King's Landing ― Blackwater Bay...
With the long-awaited royal wedding ceremony finally due to begin, the second of its kind in three years, the Velaryons arrived in King's Landing on their dragons: Ser Laenor on Seasmoke, and his mother Princess Rhaenys on the older and larger Meleys, the Red Queen. Although Seasmoke treated his elder kin as competition, the younger dragon screeched in annoyance when Meleys demonstrated her prowess as one of the fastest dragons in Westeros by easily outpacing him.
Meanwhile, Lord Corlys and the full Velaryon fleet arrive in the harbor, as the city's bells toll out to greet them for the festivities. The planning for the union between the Targaryen dynasty and Driftmark had been one of the exhaustive details and endless discussion.
As the Master of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury estimated the wedding would cost more than the Golden Wedding between Lord Rogar Baratheon and Dowager Queen Alyssa Velaryon in 49 AC. Banners of House Targaryen and House Velaryon fluttered throughout the Red Keep and in the city below.
Red Keep ― Throne room...
"It is with great pleasure that His Grace, King Viserys, announces the start of the royal wedding celebrations," Ser Harrold announced. Since the feast was being held in the throne room itself, envoys from most of the major noble houses of the realm were gathering in King's Landing in large numbers for what was about to be the most lavish wedding in living memory. "House Lannister with their lord, Jason Lannister. Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West."
At the urging of his son and his new Hand, Viserys had emerged from his seclusion and entertained the arriving envoys from Dorne and neutral city-states of Essos with drinking, feasting, gambling, hawking, and hunting. Everyone was aiding in the preparation for the upcoming nuptials. Queen Beatrice had also made herself busy, assisting in the organizing and cataloging of the mountains of presents and gifts that were being delivered as well as arranging the seating of the guests and decorations. She wore an expensive Myrish lace dress, and on her neck, she wore a necklace pure her stones, polished to allow the torchlight to clean off their surface. Her hair is styled and pinned up in a traditional Reach fashion. She looked resplendent in her outfit. And everywhere she went, Ser Criston Cole followed. Ever since being castrated, the man had become the queen's shadow, constantly at her side. It was rumored that the queen supplied the emasculated Kingsguard knight with potions and medicines to increase his strength and endurance. But more importantly, Ser Criston had not spoken a word of his illicit affair with Rhaenyra. However, it was noted that every time Ser Criston even looked at the princess, his face darkened, and his eyes filled with hate.
"House Hightower with their lord, Hobert Hightower. Lord of Oldtown, Beacon of the South, Defender of the Citadel, and Voice of Oldtown."
Viserys and Rhaenyra sit in the middle of the high table set up in front of the throne's base as joyful music continued playing in earnest and were set to receive each in the group, though Alicent and Aeonar are noticeably late and have yet to arrive. By the time more guests were arriving, they noticed Beatrice's entourage from Starpike walking in, wearing the sigils of their house: three black castles on an orange field. They all wore orange.
"Congratulations, Your Grace," Jason spoke pompously to Viserys. "You have made a fine match for the princess."
"Thank you, Lord Jason. I could think of no better man than Ser Laenor," Rhaenyra acknowledged. Although she still remembered his arrogant behavior during the Grand Hunt, the princess maintained her composure. He must still be reeling from being outright rejected for his arrogance last year. Must wound your pride knowing that you couldn't win me over despite your and Beatrice's attempts to get me sent away. She looked at the empty seats to her left, the ones reserved for Alicent and her brother. Since being confronted for lying about her innocence and admittance to spying on them having sex, they hadn't said or spoken a word to her and ignored her, giving Rhaenyra the cold shoulder. She still bore the guilt in her conscious. Temporarily turning her gaze away, she touched her cheek before bringing it back down onto her lap.
ooOoo
Moments earlier...
Alicent helped get Rhaenyra's white wedding dress, slipping threads through each loop and tying them in knots to keep the regalia in place. It is, however, a very lavish gown, nonetheless – embellished with gold which was meant to convey power; the fabric has a quilted-like texture, and the collar and waistband match the gold and white which were sleeveless but there are ways of antique gold ribbons of the arms holes. The same type of chain is at the center front of the waistband just below a gold closure; the dress had gold bead accents and the collar had a braided beaded focal point at the center with a gold trim used over the seams.
Once the dress was complete, Alicent was fixing Rhaenyra's hair which was done up in a very elaborate braided style of giving her prominence and command; set amidst the hairstyle are sparkling little rubies.
"There. That should do it."
"Thanks, Alicent. I, wha... what about you?"
"Yes, well, Aeonar and I have to make some last-minute adjustments so we're going to be a bit late. Just don't keep His Grace waiting. Again."
Rhaenyra knew that tone in Alicent's voice. She sounded cold. "The wedding's not going to happen for a while. We... we have plenty of time to talk." The princess so desperately wanted to apologize and make amends, but she knew her best friend since childhood was so mad at her. How utterly violated she felt when she heard Rhaenyra admit to watching her have sex with Aeonar; how her trust was betrayed when it was clear she had been lied to.
"About what?" Alicent replied curtly.
"I... I know what I did was wrong. And I know words can't undo the pain I've caused. But... Alicent, I am so, so sorry for hurting you. For breaking your trust. You were right. I should have told you everything in the beginning. I never meant..."
"Stop it, Rhaenyra. No more."
Rhaenyra tried to reach out. "But, but Alicent... I―"
"I said STOP!"
Rhaenyra felt her right cheek stinging and burning a little before touching it. Alicent slapped her! First her brother on Dragonstone for disobeying his decree and almost getting killed by the Cannibal, now Alicent for deceiving her and acting incredibly inappropriately on the eve of the Summer Festival. She felt her own eyes water slightly, but she noticed Alicent's eyes were watering too, and her lower lip quivered.
"You've done enough already..."
ooOoo
"Well... if this is only the welcome feast, I admit, I cannot imagine what you might have planned for the wedding." Jason chuckled.
"Well, my daughter is the last of us to get married," Viserys replied. "A father desires to want the best for any of his children. I wanted this wedding to be an event to remember for centuries to come."
"A generosity many would envy, husband," Beatrice remarked. She turned to Rhaenyra. "My congratulations to you, stepdaughter. What a blessing this is for you."
Rhaenyra frowned. Stop looking so smug, you bitch. I know you had a part to play in ruining our lives, just as much as my mistakes have done. Don't think you're innocent in this as well.
"Where is the crown prince? I don't see him anywhere," Jason asked. "Nor the princess consort. I had hoped to pay my respects."
"My son and daughter-in-law are momentarily indisposed, so they asked us to commence the celebrations on schedule. I understand they wouldn't want such a momentous occasion to be delayed on them properly readying themselves," Viserys explained.
"This is why men wage war because women would never be ready for the battle in time."
There he was again with his pompous, arrogant, and vain nature. "Take a seat... Lord Jason," Viserys firmly pointed towards the seats.
"Y-Your Grace... princess..." Jason quivered when his eyes met the king's and quietly slumped to his table.
Another guest, Ser Gerold Royce of the Vale, soon approached ahead of the Hightowers. "Your Grace, Princess Rhaenyra," he introduced himself. "I understand congratulations are in order."
"We are very honored to have you as a guest, Ser Gerold," Viserys welcomed. "I must say, I was most distressed to hear of Lady Rhea's tragic passing. I'm very sorry for your loss."
"Lady Rhea was a unique character. Her kind... is not soon to be seen again. Prince Aeonar has promised that all responsible for her murder will not go unpunished. Three have been caught, yet more are on the loose."
"My brother is working tirelessly to see that justice is meted out, Ser Gerold," Rhaenyra explained. "Now that he's back on the small council as Master of Whisperers, it won't take long for Aeonar to find the rest of the scum responsible for such a heinous crime. If there is anything the crown might do to aid House Royce―"
Gerold nodded. "I know, princess. The Vale is fortunate... to have such a strong ally, in Prince Aeonar Targaryen; in the Young Dragon," he stood aside.
Drums soon began beating loudly in rapid succession, drawing the attention of the assembly.
"Lord Corlys of House Velaryon. Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark," Ser Harrold announced. "Accompanying him... his lady wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen; their son and heir, Ser Laenor Velaryon, the future prince consort; their daughter, Lady Laena Velaryon; and their uncle, Ser Vaemond Velaryon, commander of Driftmark's navy."
The stunning entourage of House Velaryon was dressed in extravagant gold tracery. Now that the bride's family had arrived, beckoned the guests to rise in applause.
Laenor approached the high table. Though the second cousins are not in love with each other, he and Rhaenyra understand their duty to their families as well as their arrangement back on Driftmark, that they find their true happiness and love. Since his request for a transfer was approved, he and his lover Ser Joffrey were relocated to King's Landing for a place in the ranks of Prince Aeonar's honor guard... but he was nowhere to be seen yet. Still, he had an appearance to make.
"My betrothed," both Laenor and Rhaenyra greeted each other.
While Corlys, Rhaenys, Laenor, Laena, and Vaemond take their seats at one side of the high table, their entourage had to sit with the other guests. Once all was settled, everyone began to sit back down waiting for the commencement. However, before they could, Viserys noticed his brother, Prince Daemon, had shown up invited as he entered the throne room some distance behind the Velaryon host.
"P-Prince Daemon?" one of the guests whispered.
"What's he doing here?" another replied.
"The shame."
"When did he get here?"
"He wasn't invited."
"I thought the king had him banished."
Viserys gritted his teeth. How long was his brother going to keep causing him headaches when the Summer Festival had already been enough? They had a bitter falling out, with Daemon swearing to never return, yet here he was out of courtesy for his niece's wedding. Both Targaryen brothers stared at each other. After a tense moment of silence, the king silently welcomes his brother and orders another chair to be brought up to the high table for Daemon, next to Lyonel Strong on the opposite side of the Velaryons. After the moment with Daemon had passed, Viserys rose from his seat. "Be welcome, as we join together in celebration," he began. "Tonight, is only the beginning. We honor the crown's oldest and fiercest ally, House Velaryon. Reaching back to the days of Old Valyria and the Age of Dragons. With House Targaryen and H―"
Just then, Aeonar and Alicent both appear through the main doors, intentionally interrupting the king in the middle of his speech. Aeonar wore the traditional Targaryen black colors which detailed a high collar tunic with heavy red embroidery reminiscent of dragon scales stitched to the bodice accented with a gold dragon-head belt with rubies in the eyes and an armless outer coat with peaked shoulder cuffs worn over a longer undercoat with close-fitting sleeves. Alicent, on the other hand, wore a stunning green dress with black embroidery stitched around her shoulders and covering her midsection. Together, they silently walked their way through the feast hall arm in arm as all, save for Daemon, rise for their presence.
"The king will not be happy. Right in the middle of his speech," Harwin noticed.
"The colors black... and green," Larys observed. "One pays homage to the red three-headed dragon on a field of black, the colors of House Targaryen. Words 'Fire and Blood.' But the other..." He turned to his older brother. "Do you know what color the beacon of the Hightower glows when Oldtown calls its banners to war?"
"Aye. Green. 'We Light the Way.'" So, the call's been sung again. Well, it's about damn time. I was starting to feel a little antsy just standing around doing nothing. After dealing with that little rabble, I was hoping for more skulls to crack.
"Aeonar Targaryen, eldest son of King Viserys, Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, and Master of Whisperers," Farrier announced. "Accompanying him... his lady wife, Lady Alicent of House Hightower, princess consort and daughter of the former Hand of the King Ser Otto Hightower."
When they finally reached the high table, they gave a small bow.
"Father." Aeonar's eyes discreetly glanced around the hall; one, two, three, four... perfect. Plenty of his Lykirī Mēre acolytes had already taken up position in the shadows, out of sight, ready to pounce when the order was given.
"Your Grace. My apologies for us being late."
Viserys stared at the two. If he hadn't felt intimidated before, he certainly felt it now. Rhaenyra surely felt the same. They wouldn't look at her. Beatrice couldn't keep her eyes off them but broke her gaze when they turned their heads toward her. Clearing his throat, Viserys motioned for the two to sit next to him, between Rhaenyra and the Velaryons, yet away from Beatrice and Daemon. "Where was I?" he asked softly.
"The joining of our two houses," Aeonar reminded.
"Ah, yes. That. Well... Yeah. Ahem! With House Targaryen and House Velaryon united, I hope to herald in a second Age of Dragons in Westeros. And after tonight's small affair, seven days of tournament and feasting. At the end of it all... At the end of it all, a royal wedding... between my daughter, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, and Ser Laenor Velaryon, the heir to Driftmark."
Once the speech had concluded, the musicians began to play their instruments once more. It was now time for the dance. As is customary, Ser Laenor and Princess Rhaenyra were the first on the floor. Walking hand in hand, they moved elegantly.
"I was never much of a dancer," Rhaenyra remarked.
"It's not much different to combat," Laenor replied.
"Hmm. I shall hope for a different outcome."
"Don't worry. I made a promise to your brother. This outcome will be different."
"Oh? And what would that be?"
"That would ruin the surprise."
When the drums and music ended, the guests applauded the engaged couple's first dance of the evening, and they were then joined by dozens of other couples in a large-scale ballroom dance. Before more festivities could resume, Aeonar and Alicent were soon approached by the Hightowers.
"My niece," Hobert hummed.
"We thank you for coming, uncle," Alicent said to her family in appreciation.
"I worried that given leave of your father's shadow, you might wither in King's Landing's sun. But you stood tall." Hobert and his wife Lady Lynesse nodded. "Otto told us everything. Should you require our help, know that Oldtown stands with you both. We have not forgotten our oaths."
"I appreciate that, Lord Hobert," Aeonar acknowledged. My father-in-law, it seems, has wasted no time in getting things moving. Perhaps someday we'll meet again, Otto. Sooner or later, we'll meet again.
"I don't know how punishment is dealt in Old Valyria, but in the Vale, men are made to answer for their crimes."
Aeonar turned to see Gerold confronting Daemon. "Sīkudi nopāzmi... (Seven hells...)" he sighed, got up, and approached the two men.
"And who are you supposed to be?" Daemon rolled his eyes.
"Ser Gerold Royce of Runestone," Gerold answered.
"And?"
"I am the cousin to your former lady wife."
"Ahh, yes. But you forget it's 'late' former lady wife'. Terrible thing, I'm sure."
"You know better than I do Lady Rhea's death was no accident. We all heard. Triarchy remnants ambushed her on the way home, yet only one active Targaryen is helping us. Where were you?"
"Not that it concerns you, you old bronze cunt," Daemon dismissed. "The truth is, I'm glad you've come. I wish to speak to you about my inheritance."
Gerold felt enraged. "What inheritance?" he seethed.
"Until our annulment, Lady Rhea and I had no heirs. As she was wed to me, whatever she was due now passes to me. She stood to inherit Runestone... Did she not? After my niece's wedding, I plan to fly to the Eyrie and petition Lady Jeyne myself. Perhaps I'll see you there, Ser Gerold."
"No, uncle. You won't," Aeonar intervened. "Because you, a second son who stands to inherit nothing, have no claim to Runestone, nor its attendant lands and incomes. Your petition would not only be dismissed as baseless, but you'd be laughed out of the Eyrie."
"And your point is...?" Daemon pressed bored.
"My point – if you'd even bother to pay attention – is that the succession laws are clear." Aeonar turned to Gerold. "And as the closest living male relative to Lady Rhea Royce, I believe Ser Gerold is next in line to inherit Runestone... Are you not? I can always ask Lady Arryn on your behalf if you'd like."
Gerold felt his anger dissipate and be replaced with assurance. "That... won't be necessary, my prince," he said more calmly. "But I'll keep that in mind." He turned to Daemon. "As for you," he warned, "you'd better not set one foot in the Vale ever again."
Daemon frowned.
"Must wound your pride, uncle," Aeonar stood over him. "In all your years of being stuck as a second son standing to inherit nothing... only to end up being pushed further down the line instead. Huh! Somehow I expected more..." He left before Daemon could utter a response.
Beatrice, meanwhile, made her move. "That's a lovely green dress you're wearing, child," she remarked.
Alicent remained a composed demeanor. "Thank you, Your Grace," she replied.
"Although I must admit, you seem more mature than you were when we first met. I do apologize for what happened to your father. But even the cleverest of men make mistakes."
"We all make mistakes," Alicent turned. "But even the Old King Jaehaerys himself had to learn from his own to one day be remembered as the most beloved sovereign in our nation's history. Not that you needn't be reminded of that, do we Your Grace?" she retorted. She turned to Aeonar. "Husband," she approached. "Would you care to dance with me?"
Aeonar took her hand. "Of course, prūmio ñuho (my heart)."
Beatrice watched them depart to join the other nobles on the dance floor. First the brat, now his wench too?! Urgh! How dare they...! She noticed Viserys looking at her before looking away to avoid his gaze.
As Gerold returns to his seat, from across the table Daemon exchanges glances with Corlys's daughter Laena. When she goes to the dance floor Daemon cuts in to pair with her, and they exchange light flirtations. "Has anybody ever told you you're nearly as pretty as your brother?" he asked.
"Well, you flatter me, my prince," Laena replied. "I was sorry to hear about Lady Rhea... even if it ended in an annulment."
"Don't be, I wasn't. My lady was never very kind to me."
"A Targaryen prince, a dashing knight, and a dragonrider. You appear to be every young maiden's dream."
"That's only because you don't know me yet."
"Perhaps that is something we might remedy, my prince."
"Perhaps it is."
As the king and queen watched, Viserys noticed some of the guests gathered from different houses wore black and red instead of their traditional colors.
"They call themselves the Blacks, Your Grace. A political faction loyal to your son," Farrier arrived from behind.
"Who are you?" Viserys asked.
"Ah yes. We haven't been introduced, have we? I'm Brother Farrier, Your Grace. Prince Aeonar's chief agent. I help oversee his spy network in his absence."
Viserys didn't seem to outwardly respond, save for a thin layer of sweat appearing on his brow, which he quickly mopped up. The last time political factions had formed in Westeros was during the Great Council at Harrenhal fifteen years ago. The king could still remember when it had been announced that Corlys had gathered up his fleet to support Rhaenys's claim to the Iron Throne, his brother Daemon responded by assembling a small private army of sellswords, hedge knights, and ruffians to support Viserys. There had been so much division and plotting at the Great Council, he feared a civil war would break out no matter what was decided. When it was over, Viserys was grateful that sanity prevailed in the end. Though, it disturbed him that Aeonar consolidated his power base nor that so many would follow him. His son was and remained his heir. One day in the fullness of time Aeonar would ascend the Iron Throne and then, Gods be willing, so would his grandson Jaehaerys.
Nearby, Laenor – who had broken off from the crowd – approached his lover.
"I know who it is. Rhaenyra's handsome paramour," Joffrey informed.
"Who?" Laenor asked with curiosity.
"Ser Criston Cole."
"Her sworn protector? I thought I heard he has his cock chopped off."
"Egh! Ouch! Well, if the whispers are as accurate as they say... then maybe it's because Ser Criston apparently bloodied that white cloak of his with your bride's maidenhead."
"Shh! Keep your voice down or they'll hear you," Laenor hushed.
Joffrey shrugged. "Well, maybe this is a good thing. She knows your secret, and now you know hers," he mentioned.
Criston, meanwhile, kept trading glances back and forth. All this noise, all these highborn nobles dancing, parading about... it was giving him headaches. He remained at his post against the stone pillars observing the royal family as Lord Commander Harrold instructed until he felt a certain nudge at his shoulder. He turned to see it was Ser Joffrey who approached him.
"They make a handsome match, don't they?" Joffrey inquired.
"What?" Criston asked.
"The princess and Ser Laenor. Oh, how rude of me. I'm Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, or the Knight of Kisses, they call me, though I don't know why."
Criston scoffed. "I'm on watch. What's your business?" he said irritatingly.
"You don't know me, Ser Criston. But we are both deeply invested in this union."
"If you have something to say, Ser Joffrey, speak it."
"Ser Laenor is quite dear to me. As I know the princess was to you. We should swear to each other to guard them, and their secrets, because if those are kept safe... then so are we all."
Viserys noticed how there was a sense of tension brewing in the air. He turned to observe Aeonar, whose eyes looked up and around the corners. Like he was looking for something. But the cause for celebration was interrupted by a piercing cry from a different part of the feast floor!
"Hey!"
"Hey, hey, hey, hey!"
Viserys saw a scuffle. "What in the Seven hells is going on?!" he shouted.
"Laenor!" Rhaenyra shouted.
Targaryen soldiers began to race to the floor. Laenor moved to intervene but was smacked aside brutally. More guests began to panic as a brawl broke out in the packed room, but it becomes clear that at the center of it, Criston Cole has begun pummeling Joffrey Lonmouth. Laenor hurriedly manages to struggle his way through to them and tackle Criston off his lover, but Criston rises and punches out the groom. As waves of scuffles ripple out it nearly turns into a human crush. Another angry guest throws Laenor over a table and away from Criston.
"Ngh! Oof! Ugh!" Alicent groaned. With the number of people pushing and shoving, she felt she was going to get trampled. "Aeonar! Help!" she shouted.
Aeonar, sensing danger, pushed and shoved his way through the crowd. "Alicent!" Once he was close enough, he reached out his hand and grabbed her. "Come on! Move it! Out of the way!" he glanced at his right-hand man. "Commander, get her out of there!" he pointed to Rhaenyra.
Harwin immediately sprang into action, tossing and punching people in the crowd aside to reach Rhaenyra, then slings her over his shoulder and wades out to safety away from the carnage as Criston continued beating Joffrey.
Criston kneels on Lonmouth's chest and continues his savage beating. Joffrey manages to pull out his dagger, but Criston easily blocks it and snaps his arm. He then flies into a dark fury, shouting and punching Joffrey repeatedly in the face with the onlookers too stunned and afraid to intervene.
"Stop this!" Corlys demanded.
"Where's Rhaenyra?! Aeonar?! Where are they!" Viserys searched through the mob.
Aeonar, glancing at the hidden corridors, raised a fist. "Metaýatue! (Intercept!)" he shouted in Old Ghiscari, signaling the Lykirī Mēre to strike. One by one, the Lykirī Mēre jumped down and quickly restrained Criston with thin, yet strong wires and rope and held him back to prevent him from raising his arm again. Aeonar moved closer, noticing Joffrey's bloodied face, gasping and gurgling, and twitching. His facial bones have been caved in badly. He'll need immediate medical attention. He turned to Criston who continued putting up a fierce struggle. "Get him out of here and inform the Lord Commander of what he just did," Aeonar commanded. He turned to the ground to look at a brutally beaten Joffrey who was still spewing blood and twitching. "Someone fetch us a maester! Now!" He's still alive, barely... but he won't last long unless we get someone.
As the guests clear the floor, Laenor regains consciousness nearby and rushes over to his lover. "Someone! Help him!" he hollered with anguish. "Someone help him, please!"
Viserys opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly he felt dizzy, and he felt something wet dribble down his lips. He reached up and when he withdrew his hand, he saw that they were stained with blood, his nose was bleeding.
"Your Grace?" Lord Lyonel asked as he looked at Viserys, who was now breathing heavily.
"My love?" Beatrice said as she placed her hand on her husband. When Viserys turned to look at her, his vision was becoming blurred, and the room was spinning. The stress is too much for Viserys's already delicate health. Suddenly, his legs gave out and he collapsed. Beatrice screamed loudly.
Aeonar turned around when he heard the commotion behind him and saw Viserys bleeding copiously from his nose. "Everybody out! Mellos, tend to my father right now!" he barked orders. With chaos running rampant, the Young Dragon and his new followers, the Blacks, moved to restore order.
Once the panic had died down, all was quiet.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Some hours later, all the guests had been ordered out and King Viserys had canceled the seven days of festivities and games leading to the wedding ceremony. Instead, determined to finish this as quickly as possible, Viserys called in the same High Septon who officiated Aeonar's and Alicent's wedding to perform the same duty for Rhaenyra and Laenor in a private exchange of vows in front of their respective families and close advisors.
Rhaenyra and Laenor are still in shock and crying, as they go through the rote exchange of vows on their now-ruined wedding day. Despite the combined efforts of Grand Maester Mellos, his assistant Orwyle, and Aeonar's personal maester Alwyn, Laenor was sadly informed that his lover Ser Joffrey had died from the brutal injuries he sustained. Although they worked tirelessly to try to save his life, the only merciful thing they could do was to make his final moments as painless and peaceful as possible.
"The love of the Seven is holy and eternal," prayed the High Septon. "The source of life and love. We stand here tonight in thanks and praise to join two souls as one. Father... Mother... Warrior... Smith... Maiden... Crone... Stranger." He turned to Laenor and Rhaenyra. "Hear now their vows."
"Father... Mother... Warrior... Smith... Maiden... Crone... Stranger," they both recited their vows.
"I am yours, and you are mine," Laenor said sadly. "Whatever may come."
Rhaenyra, forgoing the maiden's cloak, wore the bride's cloak featuring the sigils of both Houses Targaryen and Velaryon – one-half black, and the other an oceanic blue; a three-headed dragon and a seahorse. "I am yours, and you are mine. Whatever may come," she vowed equally disquieted.
"Here, in the presence of gods and men, I proclaim... Laenor of House Velaryon... and Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, are to be man and wife. One heart, one flesh, one soul... now and forever. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."
Rhaenyra pondered the circumstances in which life had taken, altering course, and steering her in the direction of uncertainty. The princess wondered what else lay waiting for her now. Her mother was dead, her family was torn apart – both caused by her father and herself... Rhaenyra shook her head as these thoughts plagued her. Pain and disappointment were terrible lessons – fair or unfair, but Rhaenyra conceded that maybe perhaps she needed to understand that she needed to grow up, take the reins, and retake control of her life by acting more responsibly; that actions do have consequences and she must not make more. I... No. No more. I won't do it again. I'm done running. All of it ends today. Here and now. I'm not a little girl needing to be coddled. I... am a Targaryen, like my father, mother, brother, and uncle. The blood of Old Valyria runs through my veins. And I will not let outsiders ruin my family.
Viserys, who by now had been holding himself together on pure adrenaline, drops to the floor in a full faint.
"Father!" Aeonar rushed over.
"Your Grace!" Lyonel knelt.
"Father-in-law?!" Alicent hurried with a state of deep worry.
Alicent, Corlys, Rhaenys, and Rhaenyra all crouched towards the fallen king. His aides rush to tend to him, while on the other side of the throne room, rats begin to lick at the pools of Ser Joffrey Lonmouth's still-warm blood.
What initially began as a moment of celebration...
...ended on a dark, gloomy night.
Red Keep ― Maegor's Holdfast...
The following three mornings, Viserys awakened in his bedroom. But he wasn't alone. Farrier was standing above him. "Ah, you're finally awake. You gave us quite the scare, Your Grace," he observed. "Prince Aeonar had Ser Harwin 'Breakbones' carry you to safety. You've been resting these past three days."
Viserys opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was so dry, his voice came out hoarse and raspy. "Wh... what happened... to the wedding?" he asked wearily.
"It's over. Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor Velaryon have been wedded, Your Grace, though it was more somber. Prince Aeonar saw to that," Farrier informed. "As for Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, well... that physical injury he sustained was more severe than we expected. The maesters did everything they could, but he, unfortunately, did not survive the night. Ser Harrold has been keeping Ser Criston confined to the White Sword Tower until you're well enough to render judgment."
"Wha... what was the cause of the fight?" Viserys's head was still spinning as he tried to process all the information. This wedding was supposed to be a grand event, meant to squash any talk of discourse in the family and re-establish good relations with House Velaryon. Instead, it had been a disaster.
Farrier shook his head. "As of yet, we do not know. We're still investigating. But that's what we're here for." As he turned to leave, he took one glance over his shoulder. "Rest assured, Your Grace... we, the Blacks, will ensure everything goes accordingly to plan."
Red Keep ― White Sword Tower...
Ser Criston remained confined in his chambers in the White Sword Tower. By the order of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Harrold instructed placed his subordinate under close observation until a fitting punishment could be announced. Unobserved, Criston removed his white cloak and armor, now stained in Lonmouth's blood. When he heard of his death, the Kingsguard knight realized he had further dishonored himself by committing second-degree murder.
But Joffrey egged him on, not knowing Criston's relationship with Princess Rhaenyra was over. He drove him to a mental breakdown. Plus, Joffrey drew a knife on him – so Criston was well within his right to defend himself.
"Ser Criston," Beatrice entered. "Have you considered my offer?"
Red Keep ― Maegor's Holdfast...
Grand Maester Mellos was standing before Prince Aeonar, Queen Beatrice, and Lord Lyonel. "The king's symptoms have abated," he explained. "Some leeching to remove the bad blood from his body, followed by a period of rest and he should recover his strength before the moon turns."
Though the look on the faces of the trio showed they did not share his confidence. Aeonar had not forgotten that Mellos had been the one who advised cutting his mother open. Lord Lyonel had only recently learned that Mellos knew about the king's illness much earlier and had not informed the council, only Ser Otto. And Beatrice had long since preferred that Mellos assistant Orwyle treat her rather than the old man himself.
"His leprosy may be treated, slowed down, but cannot be ignored," Aeonar stated. "And based on the information my agents were able to acquire from the Citadel, another amputation may be required to slow the infection down." He turned to Grand Maester Mellos. "So, I doubt this can be treated with leeches alone. You want my father to live a little while longer? Amputate his left arm above the elbow."
"My prince...!? While I appreciate your desire to be helpful, I have been Grand Maester for many years and have seen many cases of leprosy during my time at the Citadel. I can assure you that amputation at this stage is unwarranted and unwise. And I can tell you that leechings to draw out the poisoned blood are―"
"Ineffective and pointless," a voice from behind said. Eyes turned to see that the new person who had entered the chamber was Aeonar's personal maester, Alwyn, who was summoned from Dragonstone earlier to help treat Ser Joffrey's injuries before his sudden death.
"You? What is this upstart doing here?"
Lord Lyonel Strong crossed his arms. "Prince Aeonar summoned him for a second opinion on His Grace's conditions and, as Hand of the King, I agreed."
"You see, Mellos," Aeonar cocked his head to the side, "you knowingly kept such vital information regarding the king's health hidden from the rest of us. You might as well condemn him to a slow, agonizing death." He pointed to Alwyn. "So, I brought in my own maester to slow father's disease down." He then removed one glove and stuck his bare hand in the burning brazier.
"My prince! What are you doing?!" Lyonel moved to take Aeonar's hand away, shouting when he burned himself.
But when Aeonar calmly drew back, all saw he was relatively unscathed. Not a burn on him. "Many of us excel at taming dragons, but so few of us become dreamers... even more so when a member of House Targaryen develops a high tolerance to extreme heat." He glanced into the fire before turning to Alwyn. "Amputate the left arm above the elbow," he ordered. "Slow it down."
Alwyn bowed his head, his maester's chain clinking as he did. "As you command," he said and then looked at Mellos's assistant. "Orwyle, if you would assist me, please."
"Of course," Orwyle said with a triumphant look on his face, giving a slight sneer at Mellos, who had always disregarded his advice, before following Alwyn out of the room.
The Grand Maester, who looked like he had just swallowed a lemon covered in salt, was sweating and gawking. "My prince, I do not know what you have been told, but Alwyn is nothing more than a dilettante. A dabbler who frequently defied convention and tradition when he was a novice at the Citadel. All he will do is exacerbate the king's condition with his outlandish methods."
"The only one who has harmed the king is you, Grand Maester." Beatrice said, in a rare moment of agreement with her stepson. "Your negligence is what led to the king's health deteriorating. If he dies, all the blame will be placed entirely upon you."
Mellos gasped and looked between the three and saw that there was no look of sympathy or support from any of them. With an indignant scoff, he turned on his heel and shuffled out of the council chamber, muttering about ingratitude and incompetence.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Viserys, heavily medicated on milk of the poppy, was laid down on a bed with his left arm hanging off the edge. Alwyn wrapped a tourniquet tightly around his arm, just above the elbow. Orwyle, applying medicinal ointment, worked to numb the area around the infections and mark the area needing to amputate.
"Here, Your Grace. Bite down on this," Alwyn offered a folded piece of leather. "And don't look. It helps..."
Viserys – still disoriented – opened his mouth and clamped his teeth around the leather. From his hands and shoulders all the way to his feet, several of Aeonar's men and Lykirī Mēre agents firmly held him down in preparation for what was to come.
Aeonar entered, his eyes locking onto his target, steeled himself. It wouldn't cure leprosy, but it would slow it down significantly. If they had been informed years ago and treated it effectively, then maybe his father's illness would have been rid of by now. But it was too late now. Once he saw the markings around the arm, above the elbow but below the tourniquet, the Young Dragon snapped his fingers. He needed something sharp – incredibly sharp to make it as quick as possible. A saw would take too much time and make the pain worse. He could use a sword, but it might need more force.
...Wait! There is another option.
A Lykirī Mēre initiate brought forth Blackfyre, one of House Targaryen's two Valyrian steel swords. Sharper and lighter than a traditional Westerosi broadsword, but heavier than its slender counterpart Dark Sister, it originally belonged to Aegon the Conqueror himself during the Conquest. Afterward, it became the treasured ancestral blade of House Targaryen, carried by kings and princes. Even if sheathed, the blade could be mistaken for no other.
Aeonar traced his thumb across Blackfyre, testing its sharpness. Sure enough, he felt the immediate sting and saw the trace of blood trickling. Yes, this would do perfectly. His pale lilac eyes locked onto its target, the sounds around him were muffled, and time itself seemed to slow down. Gripping Blackfyre's hilt tightly with both hands, the Young Dragon reared back and raised Blackfyre in the air – sunlight ran silver along the edge of the Valyrian steel blade's runes – and swung as fast and hard as he could, almost too fast to see.
...And Viserys shouted a muffled scream.