Prince Daemon Targaryen, King of Tyrosh, the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea
The Great Hall was as thronged with people as the Sept of Queen Aemma had been before it. The countless guests of the double wedding within the royal house had found time to recover from the protracted ceremony, to change their raiments, and now, spurred by hunger, they were industriously devouring the culinary wonders of the Red Keep's kitchens.
He and Rhaenyra were no exception, having chosen the colors of their dragons by prior agreement. Daemon had been more than certain that together they would look magnificent, but when he beheld his young wife in her exquisite gown of black satin and cloth-of-gold, his breath was quite taken away. Her silver-gold tresses fell to her very waist, which was cinched by a corset (curse it all, he wished to unlace it this very moment!), and her head was crowned with a headdress fashioned in the likeness of dragon wings. Upon her neck, however, hung long strands of Tyroshi beads with rubies and black opals—the gift he had brought her upon his return from the war.
"Adorned entirely in your uncle's gifts," Daemon remarked, his hand tracing her back with possessive grace.
"Untrue," Rhaenyra replied with a smile, pressing closer to him. "The tiara is my mother's legacy, but the rubies were a gift from my husband."
The King of the Stepstones merely laughed in response. At the least, it seemed he faced no rival.
They sat together now at the board upon the royal dais, to the right hand of Viserys—Daemon had no intention of relinquishing his post as the Lord Hand. Immediately behind Rhaenyra sat Jayegor, now Lord of the Verge and Shield of Tyrosh. Beyond him sat the members of the Small Council, led by Lord Beesbury; the sight of Otto Hightower, thrust so many seats away from the King, brought Daemon nearly as much pleasure as the coming night promised.
To the left of Viserys, beyond Alicent, sat Aegon and Laena, appearing as two spots of black and white. The valonqar (little brother) did not stir a foot from his young wife's side, his gaze fixed solely upon her. Daemon recalled how, but a few years past, Aegon had bitterly lamented his fate and mournfully pledged to sacrifice his marriage to the interests of the family, and he nearly burst into laughter. The Lame Prince was hopelessly in love, and the Velaryon girl had wasted no time in seizing the advantage. It seemed Geylar of Tyros once wrote that all things turn to the better, however a man might perceive them. Daemon had achieved this "better," winning a new title while retaining the old, taking the finest of maids to wife, and even seeing his younger brother settled. Truly, all was for the best!
Behind Laena sat their uncle the Archmaester, his face as sour as ever. One of his novices served him at the board, pouring into his cup either some herbal decoction or plain water. From time to time, Vaegon cast envious glances at the flagons of wine, yet remained silent; when their eyes met, Daemon offered a sympathetic smile and proceeded to drain his own chalice with ostentatious relish.
Meanwhile, the guests took turns according to their station to raise toasts in honor of both pairs of newlyweds, interspersing them with healths to the King and the entire House Targaryen. Viserys was not to be outdone, saluting the gathered company with the words:
"To the eighth of my kingdoms!"
The response was a thunderous roar of voices:
"Fire and Blood!"
"For the House of the Dragon!"
"For Tyrosh!"
"The Stepstones are ours!"
"They did not lift a finger, yet they deem themselves conquerors," Daemon grumbled.
Viserys, having seated himself, offered a gentle smirk.
"Do not judge them harshly, brother; you know these courtly windbags. They drink to those who pour for them, and for that reason alone, they count themselves comrades-in-arms. They shall sober up and grow quiet soon enough."
The true victor grimaced and washed away his irritation with wine; the cupbearers diligently filled the cups, but if he wished to claim his due tonight, he knew he must stay his hand—it would not do to ruin his first wedding night through common drunkenness.
Meanwhile, the musicians upon the gallery changed: the court troupe was replaced by a motley and colorful company. That the Tyroshis had managed to arrive for the festivities despite the autumn gales was a miracle and a gift from the gods. He wondered if the court would find their performance to its taste.
A flock of young Tyroshi wenches stepped into the center of the aisle—all, to a girl, blue-haired, clad in identical flowing blue silk gowns that featured far too many slits. Whistles and drunken guffaws broke out; the lords had already appraised the performers, though their lady-wives had not. The group of former Tyroshi magisters, now newly-made lords, greeted the musicians most loudly—it was, after all, something familiar and understood by them.
The maidens bowed to the royal dais and froze, awaiting the command to begin. Daemon, as their liege lord, offered a nod, and in that same heartbeat, the drums thundered, curved pipes wailed, guitars clattered, and the girls broke into a dance to a merry tune. Before long, the pattern of their dance took on bird-like qualities. One of the dancers stopped and began to sing in a beautiful, throaty voice, quite unexpected for a girl of her slight build. She sang in Tyroshi, and laughter broke out among those who knew the tongue, though the applause during the interludes only grew louder. Those who knew neither Tyroshi nor High Valyrian were likewise captivated by the wondrous music, the foreign movements, and the enchanting voice. When the performance came to an abrupt end, the Great Hall erupted in jubilation.
"What a ravishing song!" the Queen exclaimed, clapping her hands with the rest. "Oh, what a pity I do not know the tongue! Viserys, did you understand what they sang of?"
"Hm, yes, but..."
The King hesitated, but Aegon was quick to come to his brother's aid.
"I do not think, Your Grace, that you would find the song to your liking, had you the words."
"And why is that?"
"Because this song is not so much of the blue birds they so skillfully mimicked, but of beatings, murder, and death."
"What?.." Alicent gasped, taken aback. "But..."
"It is very cheerful, that much is true, but such are all Tyroshi songs," Daemon explained readily. "This one tells of the daughter of an Archon of Tyrosh who survived the Doom of Valyria but lost her station. Her father's palace was seized by former slaves who became magisters, and she is forced to serve those who once served her. They treat her with cruelty, and only in the early morn, when her new masters have not yet waked, can she steal a moment to walk in her old garden. She complains to the little blue birds hopping upon the branches of how heavy her lot is, and that she cannot help but weep, for all have forsaken her and now seek to take the last thing she possesses—her life."
A strange grimace of pity, shock, and something akin to revulsion froze upon the Queen's face. The coin paid to the troupe had just justified itself.
"That is monstrous," Alicent said at last. "Why do you permit them to sing such songs at a wedding? Do they have nothing of happiness, of love?"
"Oh, 'tis a very charming Tyroshi custom. At weddings and name-days, they sing such songs to ward off evil. The Tyroshis believe that if one sings a song with a sorrowful tale in a merry and spirited fashion, the gods, fate, or a new Doom shall be confounded by the emotions and pass them by."
"So they wish us well?" Laena clarified, just to be certain.
"Wealth, happiness, a brood of children, long years, and all of that sort."
"It is so... strange..." Alicent trailed off.
The explanation clearly did not please her, and she met the remaining Tyroshi performances with quite listless applause and a nervous, strained smile. Meanwhile, everyone else upon the dais, including old Aunt Jocelyn and even little Alyssa, brought in from the nursery, appreciated the Tyroshi efforts. Though, if one thought on it, the old woman was growing hard of hearing, and his daughter was not yet two years of age, so it was doubtful they understood the lyrics or the meaning of the dances.
When Daemon had returned to Dragonstone, Alyssa had scarcely known him—he had shorn his hair during the war, and that, it seemed, was enough to bewilder a child's mind. Mayhaps he should spend more time with his daughter. Meanwhile, she soon grew weary of sitting upon her father's lap, turned fretful, and clambered over to her newly-made stepmother. In Rhaenyra's arms, Alyssa was immediately captivated by the ruby beads, which she promptly pulled toward her mouth, while her friend merely laughed and played with her, now offering a new bead, now plucking it from the child's small fist. Not overly concerned with being overheard, Daemon stroked his daughter's rosy cheek and asked her with a smile:
"Manda biktys, issa? (She is beautiful, is she not?)"
Rhaenyra was clearly flustered, but she did not look away. Jayegor, sitting nearby, snorted and remarked:
"Mando bikto muñus nȳmā Volantī iemnȳ. (A beautiful mother for the heart of the Dragon's house.)"
Viserys, to whom some word must have drifted through the din of the revelers, raised his head and knit his brows. Daemon was saved from the need for any explanation by the musicians—a few bars heralded the beginning of the dancing. The King of Tyrosh reached out to take his daughter, but she began to whimper and only clutched the beads tighter, seeking refuge against Rhaenyra's neck.
"It is well," she said. "We shall have many more dances, shall we not? She shall grow calm now and fall asleep. Is that not so, sweetling? There, there..."
Daemon smirked. He had worried over the children for naught; Rhaenyra would be a superlative mother, and Alyssa was already like her own. All was for the best.
Meanwhile, Lord Corlys left the royal dais with Laena, and none dared to join them. They looked well together, though the Sea Snake, even while leading his daughter in the dance, looked as if he stood at the helm of a ship steering through a gale. The image of the dancing admiral stood in sharp contrast to what Daemon was accustomed to seeing: nothing remained of the warrior, nor of the politician; there was only a happy and proud father.
But the dance ended, and Corlys, amidst universal ovation, led Laena back to her place. At the very board, a measure of confusion appeared upon his face—by wedding custom, the father again handed his daughter to her husband, and they danced the next dance together. One did not need to be a maester to guess that Aegon was a dancer of the poorest sort; the courtly sycophants reached the same conclusion and now, with bated breath, waited to see how the prince would extricate himself from the awkward position. The brother, however, rose as if nothing were amiss and set his cane aside.
"My thanks, my lord," he smiled and offered a hand to the surprised Laena.
"What in the Seven Hells (Peklo)..." Viserys drawled in confusion, but none were in a hurry to offer the King an explanation.
Aegon and his wife stepped into the center of the wide aisle amidst the bewildered murmurs of the guests. A harpist struck the strings a few times, a drum and tambourine set the rhythm, and the music flowed—stern, formal, but no less enchanting for it. The dance, which commanded everyone's attention, required no great agility of the feet, so the Lame Prince managed both to keep his balance and to step in time, turning where it was necessary. Aegon and Laena now came together, now parted again, now almost touching hands, now barely brushing against one another, and all their movements subtly recalled the dance of dragons.
"I did not know Uncle could dance," Rhaenyra whispered in awe, still holding the sleeping Alyssa in her arms.
"He could not," Daemon replied just as softly. "Who in the world taught him?!"
A chuckle came from the side. Jayegor was smiling contentedly, nodding in time to the music and drumming his fingers upon the tabletop. The cousin, with a sly and conspiratorial air, winked at Daemon.
"It is not so very difficult. A few free evenings, a purpose, and a desire—and here is the result."
"It seems Uncle is due a new link for his chain," Rhaenyra quipped, handing Alyssa over to a wet-nurse.
The musicians struck the final chord and abruptly cut the melody, and the dancers froze, standing nearly heart to heart. For a few moments, silence reigned in the Hall, replaced then by thunderous applause, shouts, whistles, and praise. But before Aegon and Laena could even seat themselves, a cry rang out:
"Wine! Dornish Red!"
The already-sodden guests roared, welcoming a whole procession of cupbearers with bottomless flagons from which the dark crimson liquid immediately began to flow like a river. Three dozen barrels of "Dornish Blood," one of the finest vintages in all of Westeros, had been brought up from the royal cellars for the celebration. During the war, the price of Dornish wine had soared, and the lords, especially the poorer ones, had missed it; now they threw themselves upon it greedily, like men perishing of thirst in a desert.
The appearance of the southern wines also signaled that the festivities were drawing to a close—one had to take advantage of the general drunken stupor to slip away without a bedding ceremony. Daemon himself had nothing against the tradition: he had fled the bedding with the Bronze Bitch, but at his wedding to Calla, he had enjoyed himself well enough. Aegon, however, had stood unequivocally against the ribald ceremony.
"I have no intention of taking part in this vile barbarism!" he had snapped.
"The tradition is thousands of years old," Viserys had tried to persuade him, but all was in vain.
"I care not! I shall not allow lords sodden with drink to paw at my wife, neither on the first day of marriage nor on any that follow! Though, let them try—the first man who does shall have his grasping hands and his member cut off."
"How bloodthirsty," Daemon had muttered. "Are you jealous already, valonqar?"
Unexpectedly for all, however, Rhaenyra had come to Aegon's aid.
"I agree with my uncle," she had declared firmly. "It is a foolish tradition that disgraces both husband and wife. By day I say, 'He is mine, and I am his,' and by evening I am to permit foreign hands to strip him and myself, and before the eyes of the whole court? It is disgusting, loathsome, and vile."
The words of the young bride had interested Daemon far more then. Did she want him so much that she wished to do everything herself? Well, that could be easily tested. He had yielded, and they had managed to persuade Viserys to deviate from protocol in this small matter.
Looking around now, Daemon saw no sign of Aegon and Laena. Had his brother been in such a hurry to claim his rights that he had not even bid farewell? Let him. He had more important business of his own.
"Jās, Nyra (Come, Nyra)," he called to his wife. "Elēdrar issa (The night is ours/It is time for the bed)."
---------------
Read advance +50 chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe