Chapter 86: Chapter 53: MatrimonyNotes:
I'm back… at long last.
January was a really rough month for me. My depression went into overdrive, forcing me to spend the last month wrestling with it.
It took me a while, but I've recovered enough of myself that I was able to write this chapter, despite my depression strangling my muse.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"And so Queen Alicent's marriage ended same the way it begun; With a war."
-Excerpt from 'House of the Dragon' by Maester Daenys Fyre
114 AC, Great Sept of Aemma,
"You know, I didn't expect this place to have actual dressing rooms." I muttered, as I leaned back in my seat. "I don't remember these being in the original floor plans."
And I didn't mean some Septa's quarters or a repurposed bathroom, but an actual dressing room. One complete with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, polished wood vanity and dressing tables, a walk-in wardrobe and even several mannequins modelling various outfits.
The Great Sept's dressing room was actually more well-stocked than my own dressing room back in the Red Keep. Though to be fair I'd honestly hardly ever used my own dressing room, treating it more as a storeroom.
"It's because Septas need to get dressed as well." Maegelle spoke up, as she dipped a fine-toothed comb into rosewater and ran it through my hair. "You'd be surprised at the amount of work that goes into looking good for a ceremony."
"That, and the fact that this is the biggest and most prestigious Sept in the entire Realm, outside of the Starry Sept." Rhaena added, as she delicately manicured my nails. "You're hardly the only highborn woman to get married here."
"Though by far the most high-profile." Viserra muttered, as she worked on my face with brushes and puffs.
"I suppose." I hummed noncommittally, as my female relative fussed around me, adding makeup and jewellery onto my face and body as though I were a live-sized Barbie doll.
My cousin and body double was right. Outside of the King himself, it really didn't get any more high-profile than the Heir to the Iron Throne.
To punctuate the point, near everyone whom was anyone was going to attend the my wedding, which was set up to be the social event of the decade.
"So why white?" Viserra curiously asked.
"Hmm?"
"Why the white dress, I mean?" My lookalike repeated, gesturing to the wedding dress I was currently wearing. "I was honestly expecting black and red."
The overwhelming majority of dresses in Westeros were in the style of a ballgown, with a corset, narrow waist and large poofy skirts. The finer the dress, the more voluminous the skirt. Alicent had worn such a dress during her wedding, and so had my own mother Aemma.
In sharp contrast to convention, I'd ordered a mermaid-style dress specifically tailored for my wedding. Elegantly slender and form-fitting, the white silk dress hugged my body, showing off my curves and lithe figure.
The dress started from my neck with a beautiful halter-neck collar of white gold, made of coiling dragons with ruby eyes, all conjoined head to tail in a beautiful ouroboros. Descending from the collar and stretching down to the tops of my breasts was a layer of thin gossamer wool with patterns of dragons dancing in the sky, leaving my arms and shoulders bare. From my breasts, the dress trailed down my body all the way to my feet in a river of sheer silk.
While Alicent had opted for high-heels made of milkglass, I'd gone for thigh-high boots made of white leather, with plenty of tiny ribbons and flowers worked into the material.
The remainder of my regalia lay delicately on the table, awaiting the moment they would be donned.
First and foremost were a pair of long white lace gloves that stretched all the way up to my biceps. Shimmering and translucent, my gloves—Along with the hem and lining of my dress— were embroidered with cloth-of-silver in designs that evoked both flame and floral patterns.
The wedding veil was a minimalist affair, little more than a square foot of floaty gauze attached to a small hair ornament that would be discreetly hidden in the bridal updo I intended to style my hair in.
The train of my dress was a relatively practical seven feet long, as compared to Alicent's massive monarch-style train twenty feet long, and in a show of unity between our two kingdoms, made completely out of Nordosi cashmere. Woven in the city of Alfheim—Whose weavers and tailors were famous across the Kingdom of New North—the fine wool was embroidered with countless dancing dragons. A grand armada never seen since the days of Old Valyria.
"Come now, a white wedding dress is not just iconic, but traditional." I chided.
"Actually, strictly speaking, it's only traditional for the First Men." Maegelle spoke up. "For Andals, the bride is actually supposed to wear her House colours one last time. And for the Valyrians, their traditional weddings used robes of red, to symbolise blood."
"Yeah, now that you mention it, is it just me, or does it seem like pretty much every bride I know is marrying with white dresses?" Rhaella piped up, as she worked on giving me a pedicure.
"Do you all have time for a brief history lesson?" I dryly asked.
"Feel free. We'll be here for at least another hour." Rhaena shrugged.
"The whole white wedding thing was popularised by our great-grandmother, Queen Alysanne." I fondly recalled, thinking back to her and the fireside chats we used to have. "Not completely sure why, but Grandmama hated the colours of red and black. Possibly because red was the colour of blood, and black was the colour of death, and she'd seen much of both during Maegor's reign and beyond."
"Now that you mention it, I hardly recall any paintings of Queen Alysanne in those colours." Viserra noted, frowning contemplatively. "She's usually depicted wearing white, cream, green or blue."
"Indeed, and so when her wedding day came, instead of our traditional black and red, Grandmama decided to walk down the aisle wearing a dress of pure white like those of the First Men." I continued. "You see where I am going with this?"
"Ohhhhh." All four of my cousins chorused, eyes widening as they were enlightened.
"So that's why white wedding dresses are so popular nowadays." Maegelle noted in wonder.
"Royalty does not obey fashion. We set it." Viserra quoted in a near-perfect imitation of my voice.
———
Oh god why did Viserys still have that horrible tuxedo? I was pretty sure I ordered a Dragonseed—which one exactly, I couldn't remember— to quietly dispose of that tacky eyesore while no one was looking.
So how was it possible that here my father stood, wearing that very same outfit once more?
Even if the Dragonseed— Oh wait, it was Erik whom I asked!—failed, Viserys had grown increasingly fat over the years, and should not have been able to fit himself into that attire any more.
"Nyra, you look spectacular." My father smiled as he beheld me in full wedding splendour for the first time.
"Thank you." I nodded, before turning an imperious eye to his outfit. "I didn't realise you still had those clothes."
"Oh, these aren't the same clothes I wore for my own wedding." Viserys answered with a small shrug. "Some miscreant had them stolen during the confusion of the war."
"Wait, you mean…"
"Yes. I had another outfit made, exactly the same." The King proudly said, patting his bulging stomach. "Though with a few modifications to accommodate my own… growth."
My father then began chucking over his rather weak joke even as my eyes twitched and I resisted the urge to cuss in seven different languages.
It was bad enough to have blown taxpayer coin on a truly overpriced and tacky outfit once. But twice?!
Seven Hells Below and Everburning. The sheer waste and stupidity involved was physically painful.
Thankfully, I was spared further torment by the arrival of two people.
I resisted the urge to whistle in appreciation, though from the look on Lord Redfort's face, I must not have completely succeeded at quelling my appreciation. Beside me, Viserys' breath hitched at the sight before him.
"Aemma?" He asked, in a voice that was nearly a whisper, heard only by me. But the moment faded, and I saw him return to the here and now.
Lady Jeyne Arryn didn't particularly resemble my mother Aemma Arryn. While it was true they both shared the same Arryn colouration of blonde hair and blue eyes, Jeyne's hair was a darker shade of blonde, molten gold instead of sand, and her eyes a deeper sapphire blue.
She was also more slender than my mother, with a longer face and sharper cheekbones, though her figure was less full. One would normally be hard-pressed to mistake aunt and niece for the other, but these were not normal times.
For one, Jeyne was wearing my mother's wedding dress, an elegantly flowing ballgown of white silk that trickled down from pair of soft leather shoulder straps, with a featherlike pattern worked into the leather. The straps extended from the top of her sternum and over the edges of her shoulders, before looping back around and joining once more at the base of her neck, revealing my cousin's entire collarbone.
Below, the dress blossomed out into elegant pleats, the white silk delicately embroidered with silver thread to form patterns of a great flock of birds, all fluttering around as she walked, occasionally revealing the delicate ballet flats that covered my cousin's feet.
Like traditional Vale-style dresses, my cousin's dress had wing-like open sleeves, almost capes, that descended from her leather collar, revealing her bare arms beneath. Though unlike traditional Vale-style dresses, Jeyne's sleeve-cape was made from heavy fur, descending down all the way until it pooled on the floor by her feet.
Similar to me, Jeyne's wedding train was meant as a sign of unity. A great pelt of a massive snow bear, gifted by the Vale Mountain Clans. The beast had been massive, at least thirteen feet tall, with a bulk to match it. So large was the pelt that it almost looked like Jeyne was wearing a great fluffy tent on her shoulders, yards upon yards of voluminous fur tumbling down like the folded wings of some giant bird of prey.
So large was my cousin's cloak-sleeve-wedding train that she was unable to wear a maiden cloak. Instead it would be presented to her at the altar by her ex-girlfriend Ser Jessamyn, for her to cloak her groom with.
"Cousin." She greeted, inclining her head politely as she approached.
"Cousin." I greeted back, mimicking the gesture.
In order to streamline preparations and save money, Jeyne and I agreed to hold our weddings together in a double ceremony. It helped that as both family and the two most eligible bachelorettes in Westeros, much of the guest list would overlap, so the assembled lords and ladies would not need to travel all the way back to the capital a second time so quickly.
"Lord Redford." My father greeted the other man.
"Your Grace." Lord Redfort replied.
Lord Euhorn Redford was definitely one of my staunchest allies among the Blacks. The man was father to both Jessamyn and Adrian, and by far the most progressive highborn lord I had the pleasure of knowing outside of Dorne, even moreso than well-traveled Corlys, in fact.
For one, Lord Euhorn both knew about and encouraged his daughter's nonconformist behaviour. He supported Jessamyn's training at arms, and her later budding romance with Jeyne. And although his daughter later broke off the relationship in favour of a white cloak, he still kept in contact with Jeyne, loving the Lady of the Vale like his own child. He didn't even complain too much about losing a second child—his only son and heir no less— Adrian to the Kingsguard.
In fact, in a wonderful show of Black liberalism, instead of naming a nephew or niece heir, Lord Euhorn insisted on me legitimising his bastard daughter— and firstborn child—Delilah Stone as heiress Redfort.
Traditionally speaking, when a bride's father was unable to walk her down the aisle, the duty would fall to her closest male relative. In this case that would be her first cousin Arnold Arryn, whom was also semi-openly rebelling against Jeyne in an attempt to usurp the Warden of the East, which was, you know… somewhat problematic.
As such, Lord Euhorn was here today for Lady Jeyne. Ready to walk her down the aisle in her late father's stead. There could be no other man, my cousin had insisted.
"You know, I still cannot believe that you are getting married, my niece." My father mused to the other bride. "How many suitors have you turned down?"
"I lost count after two hundred." Jeyne shrugged. "They were all unworthy of me."
"I do believe that Jason Lannister was included in that aforementioned list." Viserys frowned. "You can't really get any worthier than the heir to the Westerlands."
"A gallant man, to be sure." Lady Arryn nodded. "But he would have caged me like a bird. Not letting me spread my wings and soar free."
"And Shaeterys will?"
"We have an understanding." My cousin simply said, in a tone that ringed with finality.
———
113 AC, Aenar's Vault
Three souls sat under the black canopy of the Fyrewood trees.
It was an unlikely triad, comprising of myself, Shaeterys and Jaehaerys Junior. Daena too, was present, but I had insisted that she remain outside of the privacy ward that blanketed the island, waiting with Caraxes in the shallows.
"Now then, I'm sure you're wondering why I've called the two of you here." I finally said, breaking the silence as I turned to face both gentlemen.
"Yes, I confess some curiosity as to why you have excluded milady Daena from this conversation." Jaehaerys Junior replied.
"Daena is in fact, the reason why I've called you here." I said, circling the table like a shark. "And to a smaller extent, why I have called Shaeterys here as well."
"I don't follow."
"You see, the two of you are in… shall we say, committed relationships."
"Ah, Jeyne for me. Daena for him." Shaeterys noted, nodding in understanding.
"Precisely. Shaeterys, you are slated to wed my cousin Jeyne in less than a month. And you, Jaehaerys, are boyfriend to my cousin Daena." I agreed.
"Hmm." Jaehaerys hummed, before nodding. "Well I suppose I'm overdue the shovel speech."
The man whom so resembled the Old King leaned forwards and placed a hand over his heart.
"Rest assured that I shall treat milady Daena with nothing but the utmost respect and dignity. And swear that I shall not do anything that will make her unhappy with myself." He promised, and I could tell that he was being honest.
"What he said." Shaeterys agreed, mimicking the gesture. "I too promise that I shall not hurt or mistreat my bride in any way, shape or form. Though I may be her husband, Lady Jeyne is not my slave or servant. She is a human being with her own will and opinions, and I shall not infringe upon them even the slightest bit."
"Yes, and I have no doubt that you would keep your word." I agreed. "However, I do think it best to… lay out the consequences of bad behaviour."
Before the two men, I placed a pair of delicate velvet boxes onto the table.
"Open them." I smiled, sitting down in my seat at the head of the table.
They both did, revealing a pair of rings.
"Is this Valyrian steel?" Jaehaerys frowned, picking his ring up and holding it up to the sunlight flickering between the leaves. "It looks freshly forged."
"And it is." I nodded in agreement. "Forged by the greatest smiths of Qohor in a foundry beneath the Dragonmont. The first Valyrian steel ever made from scratch since the Doom of Valyria."
Jaehaerys gulped as he processed the bombshell I had just dropped onto his lap. Shaeterys on the other hand, was already in the know, and didn't seem surprised. After all, I'd already promised him a Valyrian steel sword for House Arryn.
The firstborn son of Prince Daemon rolled his ring in his hands, taking in the large diamond surrounded by folds of rippled metal.
"Alright, and what's the catch?" My cousin asked.
I said nothing, instead snapping my fingers and generating a flame atop them. A flick of my wrist caused the ring in Shaeterys' hands to fly out and into my own. I lowered the ring into the flame, the metal glowing red hot and revealing High Valyrian glyphs incised into the underside.
"I will say this once and only once." I declared, both men sitting up straight and alert. "Should either of you ever mistreat your respective lovers in any shape or form, I will not kill you."
I leaned forward as both guys frowned in confusion.
"I will instead rip the souls out of your bodies and bind them into those rings, before casting them out into the endless void between the stars." I declared, deliberately keeping my tone as matter-of-fact as possible. "You will drift endlessly in the void, undying. Screaming in unspeakable pain for all eternity, until the heat death of this fucking universe."
I leaned back in my chair.
"So be nice to them, okay?" I smiled, giving both men a friendly wave before I walked out of the privacy ward, humming a cheerful J-pop anime song to myself.
———
114 AC, Great Sept of Aemma
Oh, the music was starting.
It was time.
"Ready?" My father asked, extending an arm. He held in his hands the same marital cloak that he had used to cloak Alicent. That truly massive beast of black wool with ermine linings, a solid golden chain fastener and the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen done in rubies sewn into the cloth itself.
"Always." I agreed, taking the cloak from his hands and throwing it over my shoulder. It pressed down on me, heavy and almost suffocating, but a few subtle spells solved most of those issues, making it billow dramatically as though in a gale.
I threaded arms with my father, the two of us standing before the great weirwood doors of the Great Sept's grand cathedral. Behind us, Jeyne too linked arms with Lord Euhorn.
I met my cousin's eyes, as she pulled the hood of her fur cloak up in lieu of a proper wedding veil.
"Once more—" I begun.
"—unto the breach." Jeyne finished, as the doors opened.
Here came the bride.
The two of us walked arm-in-arm down the red-carpeted aisle, the Young King and the Dragonqueen, slowly walking between two rows of guests all standing in honour as a choir serenaded us.
As we strode through the grand cathedral of the Great Sept of Aemma, I took the time to meet the eyes of the people all around me, friends and foe alike.
Unsurprisingly, my allies had come out in force for my wedding:
Lord Rickon Stark, freshly ascended to the high seat after his father's passing late last year. His son and heir Cregan Stark was present as well. It was hard to imagine that small six-year-old would one day grow up to become the legendary Old Man of the North.
Lord Jonas Blacktyde, his wife Sayan and their daughter Mayin. The Gold Fleet's triumphant return had seen the Iron Islands wealth increase fivefold, and the man was widely beloved by his subjects, hailed as a great hero of the Iron Islands. Already, thousands of throats in the Iron Islands had begun clamouring for another voyage by the Gold Fleet, a chorus that grew ever louder by the day.
I'd already begun drawing up plans for a potential voyage to the lands of Nordos and Naeros, across the Sunset Sea.
Lord Bael and his wife Sansa Stark, the maiden Stark scion he had famously seduced some thirty years back. They'd married now, as part of the peace between the North and the Free Folk. Their son, thirty-year-old Brandon Stark had come with them as well. And one could really see the resemblance between father and son, sharing the red hair and beard.
And last and most certainly the least, Lord Kermit Tully. By far and away the weakest of my allies. Lord Kermit's father and older brother's actions against myself had soured much of our relations, causing me to pass over supporting him in favour of more leal and loyal lords. House Tully had never been strong rulers, and with creation of the Royal Bank, Oldstones Canal, and Third Legion, had seen their bannermen grow ever-stronger and wealthier.
The boy—young man now, in truth— was even more of a figurehead than Viserys was. And it was widely known that without my backing, Lord Kermit's own lords would tear him apart much like how they killed his father.
Then there were the neutrals in this little family spat, though how much neutrality would be worth once the blades were bare was a big question.
First and foremost, Lord Boremund Baratheon. The man had never forgiven me for killing his son Borros, and my attempts to mollify him by offering Daemon's hand in marriage to his granddaughter and heiress Cassandra had gone down… poorly. Mysaria implied that Lord Boremund was angling for one of my brothers to wed Borros Baratheon's sole child, but to her credit Alicent was obeying the truce terms.
Then there was Lord Qoren Martell. There was little love lost between the two of us. The boy still remembered being a Prince in his own right, before the conquest of his Kingdom during the War of Four Directions. While I had managed buy a great deal of goodwill with the Stepstones Bridges, the fact of the matter was that he would never ever be a staunch supporter of mine.
Well at least he hated the Reach as much as he hated me, so I didn't foresee having to destroy another Dornish host in the coming civil war.
Next up were my enemies. They whom I would have to cull, like a surgeon lopping off a limb to prevent the infection from spreading.
Barring a handful of members, House Hightower was conspicuously absent from the proceedings. But the Greens were still represented by Lady Cerelle Lannister and her son Tybolt Lannister. To my distaste, despite how mercurial and short-tempered Lady Cerelle was, she'd actually managed to consolidate her rule over the Westerlands, even without Otto or the Greens propping her up.
And then there was Shaera Tyrell and her pet husband Lord Lucas. Annoyingly, despite our best efforts, Shaera had still managed to avoid getting pregnant. Lord Lucas went to her bedroom every night, and interrogation of Shaera via the Leash confirmed that they were having unprotected sex. But somehow Shaera still wasn't pregnant. I was now seriously debating the merits of having Daenys reassigned back to babysitting duty, as Rhaena was clearly failing in her duties as overseer.
As my father and I reached the end of the aisle, I saw the last few guests.
King Eddard Stark had declined an invitation to come, but he'd sent out the ever-friendly and charming Princess Alanna in his stead. I'd met most of the New North's royal family, and I had to concede that when it came to schmoozing and making friends, Alanna Stark was head and shoulders above all her siblings. It was probably why despite being the lastborn, Princess Alanna had become the unofficial Foreign Minister of the Kingdom of New North, taking on increasingly important responsibilities and duties such as representing the New North on the global stage.
The choir's singing elegantly wound down, and the whole sept was plunged into a deep and reverent silence as High Septon Ceril Hightower stepped forward atop the dais before the statues of Mother and Father.
"Who comes before the Seven-Who-Are-One today?" He ceremonially asked.
"Rhaenyra, of the House Targaryen, has come here to be wed." My father replied. As the higher-ranked of the two of us, I would be going before Jeyne. My cousin being forced to wait behind us as we completed the traditional rites. "A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the gods. Whom comes to claim her?"
"Laenor, of the House Velaryon, Heir to Driftmark and High Tide." My groom declared. "Whom gives her?"
"Viserys of the House Targaryen, who was her father." The King spoke, before turning and facing me. "Prince Rhaenyra, do you take this man?"
"I do." I simply said, releasing my arm from my father's and taking the last few steps before I stood before the dais, eyes firmly fixed onto those of the Velaryon siblings.
Like me, Laena wore a long mermaid style dress. But where mine was a sheer halter-neck, Laena's was a single-shouldered completely covered in glittering gold sequins. Her neck, collarbone and arms were bare, save for a pair of gold bangles looped around her wrists. A pair of gold seahorses dangled from her ears, with emeralds for eyes. Laena's platinum hair had been braided into dreadlocks, and those dreadlocks had been braided once more into a long tail that snaked down her back.
Similarly, Laenor came all decked out in sparkly glitz. My groom was clad in a doublet of black velvet with intricate gold tracery. So much gold that I could hardly discern the black beneath. While on another man— Viserys, looking at you right there—the amount of cloth-of-gold and jewels that dripped off of his clothes would have been seen as tacky and crude, Laenor managed to pull of the look of an exotic foreign prince from a distant land.
It was probably the dark skin, I decided.
On most other highborn, all the bling would have looked tacky and overdone, but the Velaryon siblings looked stunning in gold, their dark skin complimenting and creating a brilliant contrast between light and dark that really made jewellery shine in a most elegant manner. Allowing them to pull off the gold in a way that people with paler skin just couldn't.
"If anyone here has any lawful objection as to why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace." The High Septon proclaimed, Laenor's best man Ser Joffrey Lonmouth drawing Seafoam in challenge.
But as expected, there were none whom contested our matrimony. Not even Ser Criston, standing less than ten feet away from me. There was some concern if he should even be allowed to attend the wedding in the first place, given his… attachment to myself. Men in love often did horridly unwise things.
In the end though, I decided not to lobotomise the Lord Commander or bar him from my wedding. After all, Daena had just oh-so-recently reinforced the lesson that restraint was a virtue. Lady and knight, Viserra had declared, while letting Ser Criston down gently. So long as the white knight kept his feelings separate from his duty, I was willing to overlook his recent… outburst of emotion.
Satisfied that there would be no challengers, the High Septon continued with the ceremony as planned, calling Jeyne and Lord Euhorn up to perform the formal exchange.
Shaeterys stepped up to claim the bride, Bell baring Blackfyre threateningly in her role as her brother's best man.
Once again, there were no challengers, for we'd barred most of Jeyne's more recalcitrant bannermen from the Great Sept, claiming lack of space. Were it otherwise, I was sure that Bell would have to whet Blackfyre's blade a few times before this ceremony was over.
"You may now cloak the groom and bring him under your protection." The High Septon declared. As Heir to the Iron Throne, it would be Laenor whom was marrying into my family, and not the other way around. Similarly, Shaeterys—though now formally a lord with lands in the Mountains of the Moon— was still a bastard and the lesser in his wedding, and so would be the cloaked and not the cloaker.
My groom shrugged off his cloak— teal silk embroidered with cloth-of-silver in the pattern of a seahorse— Laena stepping forward to take the cloak from her brother.
To my left, Shaeterys did the same, though his cloak was of considerably lower quality, being mere red wool with a black dragon dyed onto it. He passed the cloth to Rhaegar, symbolically abdicating his position as the man of the house to his younger brother.
Ser Jessamyn then stepped up, holding a cloak of blue wool embroidered with silver thread. The two ex-girlfriends spent an intense moment staring at each other, before Lady Arryn took the cloak from the other woman.
As one, the two of us draped our cloaks around the two grooms, symbolically bringing them under our protections.
We stood together, Laenor and I standing before High Septon Ceril as Jeyne and Shaeterys stood before Archsepton Eustace, bride and groom facing each other, so close our noses almost touched.
Two young children came up onto the dais, bearing the trays with the ribbons on them. Three-year-old Joffrey Arryn, young son of General Jaime Arryn, for Jeyne. And four-year-old Helaena for me.
Viserys had initially suggested Aemond for the role as ribbon-bearer, but was faced with the very real possibility that Aemond might just throw the tray into my face. My youngest brother was not fond of me, and often expressed himself by trying and failing to perpetuate violence onto his poor eldest sister.
And so the considerably kinder and more friendly Helaena got drafted into the role of presenting the ceremonial ribbons to the High Septon.
"We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever." The High Septon recited, taking the first ribbon, red like blood, and tying the first knot between my hand's and Laenor's.
"Let it be known that Rhaenyra and Laenor of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon are one heart." On went the orange ribbon.
"One flesh." The yellow one now.
"One soul." Green snaked around our hands.
"Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." Blue like the ocean coiled around our intertwined fingers.
"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls." Indigo like my eyes.
"Binding them as one for eternity." The High Septon finished, his hands releasing the ribbon. Violet like Laena's eyes.
"Look upon one another, and speak the words." He commanded.
"Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone, Stranger." The four of us recited. "I am hers/his and she/he is mine. From this day, until my the end of my days, from this day until the last day."
"You may now kiss the bride." The High Septon declared.
———
114 AC, King's Landing
As Hand of the King, I generally left decisions pertaining to all matters of middling import to my staff. That was the nice thing about having a functional bureaucracy. When the person in charge dropped work onto someone else's lap, it was not called skiving off, but effective leadership and delegation.
However, my somewhat hands-off approach to the more tedious affairs of high office came to bite me in the butt, when I was presented with a wedding plan that included two weeks straight of celebrations, with seventy-seven courses in the feast, two hundred different performances and a truly massive parade involving all six Legions.
The sheer absurdity and scale of the proposal was so unbelievable that I almost dismissed the report out of hand before an alarmed Viserra burst into my office, revealing that Viserys was in talks with my generals to recall them back to King's Landing. Several of whom, I might add, were on an active war front.
It would have been an unmitigated disaster had the Legions been pulled out of Lord Bael's campaign against the hostile wildlings Beyond-the-Wall. The barbarians and savages whom refused any peace with what they called 'southron kneelers and their traitor pets'.
The Free Folk had to fight a hundred skirmishes over the course of three months to lay claim to the lands south of the Fist of First Men, securing the frontlines enough for the Fifth Legion to raise nine ringforts across the shores of the Antler River. Enabling us to safeguard our gains and project power further north.
Even now, three years later, the Haunted Forest was still a hotbed of partisan activity. I'd been careful not to make the same mistakes as the USA, refusing to let the lands Beyond-the-Wall become a military quagmire like Vietnam or Afghanistan. But it could not be denied that without the Fifth and Sixth Legion holding the borders, the whole experiment would come crashing down like a house of cards.
Of course, we were keenly aware of the unsustainability of such an arrangement, and the Legions had been training Northern and Free Folk fighters to eventually replace them in garrisoning the lands Beyond-the-Wall, but even the most optimistic estimate believed that those militias required at least another six months—probably closer to a year— of training before they were ready to hold the line by themselves.
Pulling the Legions out, right now, and just for what was essentially a PR stunt?
I had some words with my father— Whom as Protector of the Realm, was nominally the commander-in-chief of the Legions—after that little incident. Knives may or may not have been involved.
Still, my father was the King, and until the day he breathed his last, he technically still had the right to disinherit me as Heir to the Iron Throne. So I'd compromised some on the subject of my wedding.
For one, we still did have a military parade.
The Third Legion came out in force today, with rows upon rows of men marching in square formations, boots coming down in one unified sound. Rows upon rows of legionaries clad in matte steel. Unsullied, heavy infantry, crossbowmen, calvary and more.
But for all the spectacle of our five thousand Legionary escort, they paled in comparison to what lay at the heart of our grand procession.
It would have been deeply impractical for us brides to ride horses in our wedding dresses, but it was not like we could seriously spend an entire tickertape parade ensconced in litters, hidden away from the eyes of the massive crowds whom had come out to see us. And so, a dozen parade floats had been built for us to ride atop. Massive wagons of wood crowned by wooden stages, pulled by dozens of oxen.
My new husband and I rode atop the first cart, smiling and waving at the cheering crowds as we journeyed back to the Red Keep from the Great Sept of Aemma.
There had been some concern over potential assassins taking advantage of royalty being right out in the open. So much so that there was some serious debate about having a body double stand in for me during the parade.
Lady Jeyne Arryn, in particular, had quite the number of ambitious relatives whom would dearly love to put an arrow in her to claim the high seat for themselves. And with how exposed we would be while atop those floats? All it would take was a single man with a crossbow.
But in the end, Viserra was spared the need to disguise as me, for Princess Alanna had provided us with a solution that was almost tailor-made to solve our problems.
As a sort of diplomatic gift to the Kingdom of New North, I'd arranged for a delegation of assorted maesters, engineers and smiths to make the journey across the Sunset Sea, to share the secrets of steel with the New North. And in return, we'd recieved four dozen skinchangers from the Kingdom of New North's Order of Wargs.
Led by Alanna's fiancé Magnus, the Order of Wargs had initially been sent over for cross-training with the Fifth Legion. To help train our own skinchangers and organise them into proper cohesive units.
Princess Alanna had rather shamelessly abused her power to make them perform overwatch duty during our little parade.
They rode beneath our feet, in hidden compartments within the parade floats, but though none could see them, they could see all. Birds of prey flew above, their razor-sharp eyesight keeping an eye out for any suspicious movement even as Magnus himself flitted through the minds of insects and vermin, carefully sifting through the crowd for assassins and cutthroats.
An elegant Nordosi solution to our problems, and one which showed off the talents of the Order of Wargs before the most influential highborn of our continent.
Let it not be said that Alanna Stark was a mediocre diplomat. I thought to myself, as I continued playing the perfect prince, waving at the smallfolk and smiling as they cheered back at me.
———
114 AC, Throne Room, Red Keep
Seventy-seven courses was a truly absurd amount of food which rather boggled the mind. But the unfortunate truth was that as royalty, House Targaryen was expected to put on a certain amount of pomp and ceremony. Which sadly, meant that skimping on the feast would see our rivals mock us as miserly.
It didn't help that Viserys wanted to splurge on his firstborn's wedding, and waved away all the protests of poor, penny-pinching Lyman Beesbury. I could already hear the Master of Coin's angry screaming over the sheer expenditure of my wedding, which I was not looking forward to having to deal with.
My father was quite the spendthrift, which made balancing the budget tough work, given his penchant for demanding lavish ceremonies at the drop of a hat. I never really noticed how bad it was after taking office, for we'd kept Viserys on progress for much of my Handship, meaning that the financial burden was spread out among the nobility whom had to host and feast the King in our stead. But now that he was back in the capital, I could only weep at the sight of our treasury.
In the end, I managed to argue seventy-seven down to forty-nine courses. That was as far low as Viserys was willing to go, and I took what victories I could get.
Still, that didn't mean that I couldn't find means of quietly cutting down on costs.
First and foremost was having my cousin Jeyne's marriage take place at the exact same time as mine. Her groom Shaeterys was a Dragonseed, so House Targaryen was basically mandated to contribute at least fifty percent of the price tag of his wedding to Jeyne. And as Jeyne herself was a Lady Paramount, said ceremony would have had to be a spectacle near as extravagant and lavish as my own wedding.
A double marriage was a good way to cut down on costs. By folding Shaeterys' wedding into mine, not only could we essentially get out of paying for his own ceremony, but we'd even got House Arryn to throw a significant amount of gold into the shared pot. With the falcons footing somewhere between a quarter and a third of the bill.
Secondly, the food. Instead of having each individual course be brought out and set upon our tables like a banquet in a fancy restaurant, the meals were served buffet-style. Reducing our food waste and drastically reducing the burden on our serving staff.
Two rows of large platters had been arranged atop long tables on either side of the throne room, up alongside the walls. Like a catered buffet in a hotel, small oil burners had been laid atop the white tablecloth to boil the hot water in the metal basins beneath the food platters. Preventing the food food from getting cold even as this cold winter night dragged on. And since the food wasn't placed directly on fire, there was no risk of them being burned or overcooked.
Half of the dishes on the table were the traditional Westerosi fare. Roasted pheasant, a great suckling pig filled to the brim with stuffing, great wheels of aged cheese, lamprey pie, mutton stew with loaves of bread hollowed out to use as trenchers… the usual offerings.
As for the other half of the menu, I'd personally overseen the palace chefs in cooking up some rather… exotic and unusual dishes.
Thanksgiving roast turkey. Beer-battered fish and chips. Spaghetti, both bolognese and carbonara. Hainanese chicken rice, the rice having been brought back all the way from Qarth, courtesy of Lord Jonas. Pizza covered with dozens of toppings. Chinese Peking duck. Indian prata and curry. Singaporean laksa. Malay lontong. Murtabak, burritos, ramen and countless other dishes from Earth that I recreated from memory.
From the looks of things, it would seem that my dishes were a big hit, with much of the hall going back for second or third helpings.
That was good. With few exceptions—like the chicken rice—most of my dishes were made of commoner ingredients far cheaper than the ridiculously expensive Westerosi fare. And banking that my guests would prefer the exotic over the extravagant, I'd surreptitiously ordered the number of Westerosi dishes cut down, such that apart from an extra serving kept in the kitchens just in case, what was there on the buffet tables was pretty much it.
Thirdly, unlike traditional balls, where there'd be countless sitting tables for a formal dinner service, I'd instead had hundreds of smaller standing tables dragged in, allowing for highborn to walk about and mingle, surrounding the dance floor. Such that apart from the high table on the Iron Throne's dais, if one wanted to sit, one would have to leave the room to join the lesser highborn in the pavilions set up in the courtyards and parade squares.
Not only did this allow us to cram more highborn into the great hall, this layout also emphasised dancing as the main attraction of the party. Which meant that Viserys' demand for a hundred different entertainers to perform on my wedding night could not be met. Even the King would be hard pressed to simply order a horde of dancing highborn out of the way to make space for the performers.
He still looked like he might just do it anyway, so I grabbed my new lord husband, and the two of us took to the dance floor, elegantly waltzing around and around in spinning circles of black and white.
We danced for about half an hour, before I grew tired and sat back down at the high table. There was one last conversation I had to finish before the bedding.
"Alicent." I greeted, dropping into the seat beside hers.
"Rhaenyra." My stepmother greeted back, her tone as ice cold as my own.
There was a great silence, a pressure between the two of us. Even after we began living under the same roof once more, we'd made a point of interacting with each other as little as possible. Pretending that the other didn't exist in this… Cold War of ours.
"It occurs to me, that this… strife between our families, is one that can be mended." I finally said, breaking our stifling silence. "Before all this, we were friends, and even now, we are still one house. I would like to make amends."
"Making amends? At such a late hour?" Alicent scoffed. "That stallion left the pen a long time ago."
"Scoff and scorn me if you wish." I shrugged. "But at the very least hear out my offer first."
My stepmother said nothing, but elegantly shifted her posture such that it indicated that I had her attention.
I felt a pang of envy bubble up in my chest. Even now, despite everything, I still looked up to and admired her. How she could be so elegant and graceful, her every move measured and precise. I was arguably the most beautiful woman in all the Realm, and yet Alicent never failed to make me feel like an ugly duckling, compared to her graceful swan.
"I intend to begin trying for a child this very night." I confessed, wringing my hands in an involuntary gesture. "Male or female, that child will succeed me on the Iron Throne."
A pause, and I felt cautious curiosity from my stepmother.
"You have children as well, sons and a daughter." I stated, noticing that the surrounding cutlery was starting to vibrate. I frowned, then clamped down more firmly on my sorcery, the vibrations immediately stopping. "I propose that we betroth our children to each other. Ally ourselves. Let them rule together."
Silence. Alicent's face was a mask, and she was consciously tamping down on any and all body language.
Face a wax mask, body a statue, steel in the spine.
She'd learnt that from me, I dimly realised. Hiding all emotions and taking control of any and all tells, good enough to fool a polygraph machine.
I was tempted to probe her thoughts with my magic, but mind sorcery had never been my strongest suit, and I was already having a tough enough time controlling my mana right now.
Incest still fundamentally disgusted me, of course, being the twenty-first century boy that I was. But I could not deny that sometimes, needs must. All options for peace—no matter how unpalatable— ought to be duly considered before one went to war.
"You're nervous." Alicent suddenly said, eyeing my fingers, which I belatedly noticed were uneasily drumming on the table.
I tried to consciously cut off the movement, only to realise that my hands were shaking. Why? Why were my hands shaking?
Alicent suddenly let in a sharp intake of breath, as though she'd had a sudden epiphany.
My evil stepmother leaned across the table, and placed a gentle hand on my own, placatingly holding my hands even as her other hand rested gently on my shoulders.
"It will hurt, your first time." Alicent quietly said, without even the slightest hint of her usual malice and scorn. She pulled me close. It was not a hug, it it was the closest that she would come to an intimate gesture with me. "And I won't lie. Pregnancy is a strenuous affair. The birth moreso."
I said nothing, as my stepmother gently cupped my cheek, turning my face towards her in an almost motherly manner.
"But your children… treasure your children, my dear Rhaenyra." Alicent whispered, and I could see tears glinting in her eyes. "No matter what… your children will make all the pain worth it in the end."
I felt hot tears pool in my eyes. God, when was the last time Alicent had been my friend? When was the last time she had spoken to me so lovingly and kindly.
Six years, at the absolute bare minimum.
Good grief but I missed our friendship. It felt like a piece missing from a jigsaw puzzle. Like an organ missing from a body. It fell apart, after her marriage to my father, but still, traces of it remained. Like a long dry riverbed. Whatever we once had had moved along. Gone with the passing of time.
And yet one could not deny that the foundations were still there, and that we'd both been marked by it. Permanently, for better or for worse.
For one moment, I saw a great and glorious vision swim before my eyes. Another world, one forged of choices different then the one's I'd made in this life. A world where Alicent and I remained close as sisters, with me supporting her all the way, even as she birthed heir after heir for my father. I'd willingly take my demotion from the Iron Throne, retreat back and fill up the back seat. Make myself indespensible for the running of the Realm.
Perhaps I'd claim Handship. Have Otto Hightower willingly allow me to inherit his power base and position. Be the power behind the throne. The one whom truly held the keys to power, and while my brothers would lead the Seven Kingdoms, I would rule them.
Alas, any possibility of reconciliation was long dead and buried. My vision would only ever be a mirage, and whatever friendship we'd had was no longer in existence.
But still…
I leaned into my old governess' side and she leaned back against me. Comforting one another in this dark and cruel world.
Sometimes, among well-bred women, things were so obvious as to not require speaking to convey a message. Without even making a single sound, Alicent and I agreed not to fight on my wedding night. Tonight, and only tonight. We would pretend that we were still friends. Sisters in all but name.
I didn't know how long the two of us spent, huddling close in loving sisterhood. Long enough that the food was slowly finished. Long enough that the dancers settled down and the musicians put away their instruments. Long enough that the lords and ladies of the Realm toasted me a hundred times.
It was only when calls for the bedding to begin, that Alicent and I parted.
I was lifted up onto the shoulders of my male kinsmen. Rhaeger, Haegon, Aemon and… some other Dragonseed hoisting me up and laughing, the Kingsguard screening me from the mob of drunk and unruly highborn all clamouring for the opportunity to grope the bride.
As my four cousins prepared to drag me to my wedding bed, I felt a hand clasp my own, the Queen halting the bedding procession from leaving.
"Your offer." My stepmother said, as she looked me in the eyes, hazel meeting indigo. "I shall consider it carefully."
And then she released my hand.
Nothing else needed to be said.
———
114 AC, Tourney Grounds, King's Landing
Ser Joffrey Lonmouth crashed down onto the sandy ground, the soft sand cushioning his fall and averting any serious injury. Even as the crowd roared their approval, I could not help but let out a sigh of relief.
The Knight of Kisses would not be meeting the same fate as his Canon self today.
I'd gone out of my way to arrange things such that Laenor's boyfriend would be as physically far apart on the lists as Ser Criston Cole. And just to be extra sure, I'd deliberately arranged for him to face one of the best jousters I knew in the very first match, all but guaranteeing that he'd be defeated quickly and harmlessly.
There would be no tragedy in the tourney to celebrate my marriage, if I had anything to say about it.
I laid back in my chair with relief, as below us royals Shaeterys raised his visor and waved at the crowds, celebrating his victory.
Prince Daemon's firstborn son cut quite the dashing figure in his new plate armour. A wedding gift from my father, Shaeterys' plate was equal parts a tool of war and a work of art. Forged by the finest armourers on the Street of Steel, the armour was wrought in silvered steel, polished to a mirror sheen and enamelled with beautiful fluer-de-lis scrollwork. A pair of sculpted wings rose from the sides of his helmet. Two unbelievably lifelike pieces of engraved metal, so detailed that for a moment, I almost thought them to be real wings.
Shaeterys' armour shone, radiant like the moon, under the light of the midday sun. Only kept from being blindingly bright by the long cloak of blue wool Shaeterys wore atop it. A cloak clasped by a pin which was a blue jasper falcon set on a moon made out of mother-of-pearl, a wedding gift from his new wife.
My cousin's shield was made out of a solid hunk of ironwood, painted over with a black dragon quartered with the Arryn Falcon, with runes of the First Men engraved into the back. Another wedding gift. This one from his stepmother Rhea Royce. Prince Daemon's estranged widow was actually on good terms with most of the Dragonseeds, treating her late husband's bastards like beloved nephews or nieces.
"He looks good." My father noted, watching as his nephew took a victory lap around the tourney grounds. "The perfect young knight from the stories, no?"
"Yes, Shaeterys always had had a certain…gentlemanly chivalry to him." I agreed. "He's got the looks, charm and natural knack for being gallant. Small wonder why he's so popular."
While on another knight, the gleaming armour would have looked tacky and showy— Hell, it would have looked tacky on me!—Shaeterys was able to pull off the whole knight-in-shining-armour schtick. And pull it off well, at that.
A couple of minutes later, the next pair of jousters took the field, and a single pass later, another knight was unhorsed by a Dragonseed.
"Rhaegar isn't doing too bad either." Viserys mused, watching as the second oldest male Dragonseed rode back to the sidelines, not bothering to wave at the crowds unlike his brother.
It was rather typical of the introverted boy.
Like his unadorned armour of matte steel, sober and bare of any decoration save for a pink ribbon— His sister Daenys' favour—Rhaegar was not fond of standing out. He could perform for the crowds, yes, but otherwise the boy was a recluse. He preferred to hide from the limelight as much as physically possible, and had no problems standing in the shade of his older and more handsome brother.
"I thought that he wanted to be a maester." Alicent huffed. "Why is he participating in such a martial activity?"
"It's not illegal for a maester to participate in tourneys." I replied. "There's no outright rule saying that one can't."
It was one of those unspoken rules of society, like how knights always got a Trial by Combat, now matter how obvious their guilt, maesters didn't bear arms or ride in tourneys. Still, I'd never been a conformist, and neither were my closest allies. If Rhaegar wanted to ride in a tourney, then who was I to stop him?
"Besides, he's not actually a maester yet. Unlike Daenys." I reminded them both. "He hasn't actually sworn the vows yet."
Behind us both, the first female maester in Westeros smothered a grin. After graduating the Citadel, Daenys was assigned by the Conclave to some remote lordship in the middle of nowhere. A lord in name only whom could barely afford a maester. Ostensibly to send one of my foremost and most competent loyalists far far far away from my service.
While I could have abused my power and outright demanded Daenys back, the Citadel had threatened to strip my cousin of her chain and excommunicate her from the order. After all, as a maester, Daenys was sworn to the Conclave of Archmaesters, and had to obey their orders.
Fine then. That was a fight I wouldn't be winning. But there was more than one way to skin a cat.
A few glass candle conversations later, and this Lord Denning was eating out of my hand.
So poor, and so eager to do anything at all to escape his obscurity and poverty. It was almost childishly easy to give him a job as a minor pencil-pusher in my bureaucracy, and to tell him to bring his new maester along for 'her sound advice and counsel'.
"Who's stronger? Shaeterys or Rhaegar?" Six-year-old Aegon asked, eyes shining as he watched the tourney with wide-eyed fascination.
"Shaeterys is the better lance. He wields it like an extension of his own arm." I easily replied, leaning over towards my younger brother. "But Rhaegar is the better rider. He's got a certain knack for animals, you see."
"So who's stronger?" Aegon frowned confusedly.
I laughed and mussed up his hair affectionately.
"They're equally as good." I replied. "But my coin is on another Dragonseed."
"Who?" Aegon eagerly asked.
Just then, there was a great roar from the crowd as Ser Jessamyn crashed onto the sandy ground. Unhorsed by her opponent.
Her lance had had struck her opponent true, impacting dead center with unerring accuracy. By all accounts it should have thrown any other knight off of their saddle with extreme prejudice.
Bell took the blow without even flinching.
And her own lance thrust, though rather poorly aimed and clumsy, hit like a truck. Ser Jessamyn was built more for speed and the long stride than strength and the shield wall. She could not possibly hope to withstand such a sledgehammer blow from the largest and most physically imposing Dragonseed.
"Bell is a poorer jouster and rider than her brothers." I explained. "But she's ridiculously tough and strong. Even giants would hesitate at wrestling with her. And in a tourney like this, where everyone is using blunted lances? Nothing can seriously hurt or unhorse her."
"It doesn't seem fair." Aegon pouted. "She's not the best jouster, and yet she will win?"
"Life isn't fair, my dear valonqar." I shrugged. "That's just the way of the world."
We left it at that, for my lord husband had finally taken the field.
Three passes later, and the Velaryon heir unhorsed his first opponent; a relatively skilled knight from the Stormlands.
Despite what Ser Criston would insist, Laenor actually wasn't a half-bad jouster. Sure, he was no match for Shaeterys or Rhaegar, but he had a string of victories under his belt.
He was putting on a rather good showing today, I had to admit. Unhorsing knight after knight and ascending the ranks.
"He's been practicing." Laena revealed, leaning over to me as her brother unhorsed Ser Wingood.
"Hmm?"
"Laenor, I mean." My girlfriend nodded, gesturing at her brother. "He's been drilling really hard with our knights, near daily. It's almost unnerving. I've never seen him so motivated."
"I suppose he does want to put on a good showing for his children." I shrugged. "Fatherhood, however impending, does have a way of making men shape up."
Indeed, I was currently pregnant.
Rhaegar had brewed me a fertility potion, and I'd deliberately tweaked my own menstrual cycle with magic to ensure that I was ovulating on our wedding night.
Laenor had provided an ample amount of sperm, and a few misadventures with a turkey baster ensured that his seed wound up in my flowerpot.
And just to be extra sure, I had Daenys cast a few spells to guarantee that his sperm would meet my egg, enabling a successful conception.
"Mmm. Guess you're right." My sister-in-law shrugged, as my husband rode up to face his next opponent—Lord Commander Cole. "Pity it ends here."
"Pity indeed." I agreed, as the referee brought his flag down and the two knights charged one another.
As expected, Laenor's lance deflected harmlessly off of Ser Criston's shield.
And as expected, Ser Criston's lance struck true.
What was most certainly unexpected though, was the way Ser Criston's lance pierced straight between the thin gap between gorget and helm and skewered my husband in the throat.
Laenor Velaryon was dead before he even hit the ground.
Notes:
Oops. Not a very good start to 2023 eh?
I'd like to say that it gets better, but it really doesn't. The next few chapters are equally bleak.