "from the city of Lotus Point."
"Is that where the ships are constructed?" I inquired further.
He chuckled, "No, young Prince. Shipbuilding thrives on the island of Koj, just south of my homeland."
"I see," I nodded, "So your king has a monopoly on ship production."
Xhadho shook his head, correcting me, "Our Isles have no singular king. We have many princes and princesses."
I wasn't about to let go of the topic of Swan Ships. The Summer Islanders sailed the world on those magnificent vessels, braving open oceans and treacherous storms. They were the grandest ships I had ever laid eyes upon, with towering masts and cloud-like sails.
"Why do your ships have such a unique shape?" I asked curiously.
"We are a benevolent people," Xhadho explained.
"— And you prove it through lovemaking. Yes, yes."
Xhadho continued, "... When slavers discovered our existence, we became vulnerable targets. Your Valyrian ancestors offered considerable sums of gold for slaves from our Isles. Our beauty and quick wits made us desirable in the eyes of slavers.
"But greed corrupts all hearts, no matter the port you sail to. Prince turned against Prince and sold their rivals to the slave trade. Our histories refer to that period as the 'Years of Shame.' It was only when a warrior emerged, Princess Xanda Qo, that all the isles were united under what you Westerosi would call a monarch.
"We had scarce steel on our isles to fashion weapons capable of battling the slavers. The bow became our weapon of choice, and the wood from our goldenheart trees crafted bows stronger than any other except those made from dragon bone.
"Princess Xanda constructed ships that could accommodate a great number of our renowned archers, with raised, curved platforms to provide vantage points for our archers. With a touch of ornamentation, they resembled the curved necks of swans, don't you think?"
Although I found Xhadho's explanation satisfactory, a troubling thought lingered in my mind.
"It saddens me to think that your people transitioned from worshiping gods of sex and fertility to engaging in the slave trade," I expressed with a hint of melancholy.
"Such is life," replied Xhadho Zhalas, "An evil in every heart."
I sighed at the bleak outlook. "A pimp in every port."
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With each passing name day, the mounting pressure to promise my hand in marriage became increasingly burdensome.
The narrative remained unchanged. Forge alliances here, secure the succession there.
They cloaked it in flowery words, but I knew the reality of Westeros — a continent of warlords, each striving to bolster their power.
It was a game, I understood. I saw how they perceived it. They believed they knew the rules, how it should be played.
Once upon a time, I had similar inklings. I thought I understood the game, the system. I believed I had outwitted "them," the shadowy figures who pulled the strings.
All of this is to say that my charade of feigning childlike ignorance was wearing thin, and I needed a new approach. The topic of my betrothal enticed the small council, causing their mouths to water, and there was only so much delay I could employ before drastic measures were required.
Lords would often arrive, accompanied by their daughters, whether fair or plain. Yet, time and again, these young maidens would conveniently fall victim to an unforeseen bout of stomach illness.
How fortuitous it was for me. I could hardly be bound to someone who spent their entire time in the capital hunched over a chamber pot, enduring the torment from both ends!
We swiftly spread the tale, a rumor circulating through the city. The official explanation was that these maidens were so anxious to meet their Prince that their bowels betrayed them. Such was my charm~
The citizens playfully referred to it as the "Prince Shits," until some mistakenly used the term to describe the unfortunate consequences of indulging in the pot shops of Fleabottom. I'll admit that Cleave took their punishment too far, nailing tongues to front doors.
That was not to say there hadn't been close calls. It wasn't until Ser Otto Hightower began to hope that I might fall in love with his daughter, Alicent, that the Hand of the King stopped incessantly insisting to my father about the issue of promising my hand in marriage.
But even that smokescreen began to fade. Ser Otto grew bolder by the day. It was only a matter of time before he offered Alicent's hand.
In terms of political gain, it may not have been the greatest choice, and Ser Otto knew it. He would broach the subject to my father pretending that my happiness is the most important, I wagered.
And who could have been a wife to make me happier than dear Alicent? Witty and beautiful, our friendship famed throughout the court. Many liked to label her as my childhood sweetheart of sorts.
I knew I was in trouble when Ser Otto started hinting again during small council meetings. It was very subtle, yet unmistakable.
He would speak of his admiration for my mother, highlighting how she made a good queen in her own unique way, a visage of Queen Alysanne.
The underlying message couldn't have been more obvious: A strong ruler needs a strong queen. The question hung in the air, silently demanding an answer: Who would be the Prince's queen?
But that wasn't solid proof of anything, I knew. Everything conducted within the Red Keep was carefully veiled in plausible deniability.
Therefore, I felt compelled to test my hypothesis. On the occasions when I attended council meetings, I made sure to speak loudly about the captivating scent of a particular flower that had recently caught my attention.
And lo and behold, Lady Alicent would appear wearing that exact fragrance. Change my newfound favorite scent, and once again Alicent would adapt.
In the past, such blatant insults to my intelligence would have quickly ignited my anger. But I realized that it actually worked to my advantage. The longer they believed I was oblivious to such manipulations, the better.
However, the discussions regarding my betrothal grew more intense with each passing year on my name day. It became crucial to stay ahead of the small council before they convinced Father to lock himself into an idea they cleverly made him believe was his own.
"I wish to embark on a tour," I declared. Uncle Daemon was absent from the small council that day.
"A tour?" my father questioned. "A tour of where?"
"The entire realm," I replied. "I want to see it all."
"The King cannot simply abandon matters of rule to go on a tour," Ser Otto interjected.
"I don't need to bring the whole family, Ser. Only me." I clarified.
My father leaned back in his chair, curiosity etched across his face. "What has brought this on?"
I half lied, "Mother's recent pregnancy still weighs heavy. I want to pray in the Starry Sept for her good health."
"Understandable…" my Father said solemnly, "Every Prince should visit the Great Sept at least once. Right, Otto?"
"... It is as you say, Your Grace."
I suppressed a mischievous grin, "Exactly my thoughts and more. I yearn to visit the vibrant orchards of Highgarden, to set my eyes upon the mighty Casterly Rock, to breathe the Eyrie's thin air. Oh, how I crave the chilling winds of the North!
"I aspire to acquaint myself with the land that will one day be under my rule — the people who inhabit it, the diverse landscapes that shape it. I long to immerse myself in their customs, understand their hopes and dreams, and listen to their captivating stories.
"If I don't seize this opportunity while I am still young, the weight of responsibilities will consume me, and our people will be deprived of a King who truly embraced them."
The more I spoke, the more the Tour expanded, and the more my sister's face contorted in horror.