Lady Laena Velaryon
Praise be to all the gods, for the weather had seen fit to show them mercy. Though the banks of the Blackwater had lately been plagued by the persistent rains of autumn, the past week had seen the heavens turn a cloudless, brilliant blue, as if by design. As the Velaryon procession made its way through the decorated streets of King's Landing on the seventh day of the third month of the year 111 AC, threading through the cheering throngs of smallfolk, not a single clod of mud flew from beneath the carriage wheels. The Sept of Queen Aemma was filled to the rafters with lords, ladies, their endless progeny, aged parents, and distant kinsmen. It was only because the dome had not yet been raised over the capital's primary sanctuary that the air remained fresh despite the staggering multitude. Light poured through the high lancet windows, casting exquisite, multi-colored dappling upon the richly garbed crowd where the stained glass had already been set.
Double nuptials for three members of the royal house demanded a scale that only the Dragonpit or a Great Sept could provide. Queen Alicent had vehemently protested the former—claiming it was far too gloomy and reeked of dragon—but she had been forced to agree to Aemma's Sept, albeit through clenched teeth. At her own wedding, they had "made do" with the royal sept of the Red Keep. Organizing a dual ceremony had proven a daunting task, and it was not merely a matter of coin; every step of the royal festivities had to be measured and transformed into a magnificent spectacle that would be remembered for years. Every movement required coordination.
Now, her father led her down the wide aisle toward the wedding altar, while from another door, the King led Rhaenyra by the arm. They were to approach the Septons in such a way as to allow the King and the Princess to precede them by a few paces. In that interval, Viserys was to place his daughter's hand into the hand of Prince Daemon, kiss her brow, and step aside, allowing the Velaryons time to reach their own groom.
The choir's many voices rose in the hymn "Blessed be the Son and Daughter," and for the first time, the septon's chants did not stir irritation or boredom in Laena's heart. The trills and antiphonal responses soared over the congregants and guests, echoing off the white marble walls and mingling with the cries of the Most Devout. The Septons swung their censers so fervently that the carved images of the Seven were scarcely visible behind the veil of fragrant smoke, making every beam of light seem tangible. She recalled the King lamenting that, due to the missing dome, there was nothing from which to suspend the gargantuan five-foot censer already cast in gold. Its incense smoke was meant to billow from seven dragon heads with eyes of varying gemstones, requiring seven acolytes to swing it. Aegon had shown her that monster, currently waiting its hour in the royal treasury, calling it a "mace for a dragon's hand." Laena was glad that no such metallic murderer was swinging over their heads this day.
As Viserys and Rhaenyra emerged from the neighboring aisle, Laena gave her father's elbow a gentle tug, slowing his pace. Her mother had warned her that she would have to watch the speed herself, and so it proved. Two measured, wide strides, and then it was their turn to approach the altar. As custom dictated for a groom, Aegon did not turn to look at her, and Laena took the moment to study the cloak that would soon rest upon her shoulders. The charcoal-black silk, as befitted the Targaryens, was embroidered with obsidian beads that shimmered with a matte luster in the sunlight. In the center, a three-headed dragon coiled, but it was not the red fire one might expect; it was white, fashioned from rows of pearls. The King had granted his younger brother a fief, and with it, the right to bear his own sigil. Out of respect for the Velaryons, Aegon had turned the dragon white.
"A dragon is still a dragon, whatever its color," he had told her then. "And white becomes you, my lady."
It was in white that she had garbed herself this day. Offering a silent prayer of thanks for the warm weather, Laena had chosen a raiment in the Valyrian fashion—or what passed for it these days—keeping her groom's tastes in mind. The flowing over-tunic with long sleeves, white as sea foam, was adorned with silver thread embroidery. It might have been deemed too revealing were it not for the long under-tunic beneath, which covered the deep neckline and peeked out from the hem like an azure wave.
The primary difficulty had been her hair, which was Baratheon-stiff and unruly. Laena usually gathered it into a simple tail, but for a wedding, something exceptional was required. She had been on the verge of despair when a solution arrived on the swift wings of Meleys, brought by her mother. A silver tiara with a wide band, decorated with turquoise cameos, was lavishly encrusted with sapphires and pearls; strings of pearls dangled from its sides.
"The Velaryons offered it to me when I wed your father," her mother explained. "Your grandmother, Lady Larissa, kept trying to foist it upon me, swearing it had been worn by every Targaryen maid who wed a Velaryon. But I found it too heavy, and I never cared for pearls, so I refused. It may perchance suit you better."
The hair was styled into an intricate arrangement, most of it concealed behind the band of the ornament. The tiara was indeed cumbersome, but with it, the image was complete: it was as if two centuries, the foreign faith, and the flight from the Doom had never happened. A dragon-blooded gela (maiden) was marrying a dragon-blooded eyks (master/lord) according to all the laws, rules, and fashions of the Old Freehold. In this guise, Laena Velaryon presented herself to her groom.
Her father placed her hand into Aegon's and kissed her brow, nearly catching the tiara with his lips—it seemed fathers were no less anxious at weddings than their daughters.
"My thanks, my lord," the Prince replied formally, offering her an encouraging smile. "My lady."
"Did you truly manage to hobble here in time?" Laena could not resist the barb that had been dancing on her tongue for days. Aegon let out a woeful sigh and confessed:
"I had to rise before the dawn. And did you come merely to see if I would appear?"
Suppressed chuckles came from Daemon and Rhaenyra at their side. The Most Devout acolyte, who was mid-sermon about the Father and Mother Above, stumbled and tried to wither them with a stern gaze. The poor man failed miserably. While the Septons intoned the required prayers, Aegon leaned his head toward her—adorned with a jagged crown of Valyrian steel—and inquired in a low voice:
"How do you find the choir's efforts?"
"Exquisite. Your doing?"
"Mine," he nodded with no small measure of self-satisfaction. "I could not allow mournful dirges to be droned at my wedding."
The Septon paused again and cleared his throat, directing his wrathful glare at the violators of the liturgical order. The Prince offered an innocent smile, and Laena had to bite the inside of her cheek to stifle her laughter. She felt like a mischievous, disobedient girl again, the one who used to fill the sept at High Tide with ridiculous questions just to avoid memorizing dreary prayers.
At last, the most tedious portion of the ceremony concluded. She and Aegon, alongside Daemon and Rhaenyra, repeated the seven oaths after the seven Most Devout, gave seven vows, and received seven blessings. Afterward, the gathered clergy asked the congregation in unison if anyone objected to either of the two unions. As expected, none came forward, and the Septons called down the curses of the Seven Hells (Peklo) upon the heads of any who would dare destroy the happiness of the wedded.
The time had come for the exchange of cloaks. Aegon handed his cane to Ser Dennis and unfastened the dragon-head brooch. The beads and pearls rattled against one another as the fabric slid down into the Prince's waiting hands, and a moment later, it rested upon Laena's shoulders. Aegon carefully smoothed the folds, lingering on her shoulders for a fraction of a heartbeat longer than required, before clicking the brooch shut. Servants in Velaryon livery hurried forward to straighten the hem. Contrary to the girl's expectations, the cloak was not heavy at all. At fourteen, dreaming of her future marriage, she had feared the groom's cloak would pin her to the earth, and no promises from her grandmother to sew it from the lightest fabrics could convince the young lady otherwise.
Aegon's fingers squeezed her palm a little tighter, and Laena started—she had been daydreaming and nearly missed the most vital part, for Rhaenyra behind her had already begun to speak!
"With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband," she said hastily, perhaps a bit too loudly.
"With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife," the Prince replied before kissing her.
Laena's opinion on wedding kisses had been formed at the same time as her fears regarding the cloak's weight. Perchance the wedding of her cousin Deinora was to blame for both: Uncle Vaemond had wed her to Lord Brune of Brownhollow, and the groom's cloak had been a bear skin in which the bride was utterly lost, and their kiss had been brief and chaste. For some reason, she expected hers to be the same, but as with the cloak, the lady had guessed wrong.
Aegon kissed her demandingly, possessively, with great pressure. His tongue slipped into her mouth, tracing her lips, and Laena responded, leaning into him. At one point, she had to clutch his tunic—stiff with embroidery—because it felt as though she were being swept away, her own legs failing her. Eventually, air became scarce, and she pressed her hands against his chest, forcing the Prince to pull away. Aegon seemed not to react at first, but just as Laena intended to push harder, he took a step back. A hungry, unsatisfied expression flickered across his face, but it was almost instantly replaced by his usual polite half-smile. Gods, if he kissed like this at the altar, what would the night bring?
The Septon, once more displeased by something, hurried through the final prescribed words, raised his crystal aloft, and declared them man and wife. The same occurred for Daemon and Rhaenyra, and the gathered guests erupted into cheers and applause. Laenor shouted the loudest, and surprisingly, so did Uncle Malentine—though he was likely cheering the wedding of his new liege, Daemon.
They turned and descended the seven shallow steps, drawing level with Daemon and Rhaenyra. Her friend, garbed in a black-and-red gown and wearing her mother's winged tiara, was flushed with happiness, and Laena realized belatedly that she likely looked the same. The King of Tyrosh, the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea—a loyal vassal to his brother on the Iron Throne—was clad in a flawless doublet of black velvet beneath his three-hooped crown.
"I had to catch up to you, valonqar (little brother)," her younger brother-in-law remarked with a smirk, openly hinting at their lingering kiss. "Do you have dragon's lungs, then?"
"You cannot be first in everything, lekia (elder brother)," Aegon replied imperturbably. "And as if you didn't have plenty to keep you occupied."
Rhaenyra giggled and practically hung off her new husband's arm. The royal couple and Laena's parents approached them.
"Well, brothers, my congratulations," the King said with a generous smile, clapping them both on the shoulders. "Both wed, both with everything that becomes a Targaryen. A dragon, a Valyrian blade, gold, land... and most of it by your own merits! Our parents would have been proud of you."
Laena noticed Aegon's cheek twitch slightly at those words, his smile turning thin and strained.
"Alas, I did not know Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa," Queen Alicent said. "But Viserys always recalls how happy they were with one another. I wish you that same happiness this day and all those to follow."
"A wonderful wish, Your Grace," her father nodded. "May your homes be a safe harbor for you, shielding you from all the storms of life."
Even here, Lord Velaryon could not suppress his seafaring nature. Her mother evidently thought the same, for she rolled her eyes ever so slightly before adding:
"In our houses, happy and strong marriages are no rarity; may yours be no exception to the rule."
These were all the mandatory congratulations prescribed by ceremony; other, far more sincere wishes and counsel had been spoken the night before. Having thanked their parents and kinsmen with equal formality, all four left the Sept to the tolling of the city's bells. After the smoky interior of the unfinished sanctuary, the sun felt blindingly bright. As they stepped through the open doors, the entirety of Visenya's Hill erupted in the jubilation of the smallfolk, who had not been permitted inside. Now, they were happy simply to be beneath the walls of the Sept during such a momentous event. After all, the next time a prince was to be wed would be in fifteen years at the earliest. And that was if they were lucky.
Greeting the crowd, which reacted wildly to every gesture of attention, they proceeded down and seated themselves in open carriages. Usually, everyone traveled in closed wagons, but today the citizens needed to see the House of the Dragon in all its splendor. Settling onto the soft seat, Laena realized for the first time that this was now her house as well, and she herself was a Targaryen—not only by her mother's blood but by her husband's name. She looked at Aegon, who sat beside her, stretching his legs and cane forward. The strange shadow that had crossed his face at the mention of his parents was gone, replaced once more by a benign, sincere, and happy smile.
"At least it was not as dreary as Viserys's ceremony," the Prince announced, summing up the day.
"Simply because we played the lead roles," Laena noted. "But the chants were truly marvelous."
"Naturally. The Septons would never have thought to use all the advantages of seventy-seven singers."
"You will not die of modesty, that much is certain."
"I know, I have been told as much before," Aegon smirked, a spark of mischief in his emerald eyes. "We have just been wed, my lady. Must we continue to observe Andal proprieties? It is not the custom in our family."
"Nor in ours," Laena replied with a smile.
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