On the seventh day of the first month of the one hundred and tenth year After the Conquest, King Viserys Targaryen, the Second of His Name, was joined in holy matrimony within the Royal Sept of the Red Keep to Lady Alicent, daughter of his longtime advisor and Hand, Otto Hightower. In the year past, the groom had celebrated his thirtieth nameday, whilst his bride had turned eighteen but the day prior.
The vast clan of the Hightowers—including not only the family of Lord Otto himself but also that of his elder brother, Lord Hobert, along with all their cousins, nephews, goodbrothers, and sisters-in-law (which is to say, nigh on half the nobility of the Reach)—having descended upon the capital, began to insist that the royal wedding be given the grandest scope possible. It was proposed that after a pompous wedding ceremony in the largest sept of the city—the nearly completed Sept of Queen Aemma—the cortege should proceed from Visenya's Hill to Aegon's Hill, to the delight of all the townsfolk. In addition to the seven Most Devout who permanently resided in King's Landing, the Reachmen brought with them another seven, with whom the High Septon conveyed his pastoral blessing to the newlyweds.
However, these ambitious proposals were shattered like Yi Ti porcelain the moment Aegon carelessly mentioned that work in the Sept was still underway.
"Imagine the embarrassment should wet mortar drip upon the bride's wedding gown," he offered the unpleasant prospect to the Small Council. "It would be a disgrace to the Royal House, and twice over: not only would the appearance of the King's bride suffer irreparable damage, but it would also bear witness to the negligence of the royal builders and architects."
It is hard to say which prospect impressed Viserys more, but the Hightowers' proposal was gently but firmly rejected or altered beyond recognition. The procession with chariots, mounted guardsmen on the streets, and dragons in the sky was proposed to be replaced by a solemn procession from the Royal Sept and a wedding reception in the Godswood with weak wine, ale, fruit, cheeses, and sweet pies.
Seven days before the celebration itself, festivities for the smallfolk began: tents and platforms were erected on every square from the Mud Gate to the Dragon Gate, where fools, mummers, actors, jugglers, and animal trainers performed, but the main revelry unfolded on the tourney grounds beyond the city walls. Four days prior to the wedding, a knightly tourney began, held under the strictest rules accepted in the Reach. The majority of the participants who declared themselves were natives of that region, but there were representatives from the Stormlands, the Riverlands, the Crownlands, the West, and the Vale.
On the first day, squires competed, and by the results of the bouts, almost all were knighted by the Kingsguard. On the second day, the most accurate archer was identified. On the third, a melee was held, the victor of which emerged as Ser Gwayne Hightower, brother of the future Queen; in the final bout, he clashed with Ser Jaegaer Ilileon, the King's bastard cousin. Jaegaer was unlucky—he stumbled, hesitated for a split second, and then found himself lying on the ground with a sword at his very nose. The Volantene was not in the least embarrassed, and he announced loudly:
"I did not summon a barber, Ser!"
Fortunately, Gwayne managed to recognize the pun and helped the vanquished man to rise. If anyone noticed that Prince Daemon, who previously never missed a tourney, had failed to appear for the melee, the jousts, or the single combats, they preferred to keep their thoughts to themselves.
The wedding itself proceeded strictly according to all the canons of the Faith, which is to say, tediously enough. As protocol prescribed, Aegon, together with Daemon and Rhaenyra, stood behind Viserys and fought off yawns throughout the service: the monotonously strict, precise, and measured singing of the choir induced sleep, and the sequential and correct execution of all prayers, hymns, and rites drove one to melancholy. in another situation, the Prince would have taken the organization of the ceremony into his own hands and insisted that it become worthy of a royal wedding, but after two months of disputes, quarrels, mediation, and fierce bargaining, he had neither the strength nor the desire for it. He did not offer his services to Viserys, and the latter, evidently sensing that the limit of requests and favors from his brothers was exhausted, did not think to ask.
To honor both her father's house and the house of her husband, Lady Alicent was attired in a white-cream gown with wide sleeves, lined from within with red satin of Volantene fox. The hem of the dress was covered in rich embroidery of gold thread, depicting tongues of flame burning in the maws of the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens and atop the beacon of the Hightower of Oldtown. The bodice was embroidered with red Tyroshi beads, so fine that the pattern of dragon scales from the royal sigil almost seemed a drawing upon the fabric. Slender, with an impeccably straight back, dressed richly but without ostentatious luxury, Alicent looked like the earthly embodiment of the Maiden. Her dark chestnut hair was arranged in a complex coiffure, framed by a radiant gold tiara with rubies, a gift from the bride's uncle, Lord Hobert.
Court gossips had managed to share with one another the rumor that the ornament was more than a hundred years old, and in its time had been owned by a Princess of Dorne; it was also said that one of her daughters married the future King of the Reach, Garth XII, and since then the tiara had been passed down in the Gardener line from mother to daughter, until one of them brought it as a dowry to House Hightower, and now Lady Alicent brought it to the Targaryens. It was a beautiful story, but Aegon had not earned three copper links for history in the Citadel for naught, and he remembered that Garth XII had been betrothed in childhood to Cyrella Lannister, with whom he lived, for better or worse, until his very death. Most likely, the Hightowers had bought the tiara from Dornish jewelers trading in Oldtown, but the Prince did not wish to debunk such a well-tailored legend, all the more so as it caused no harm.
Viserys himself seemed to have stepped from the pages of a knightly romance. In an obsidian-black doublet with scarlet velvet insets, he seemed the embodiment of elegance, and with Blackfyre at his belt, he could vie with Daemon as to which of them looked more like the male ideal of beauty from the times of the Old Freehold. Although, Aegon thought, hardly was the ancestral sword the reason for that—it sufficed simply to be clean-shaven in the morning. The jagged crown of Jaehaerys lent him grandeur and authority, and a gold chain with a scattering of rubies on wide flat links spoke tacitly of the wealth of their house.
The torture by dismal singing was concluded, the groom and bride swore seven oaths each, and the fourteen Most Devout in turn blessed them seven times. After this, Otto Hightower removed the silver-grey cloak with the beacon of Oldtown from his daughter and accepted from Daemon's hands the black one with the red dragon of the Targaryens. Aegon (and not he alone) expected that the Prince of Dragonstone would make some hideous scene, but he behaved in full accordance with the rules of the rite: silently, with a bored and absent expression on his face, he accepted and passed the ceremonial cloak from hand to hand.
The groom and bride exchanged cloaks, then kisses, named one another husband and wife, King and Queen, and all the septons in chorus declared their marriage valid and called down the seven punishments of the heavens and the seven curses of the seven hells upon those who would come between those joined in marriage. Applause rang out, bells began to toll, the ringing of which was taken up throughout the capital, and weary courtiers and guests hastened to follow the newlyweds to leave the stifling sept.
The reception in the Godswood was hardly more interesting than the service, and Aegon hardly wished to linger at it longer than necessary. Fortunately, by custom, the husband's relatives were the first to congratulate the newlyweds, and by Viserys's wish, Rhaenyra went ahead of her uncles.
"Father, My Queen, I congratulate you and wish you happiness," the Princess let fall sparingly, looking somewhere to the side.
Dryly kissing her parent and stepmother on the cheek, she made an impeccably deep curtsy and, with a rustle of skirts, disappeared behind the backs of her lady-companions, among whom Aegon recognized Iolante Massey and Ellyn Beesbury. The Prince exhaled in relief; it had taken several days to persuade his niece to utter a few simple words, and another day was spent on the careful composition of the phrase itself. Not without difficulty, Aegon had managed to defend the most neutral variant possible, but the price of the absence of a scandal was brevity. Unfortunately, it was absolutely useless to argue on this subject with Daemon.
"My congratulations, my brother," he let fall, approaching the newlyweds. "Well, it seems we are now even—two wives apiece."
"Lady Rhea was no wife to you," Viserys reminded him with a nervous chuckle.
"Nor has Queen Alicent become one yet."
The quiet conversations of the courtiers froze. The entire court was privy to the rift in the royal family that had nearly caused a full schism, but few understood how dangerously close the House of the Dragon had been to breaking apart. Now Daemon's phrase opened the eyes of many.
"However," he smiled as if nothing were amiss. "You have everything yet ahead of you. I sincerely wish you, My Queen, do not repeat the errors of both my wives."
And, not waiting for—now Queen—Alicent, on whose face fear mingled with amazement, to swallow the highly ambiguous congratulation, the Prince walked away as if nothing had happened, striking up a conversation with Ser Harwin. Next was Aegon's own turn, and he, as always, tried to smooth over the negative effect with a more traditional congratulation of empty and largely meaningless words, adding at the end:
"And, seventhly, I wish you peace, for peace in the royal family grants peace to all the Seven Kingdoms."
"I thank you, Prince Aegon," Alicent smiled at him quite sincerely, undoubtedly catching the hint of warning.
"Well, my brother, you are next!" Viserys clapped him on the shoulder. "Mayhaps you shall look for a bride for yourself at today's feast?"
Alas, he spoke too loudly, and the courtiers stood too close, and Aegon literally felt the highborn matchmakers and young ladies prick up their ears.
"And what am I to do with her, my brother?" the Prince answered just as loudly. "Invite her to dance? I am a dancer of the poorest sort, and only you, our brother, and Uncle Vaegon are capable of listening to my musings on dragons and history."
Viserys chuckled, showing that he accepted the sharp answer, and with a barely perceptible nod released Aegon. An endless procession of Hightowers stretched out, all singing the praises of the marriage and the new father-in-law in various ways but equally verbosely, then came the turn of the members of the Small Council, who were replaced by representatives of the Great Lords of the Seven Kingdoms, but the Prince waited impatiently for another. Scarce had Lord Wylde, representing Boremund Baratheon, finished speaking, when ahead of all other lords stepped the Captain of the King's Gate of the capital, Ser Jaegaer Ilileon. Aegon himself had insisted that his cousin, as blood of the dragon's blood, should go fourth, immediately after himself, but Lord Massey, who managed the wedding ceremonial by right of Chamberlain, nearly had a stroke when it was suggested he place a bastard, albeit of royal origin, ahead of all trueborn lords. Otto also opposed this, so Viserys hastened to propose a compromise.
Jaegaer had long spoken the Common Tongue purely, but this time, whether intentionally or from nervousness, he drew out his vowels. The congratulation of the former Exarch was Volantene in its grandiloquence, yet sincere, and at the same time filled with meaning, and most importantly, not too long. When he finished, Viserys paid him barely less attention than Lord Hobert Hightower, and in addition, Alicent actively supported the conversation. When the dragon bastard was released in peace, Aegon hastened to congratulate him:
"Beautiful words, cousin."
"It took only recalling what is said in such cases in Volantis," he chuckled. "A heap of insignificant nonsense."
"I would not say so. You just raised your value greatly in the eyes of the court."
"They are simply outraged that a bastard climbed ahead of them."
"Even those damsels over there?" Aegon nodded toward a group of young ladies, judging by the amber ornaments, from the Stormlands.
"They are looking at you," Jaegaer tried to excuse himself.
"You are a true knight, favored by the Sovereign, having participated in a royal tourney by the rules of the Reach, and having reached the very end in the melee. Damsels love handsome and manly knights, and if they are Valyrians besides... Furthermore, bastardy adds a tragic charm to you—they are susceptible to that."
"Unlike their fathers."
"They will explicitly not offer you the first daughters of paramount lords, that is true," the Prince nodded. "But for your fortune, Viserys has a great multitude of lords. So do not be modest today."
"It seems to me that you are simply shifting onto me Viserys's wish that you find yourself a wife."
"Precisely so, cousin."
In the company of Jaegaer, who entertained his relative with comical garrison stories, Aegon somehow made it to the end of the reception, when the whole court, led by the royal couple, left the Godswood one by one or in families to change their heraldic raiment for something more festive for the wedding feast. The Prince himself, more than certain that in the evening he would see all the skill of the best tailors of Westeros, preferred to recall the months lived in Volantis, and not without nostalgia donned one after another three spacious tunics, the collar of each wider than the other. Then came the turn of a black sleeveless chiton of Yi Ti silk, cinched with a wide and long ruby sash.
"You wrap yourself like an onion," inserted Dennis, observing the sacrament of dressing.
Aegon only snorted and rolled his eyes, but inspecting himself in the mirror, he was forced to admit that the tunics of different shades of red protruding one from under the other could indeed suggest such a thought. Next came the turn of several signet rings and claw-rings, a heavy shoulder-piece of silver with rubies and emeralds; after some thought, the Prince abandoned the desire to wear his "horned" circlet of Valyrian steel—after all, this was the wedding feast of Viserys and Alicent—and instead placed upon his head the "third eye," so beloved by his mother, and wove obsidian beads into his braids.
By custom, the hosts of the wedding feast were the young spouses themselves, and therefore, when the doors of the Great Hall opened, set with richly and generously laden tables, the King and Queen were already awaiting their guests on the high dais. Beside them, places were set aside for their relatives, both blood and newly acquired, as well as for the members of the Small Council. A level lower went the representatives of the Great Houses, and further on the invited lords, ladies, and knights were seated in order of nobility of birth and merit. With oversight, such a system could create a mass of problems and disputes, however, the Small Council had approved the placement of all present in the King's name, though not without debate.
The Hall gradually filled with feast-goers congratulating the newlyweds with wishes for a happy life together, and the more important the guests were, the later they approached the dais. Aegon approached just at the moment when Lord Hightower entered the vast hall with his family, and immediately noticed Jaegaer shifting nervously by the door. His cousin had also managed to change and was now clad in a doublet of rich blue with wide sleeves, from the slits of which peeked a boiling-white shirt with Myrish lace at the cuffs.
"Should not the herald have announced you already?" Aegon was surprised.
"He should," answered the Volantene relative, irritably adjusting the gold cloak thrown over his shoulder. "But he refuses to announce me. Says my name is not listed on his rolls, and without it, he has no right to admit me."
"He lies," the Prince said with conviction. "Something tells me that after the wedding we shall require a new chamberlain. Come."
Dennis, understanding the problem from the first words, was already speaking with the sharply paled herald in a black-and-red surcoat, instilling something in him with a smile both promising and treacherous. Finally, the poor wretch learned all the royal kin and nodded rapidly. Aegon nodded to him, and he announced in a booming voice:
"Prince Aegon Targaryen, Master of Dragons and rider of Vermithor, the Bronze Fury! Ser Jaegaer Ilileon, Captain of the King's Gate!"
With head held high, the Prince proceeded past the filled tables to the royal dais; his cousin, hesitating slightly, lagged half a step behind him. Freezing before the very table, Aegon offered his brother and new sister-in-law a ceremonious bow:
"My Sovereign, My Queen, Ser Jaegaer and I wish you long years."
"We thank you," the King answered with an air of importance.
"I pray you, be our guests at this feast," Alicent pronounced the traditional phrase with a smile.
Aegon bowed again and pulled his cousin with him onto the dais. Taking his seat one chair away from Viserys, the Prince noted with pleasure how the lords gathered below, some with bewilderment, some with displeasure, some with suspicion, examined the bastard of dragon blood seated at the royal table. Let them think now on what it means.
"Everyone is looking at me," whispered Jaegaer, who had evidently managed to forget the attention of Volantene society.
"Accustom yourself," Aegon chuckled. "In Volantis, Old Blood surprises no one, but in Westeros it is counted on one's fingers, and all must be in plain sight. In the end, let them remember that you too are a grandson of Jaehaerys, though you are not called Targaryen."
But scarce had they properly enjoyed their small triumph when the herald at the doors announced again:
"Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne, Hand of the King, rider of Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm! Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, rider of Syrax!"
No sooner did his brother and niece appear on the threshold than all attention immediately switched to them, and there was reason for it. Daemon and Rhaenyra arrived at the celebration last, hand in hand, and everything in their appearance screamed that they had reconciled with the King and acknowledged the new marriage, but had not accepted it.
A wedding feast was a celebration, and it was assumed that the raiment of both hosts and guests would be appropriately bright. Daemon, however, had donned Valyrian armor, the very same, from Mantarys. In the light of candles, lamps, and torches, the armor gleamed oilily and seemed carved from obsidian. The pauldrons bulged with spikes, the gauntlets ended in claws, exactly like a dragon's, and Rhaenyra's hand, lying ostensibly within it, seemed small, white, and fragile. The cuirass was covered with a countless multitude of scales, which, as Aegon knew, had been cast together with the armor itself, not riveted to it after. At Daemon's belt hung Dark Sister—a Valyrian blade in a Valyrian scabbard, on a Valyrian in Valyrian armor. Daemon's smile, benevolent and peaceable, seemed a mockery against the background of his generally warlike appearance.
Rhaenyra looked a match for him. Her dress was black as night, the neckline covered by a dense web of black lace; on her neck hung a string of obsidian beads wound several times, and her head was adorned by a kokoshnik tiara in the form of spreading dragon wings—the very one Aegon had gifted her mother upon returning from Essos; Aemma, of course, had never worn it, but judging by the whispers in the Hall, the ornament was recognized not only by the giver. The only spot of color on the two of them proved to be the gold badge of the Hand on the Prince, which he had suspended on a chain and wore over the armor.
"What the..." Viserys hissed as the pair approached them.
"My Sovereign, My Queen," Daemon limited himself to a short nod, but Rhaenyra deigned to make a full curtsy, which would have been ideal had the Princess, as etiquette required, lowered her eyes to the floor. Instead, the niece looked point-blank at her newly acquired stepmother, frozen with a mixed expression on her face. For a few moments silence reigned, and Aegon began to think trouble was brewing, but Daemon deigned to continue. "We wish you happiness and a long reign."
"To the glory of our family and all the Seven Kingdoms," added Rhaenyra.
It was audible how the King exhaled noisily, after which he and Alicent pronounced the requisite phrases, and the Black Prince and Black Princess took their places: Daemon on Viserys's right hand, between him and Aegon, and Rhaenyra between Aegon and Jaegaer. A nervously sweating Lord Massey waved his hands, and the orchestra struck up some merry melody with all its might to drown out the awkwardness. Goblets were filled with wine, the young couple raised their cups to one another, all drank, and the atmosphere seemed to become less tragically serious.
Aegon drank without becoming drunk, and ate without tasting. Only he had hoped that he managed to liquidate the threat of a family schism in time, which threatened to place the whole realm on the brink of war, and now all his efforts hung by a thread. Hardly could Daemon have declared his position more clearly and loudly than he did just now—save perhaps by attacking King's Landing astride Caraxes immediately. And Rhaenyra, the obstinate girl, could not refrain from spoiling things for her father. Though, if one recalled how she looked at Daemon, it was not too surprising. Moreover, they had turned him into an unwitting accomplice of their antic: the chiton on him was also black! Of what peace with Otto could one speak, if they had practically spat in his daughter's face just now?
"What are you doing, Daemon?" the Prince hissed in his brother's ear.
"Of what do you speak?" he inquired innocently.
"Of this," Aegon tapped on the black vambraces.
"I dressed in our heraldic colors, as did you. Perhaps not so brightly, but still."
"You appeared in armor at a wedding feast!"
"Well, I am not the only one. Look, Ser Harrold is in armor, and Ser Criston too."
"And what were you thinking, Rhaenyra?"
"It is a coincidence, Uncle," she explained. "I wished to wear your gift."
"Therefore you put on black?"
"It seemed to me that a colored dress would draw attention to itself," the niece made a thoughtful face. "But it suits me, does it not, Ser Jaegaer?"
"It suits you greatly, Princess," the cousin agreed compliantly, and Aegon scarce restrained himself from snorting.
Meanwhile, the festivities took their course, guests raising toast after toast to the newlyweds. The dancing began; the King and Queen danced with one another, with relatives and guests; Rhaenyra, after a small reminder from Aegon, deigned nonetheless to partner with her father twice.
Aegon himself drank, remaining sober, and ate, feeling no taste. His thoughts swirled feverishly around how to correct others' mistakes, and he saw few exits from the situation created. It would certainly be necessary to provide the Hightowers some satisfaction for this incident, so as not to aggravate the situation. Otto had already received his dismissal, but had not left court. Now, likely, it would be necessary to offer him some post on the Small Council. Viserys would most likely support this idea, but Daemon... Hardly would the new Hand wish to tolerate his predecessor so close to himself.
The Prince's joyless musings were interrupted rather unceremoniously by his newly acquired goodbrother. Ser Gwayne Hightower, being already quite in his cups, took advantage of the fact that Aegon remained alone at the table on the dais, and addressed him:
"Tell me, My Prince, is it true that in Valyria they wore no breeches?"
"True, Ser," the other answered with some surprise. "At least until the Old Freehold conquered the Andal kingdoms. In the Lands of the Long Summer, they were not needed, and later wearing them was considered a sign of barbarism."
"And you are dressed now... in the Valyrian manner?"
"Almost. In the Volantene manner."
"So that means you wear no breeches now?" the royal brother-in-law inquired with a greasy smile.
Leaning toward him, Aegon explained in a conspiratorial tone:
"Such questions, Ser, are asked only by those who are particularly interested in what breeches are meant to hide."
"Ser Gwayne is precisely one of those, is he not?" rang out the merry voice of Daemon.
Hightower blinked drunkenly and tried to understand at what moment his own insult had turned against him. When he failed, he preferred to seek the answer at the bottom of his goblet, after which he lost interest in the conversation.
"Has he always been like this?" Aegon asked his brother.
"Only when he gets drunk."
"And did this happen often?"
"More often than I would have liked. Then it would have been possible to kick him out of the Watch for drunkenness."
"By the by, have you already decided who will be the new Commander of the Gold Cloaks?"
"Yes—Ser Luthor Largent."
"Not Harwin? Not Jaegaer?" the Master of Dragons was surprised.
"I have my own plans for them," Daemon answered evasively.
At that moment someone bawled:
"To the bedding! To bed!"
And everyone immediately took up the final cry. The orchestra struck up "The King took off his crown, the Queen her shoe," and the newlyweds were immediately surrounded by courtiers. In full accordance with the bawdy song, Rhaenyra pulled the crown from her laughing father; cousins scooped Alicent into their arms, and Gwayne, appearing out of nowhere nearby, removed her shoe.
"Will you not go to see them off?" Daemon inquired with a smirk.
"Participate in this barbarism? I thank you humbly," Aegon grimaced.
"Jaegaer will go from us, I asked him. Let him get used to how it is."
"He will be unpleasantly surprised. And Rhaenyra?"
"I persuaded her," his brother smiled conspiratorially. "As with the curtsy before her father."
"And I thought she had begun to think with her own head," Aegon winced and sipped his wine.
Amidst the hooting and laughter of the courtiers, the King and Queen were carried from the hall, and only the laziest and the drunkest remained in the Hall—the latter proved not so few. Daemon clapped his brother on the shoulder and walked away somewhere. Aegon looked into his empty cup and set it aside with annoyance. It seemed to the Prince that he was beginning to lose control of the situation: Rhaenyra had sided with Daemon, Viserys cared for nothing right now, and the Hightowers were liable to harbor a grudge, and then there were the Velaryons, who had not even appeared at the wedding because of the self-started war, which, by all appearances, was not going too successfully...
"Mother of..."
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