Several days had passed.
In the early morning, the warm sun shone brightly, and the climate of King's Landing remained as oppressively hot as ever.
On this day, the citizens of the city dressed in their finest attire and left their homes early.
The poor gathered in groups, making their way to the more inconspicuous church outposts.
The nobles rose at dawn, bringing their families to one of the few grand septs in the city.
Today was the annual Maiden's Festival.
Although only young, unwed maidens could participate, countless devout followers of the Seven still gathered in prayer.
This year's festival coincided with the kingdom's victory in the War of the Narrow Sea, following the fall of the Three Daughters.
In celebration, King Viserys I, citing the unborn royal twins as a cause for joy, generously ordered soup kitchens to be set up throughout the streets.
Any citizen struggling with hunger could present their residency token, issued by the city guard, and receive a portion of thick porridge and white bread.
Although the impoverished citizens didn't fully understand the significance of the residency token, treating it merely as an ordinary wooden plaque, it didn't stop them from lining up in droves at every street corner to receive food.
Grateful for the king's generosity, the people offered their sincere blessings to the unborn royal heirs, their hearts full of gratitude.
For a time, the reputation of the royal family even overshadowed the faith in the Seven.
After all, white porridge was far more satisfying than brown broth, and white bread was certainly tastier than the rat meat floating in the soup.
---
### The Red Keep
At dawn, a sea of guests from all over the realm filled the castle grounds, bringing their daughters to the sept behind Maegor's Holdfast to receive the blessing of the Maiden and the Mother.
The sheer number of attendees left barely any space to stand in the Red Keep.
Fortunately, the early morning temperatures were still bearable, and no incidents of heat exhaustion occurred.
The bustling activity continued until midday, by which time the essential rituals of the festival had been completed.
Hundreds of nobles eagerly gathered in the grand hall, their young sons and nephews standing beside them.
All eyes were fixed upon the towering Iron Throne.
Viserys sat upon it in solemn attire, a golden crown upon his head, clad in a black ceremonial robe. His hands gripped Blackfyre, the ancestral sword, its tip resting against the ground.
Standing at the base of the throne, Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, maintained a serious expression as he acted as the king's spokesman.
After the customary formalities, the sound of drums echoed through the hall. Two Kingsguard knights led a group forward.
Prince Rhaegar entered with a composed expression, hands clasped behind his back, walking at an unhurried pace.
"Your Highness…"
"Prince Rhaegar…"
As he passed through the hall, many familiar lords greeted him in hushed, reverent tones.
Rhaegar acknowledged them with a slight nod, maintaining a perfectly composed demeanor.
A step behind him, Helena and Daeron walked side by side, their usual liveliness subdued.
Helena was dressed exquisitely, her silver-gold hair elegantly pinned up, and she wore an opulent white gown.
Due to special circumstances, her attire was exceptionally luxurious.
Her headpiece, necklace, and various ornaments bore distinct sigils—her chest brooch featured a high tower, her necklace displayed a three-headed red dragon, her hairpin bore the crescent moon and falcon, and golden roses adorned her sleeves.
Her gown incorporated the sigils of House Targaryen and the Great Houses of Westeros.
Helena, however, looked uneasy, her violet eyes flickering with apprehension.
For an introverted girl like her, being forced to participate in such a grand occasion was overwhelming.
"Are you alright?"
Rhaegar turned slightly, noticing her unease.
Helena hesitated for a moment before muttering weakly, "I feel like I'm going to lose my mind."
Rhaegar blinked, momentarily at a loss, a vein appearing on his forehead. "Don't worry, it's just a formality."
Helena lowered her head, pressing her chin against her modest chest, whispering, "I'm afraid I won't be able to hold back—I want to bring Dreamfyre here."
"Please don't do that," Rhaegar chuckled dryly. "You don't have to force yourself. When Rhaenyra was your age, she had already traveled across Westeros, rejecting more than half the noblemen who sought her hand."
It was almost amusing how Helena, in such a helpless tone, could make such an extreme statement about unleashing her dragon.
But ultimately, she lacked the same decisiveness.
Unlike Rhaenyra, who had been raised as the sole heir and had developed a strong-willed nature, Helena was much more reserved.
When Rhaenyra had faced forced marriage, she had shaken the entire realm.
Jason and Tyland Lannister had nearly dueled each other over her, Samwell Blackwood had killed a Bracken lord in a dispute, and even the current Lord of Blackhaven—a man in his sixties—had attempted to claim her hand, only to be so thoroughly humiliated by Rhaenyra that he nearly buried himself in shame.
To this day, the lords of the Stormlands still told tales of that infamous incident.
That level of defiance, Rhaegar could respect.
After offering a few words of reassurance to Helena, he stepped forward to stand before the Iron Throne.
Rhaegar nodded slightly toward his father before taking his place beside Lord Corlys, hands clasped behind his back.
Helena curtsied, holding Daeron's hand as she stood on the other side.
Once everyone was in place, Viserys forced a not-so-sincere smile and announced in a loud voice:
"Let it begin!"
At his command, noblemen stepped forward, either alone or accompanied by their sons or nephews, bowing respectfully.
Most were unmarried young men of suitable age.
However, there were also widowed noblemen, hoping to win the princess's favor.
Helena pressed her lips together, standing quietly, her patience wearing thin as she scrutinized each suitor.
They were either middle-aged men in their thirties or teenage boys barely out of childhood.
Some were even in their forties or fifties, stepping forward to introduce themselves as widowers seeking a new wife.
Despite the sweltering heat, Helena almost broke into a cold sweat.
Unconsciously, she loosened her grip on little Daeron's hand and rested her slender arm on a silver-gray bracelet, twisting her wrist slightly.
The bracelet was made of ordinary material, but it was engraved with exquisite patterns, showing signs of wear that indicated its age.
It didn't fit well either—too tight on her delicate wrist.
She turned her head slightly and glanced at Rhaegar. On the wrist hidden behind his back, he wore an identical bracelet.
"Phew… hold it together."
Helena tried to maintain her composure, silently warning herself not to lose control.
Otherwise, she was afraid she wouldn't be able to stop herself from doing something reckless.
At that moment, a chubby middle-aged man stepped forward with a sincere smile. "Your Majesty, the Rowan family extends our heartfelt greetings."
He wore a pale yellow robe adorned with a family crest—a golden tree on a white background.
House Rowan of Goldengrove—one of the most important noble families in the Reach.
Their bloodline traced back to Garth Greenhand, and their lands encompassed the entire northern region of the Reach, making them a formidable power.
Viserys regarded him with interest and smiled. "Count Thaddeus, it is a pleasure to see you today."
Thaddeus Rowan was a cheerful, warm, and generous noble, well-loved and respected throughout the Reach.
It was said that his wife had passed away a few years ago, and he remained unmarried.
Recalling Alicent's repeated reminders, Viserys forced himself to engage in conversation with him.
Below, Rhaegar and Corlys stood like two wooden statues, watching coldly.
Corlys glanced over and murmured in a low voice, "I'd bet anything he'll be bald within two years."
"Lord Thaddeus is a good man and loyal to the crown," Rhaegar replied rationally, then added in a low tone, "If his eldest son were still unmarried, there might have been some potential."
Helena was only thirteen.
Even without mentioning Thaddeus's age, he was old enough to be her father—no, even older than that.
Corlys scoffed. "Had I known this was coming, I should have pushed for Laenor to marry Princess Helena."
Their previous attempt at a political marriage with Rhaenyra had fallen apart, and the crown had strongly opposed another Velaryon union.
But in hindsight, perhaps it was worth fighting for.
Rhaegar's expression darkened with displeasure, his voice laced with sarcasm. "I will not marry my sister off to an old man, just as I won't let her be left to a lonely fate."
Confident as ever, Corlys responded indifferently, "Let's wait and see what kind of worthy suitor the Queen's carefully arranged gathering will produce."
Rhaegar fell silent.
He was convinced that Alicent was psychologically unwell.
Under the guise of protecting her children, she was making one foolish move after another.
All four of her children were already dragonriders—their positions were unshakable.
Yet she still craved more, plotting her ridiculous "Green Faction."
"Why can't she just live peacefully and keep the family united?"
Rhaegar glanced at Helena, curled up like a little kitten, and sighed inwardly.
Ultimately, her status and children were Alicent's greatest safeguards.
---
### The Banquet Hall
A familiar scene unfolded as noble ladies gathered together.
Aegon, dressed in formal attire, was placed in a spacious seat.
His expression was listless, and he buried his head in frustration.
Alicent did not make an appearance; instead, she was entertaining guests in another corner of the hall.
In her place, Rhaenyra and Laenor had been seated on plush couches flanking Aegon.
"Princess…"
A young noblewoman from the Riverlands greeted softly before retreating with a curtsy.
"May the Mother and the Maiden bless you," Rhaenyra replied with a warm smile, her hand resting on her stomach.
Meeting over a dozen young ladies in succession was exhausting.
Rhaenyra's elegant eyes flickered as she leaned back comfortably against the couch, adjusting into a more relaxed posture.
She hadn't wanted to attend, but her father had pleaded with her multiple times.
She had no idea what kind of spell Alicent had put on him!
Laenor spoke gently. "Rhaenyra, if you're not feeling well, you should go rest."
Rhaenyra waved a hand dismissively. "I'm fine. I won't quit halfway."
Then she turned to Aegon. "You've been looking for so long. Have you found anyone you like?"
Once upon a time, others had arranged her matches for her.
Now, the tables had finally turned.
Aegon drooped his eyelids in defeat. "I'm too heartbroken to care. No beauty could catch my eye right now."
There were plenty of eligible noblewomen present, and he was practically overwhelmed by choices.
He had taken a fancy not only to some tall and striking girls from the Westerlands and the North but also to their mature and voluptuous mothers.
If it weren't for the setting, he would have gone down to chat with a few of them already.
However, remembering his mother's iron-fisted attitude, Aegon felt an urge to rebel.
"I refuse to choose anyone. Let's see if they dare force me!"
He stewed in resentment.
Having grown up under Alicent's rigid upbringing, his heart, which once longed for freedom and indulgence, bore deep scars.
Even if he had to marry a commoner—or a prostitute—he would never, ever marry a Hightower.
Not even if the Conqueror himself returned to command it!
Attendants carried trays of wine and ice, providing impeccable service.
As time passed, male guests began to arrive, and the band struck up a lively tune.
Leonor sat at a dining table, keeping a close watch on the flow of the banquet.
"You really should try this plum cake. Don't stay so tense all the time."
The gray-haired Linman held a plate of pastries, savoring each bite at a leisurely pace.
Leonor raised his wine glass and gave a wry smile. "The war isn't over yet. This banquet feels a bit excessive."
"Lighten up. This is all for the sake of the royal bloodline."
Linman shook his head, reminiscing. "Back in King Jaehaerys' time, even his children couldn't escape the fate of arranged matches."
Leonor nodded, feeling somewhat relieved.
He scanned the room.
Otto sat at another table, deep in conversation with Mond Hightower.
Meanwhile, his eldest son, Harwin, sat alone in a corner of the banquet hall, his leg tightly bound to a wooden splint.
None of them had gone to the throne room. Instead, they remained to oversee the more chaotic banquet hall.
Harwin hobbled over.
"You should be resting," Leonor said.
"I've grown too used to the City Watch."
Harwin furrowed his brow and leaned in. "There's been a lot of movement in Flea Bottom lately. Quite a few Gold Cloaks have suddenly resigned for no apparent reason."
(End of Chapter)