- 25 AC -
Ceryse Hightower stood before a polished silver mirror in the royal chambers of Aegonfort, which had been given to her and her entourage for the wedding.
The woman reflected there looked composed, strong and dignified. But also pained and under duress. This was not easy for her, but she would ignore her feelings and wishes for House Hightower.
Her gown was white samite bordered in cloth-of-silver, with a high collar worked in with green thread. A belt of square-cut emeralds circled her waist. Her long blonde hair had been braided and pinned beneath a delicate silver net, while a maiden's cloak bearing the white tower of her House waited across the back of a chair.
She looked every inch the daughter of Oldtown.
Only her hands betrayed her now. Her fingers would not remain still.
Two moons had not been enough to erase the sight of her father being killed. She still saw Dark Sister piercing his chest whenever she closed her eyes. She still heard the wet sound the skull had made when Maegor cut through it, and it landed in the mud.
Today she would place her hand in that same hand and call its owner husband.
Morgan had begged her one final time the night before to break the betrothal. Martyn had not, thankfully. Her elder brother understood her decision even if he hated it. House Hightower had spent too much blood and pride securing this union to flee from it now. The King had granted nearly every privilege they demanded.
Oldtown would become richer, its influence over the Reach much greater, and Ceryse would stand closer to the Iron Throne than any woman not born a Targaryen. And if what she saw in the tourney was any indication, then she stood closer to becoming Queen than Alyssa Velaryon, wife of Aenys Targaryen.
She had told herself that often enough that the words had begun to resemble courage.
A dragon roared above the city, causing the window glass to tremble. One of the younger handmaids gasped and rushed to look before remembering herself.
"The Prince..."
"And the Queen," another whispered.
Ceryse moved to the window more slowly.
The large dragon circled over King's Landing, her green wings casting a shadow across roofs, alleys and the crowded streets below. Men and women pointed upward. Children ran after the shadow as if it were a festival banner.
But there were two dragons. Next to the large figure of Vhagar, there was a much smaller one.
Smaug.
Even at that distance, Maegor was relatively easy to recognise. He sat on Smaug, who was finally large enough to fly, in black and red, upright and entirely untroubled by the height. When the dragons banked toward Aegon's High Hill, sunlight caught the pale silver of the two riders' hair.
Ceryse watched them until the dragons disappeared beyond the window.
Seeing him on such a comically small dragon made it look ridiculous. He himself did not look thirteen. That was the thought repeated by nearly every knight and courtier who saw him. He looked like a warrior in the first strength of manhood, tall, broad-shouldered and built with proportions that seemed far too heavy until he moved.
And then there was Smaug, the mutant dragon who had grown so much slower than any other dragon. Or so Ceryse had heard. It was something that the people made fun of behind Maegor's back. No one took the small dragon seriously.
"My lady?" her oldest handmaid asked. "It is time for the final prayer."
Ceryse turned from the window.
"Where is Septon Garibald?"
"Waiting in the little sept below, my lady. He asked that you come alone, save for one attendant."
That was unusual, but this entire marriage was unusual. Was this another of her uncle's plans or plots in some way? She didn't trust that man in the slightest. She was well aware that their blood ties to one another meant nothing to him.
Ceryse looked once more at herself in the silver mirror.
"Very well. Ser Rodrick may come with me. The rest of you, see that the cloak is ready."
A plain-faced maid near the door lowered her head.
"This way, my lady."
Ceryse followed her into the passage, and the door closed behind them.
.
The first ceremony was held before the Iron Throne.
Aegon had ordered the throne room transformed as much as its monstrous centrepiece allowed. Hundreds of black candles burned along the walls. Braziers filled the chamber with heat, and the scent of cedar and myrrh almost concealed the worst smells in the throne room.
The assembled court divided itself without being told to do so.
The Hightowers and the lords of the Reach stood to the right beneath banners of white, green and gold. There were also lords of the Riverlands, like the Tullys, standing more to the right, as were the Arryns. The Velaryons, Celtigars, Baratheons and Masseys gathered to the left amid black and red. Between them stood those who wished to appear neutral, like House Lannister and those of the Westerlands, and those who had not yet decided which side they feared more.
Now, that didn't mean there were two sides and that the realm was divided, but there was clearly approval and disapproval in the room.
King Aegon waited upon the lowest step of the Iron Throne.
He wore his Crown. The Valyrian steel circlet rested on his head, making him in this moment not only King of Westeros but also head of House Targaryen and keeper of its rites. Blackfyre hung at his hip.
Visenya stood at his right hand in dark red armour chased with black. She had refused every gown offered to her and had chosen to dress as she had at her own wedding as well.
The High Septon stood at the Iron Throne's left in cloth-of-silver, his crystal crown scattering shards of coloured light across his dissatisfied face. The arrangement displeased him, which was one reason Aegon had chosen it. He had started to humble the man and was looking for ways to reduce his influence and power.
The doors opened, and Maegor entered first.
He wore a fitted tunic of black velvet beneath a long coat patterned with red dragons. Dark Sister hung from a black leather belt, its hilt visible to every Hightower and Lord in the hall. Aegon had suggested that he leave the sword behind, but naturally, Maegor had refused.
He didn't care about anyone's opinions.
The result was immediate. Hushed conversations died as he passed; courtiers who had spent the previous moons calling him a monster watched in expected silence. Even men who hated him were forced to tilt their heads when he walked near, as if the Valyrian sword held a curse that anyone would catch if they looked upon the blade.
Morgan Hightower stared at Dark Sister so fiercely that Martyn placed a warning hand upon his arm.
Maegor stopped before his father and nodded. Aegon nodded back. There were no words spoken between them, and it wasn't necessary anyway. Now, they weren't alone. And in the presence of basically the entire realm, they were a unit and had to appear as such.
Then the bride entered.
The woman wore her maiden's cloak and arrived between Martyn and Morgan. Her face was calm, giving nothing away. Whatever grief or hatred she felt had been swallowed and buried so deeply that not even the experienced lords could see it.
As Martyn walked forward with the bride at his side, Maegor's attention turned to her face. She moved with the measured grace expected of a highborn lady.
Ceryse reached the foot of the throne, and for the second time that day, Maegor smiled.
It wasn't a warm expression, however and made the woman look to the ground.
Aegon stood up and walked down the Iron Throne's steps, beginning the ceremony in High Valyrian.
"Before the blood of Old Valyria and beneath the memory of the Fourteen Flames, two lives stand apart and leave as one household."
A servant brought forward a shallow bowl of black glass. Another carried a small dragonglass blade upon folded red silk.
Aegon took the blade and motioned for Maegor to hold out his hand.
He cut Maegor's right palm first. The edge scratched his skin at first, leaving a thin white line. The King furrowed his brows and tried again, using more force. He wanted to sigh in annoyance.
Without thinking, he reached behind him, took out his Valyrian dagger and repeated the action. The skin finally parted. Three dark drops fell into the bowl.
Then Aegon cut Ceryse's palm, using the Dragonglass, so as not to cut her hand in half, since she was rather delicate. The Hightower brothers winced more than Ceryse herself did, who stood there without moving or making a sound.
This impressed Aegon, and he nodded appreciatively. Her blood fell into the bowl as well.
Aegon joined their hands above the bowl and bound them together with a narrow red cord.
"Fire consumes," Aegon said.
"Blood remembers," Visenya answered.
The words were repeated by the noble houses who were present. Aegon looked first at Ceryse.
"Will you enter the fire beside him, hold his blood as your own, guard his House and bear its name until death takes you?"
"I will," Ceryse said.
Her voice did not tremble, which again earned her Aegon's approval. He then looked at his son.
"Will you enter the fire beside her, hold her blood as your own, defend her House beneath your flame and keep her as your wife until death takes you?"
Maegor grinned by the smallest degree.
"Until death takes her," he said.
A murmur moved through the crowd. Aegon's eyes hardened and narrowed into slits when he heard his son. He was about to unsheath Blackfyre right there.
"That is not what I asked," Aegon hissed.
"I will," Maegor replied.
The King untied the cord and dropped it into the nearest brazier. Flame consumed the bloodied silk. Maegor and Ceryse touched their wounded palms to the smoke, completing the rite.
With this, the first ceremony was done.
The second was held in the largest sept then standing in King's Landing, a broad timber building upon Rhaenys's Hill that seemed painfully small beside the Starry Sept of Oldtown. The High Septon had complained about the indignity until Aegon reminded him that the promised great sept had not yet been built but wouldn't disappoint.
Inside, seven wooden faces watched from seven alcoves.
The High Septon called upon the Father to judge the pair fairly, the Mother to grant them mercy and children, the Warrior to give Maegor strength, the Maiden to guard Ceryse's virtue, the Smith to make their union strong, the Crone to guide them and the Stranger to wait beyond their door.
At the end of that speech, Maegor looked at the woman at his side. She met his eyes.
Martyn removed Ceryse's maiden's cloak. Maegor placed the black-and-red cloak of House Targaryen around her shoulders, though he did so with little more care than he might have used to throw a net over a captive.
The High Septon bound their hands with a ribbon of white and gold.
"Before the Seven, I take you for my lord and husband," Ceryse recited.
"Before your Seven, I take you for my lady and wife," Maegor said, pointedly changing the words.
They touched their bound hands to the altar.
The High Septon's mouth tightened, but the vows had been spoken before gods and men. Bells rang throughout King's Landing. The crowd outside roared as Prince Maegor Targaryen and Lady Ceryse Targaryen emerged hand in hand.
Dragon and Hightower were joined.