The silk was extravagantly beautiful.
Rhaenys stood perfectly still before the tall Myrish glass in her bedchamber, her arms held slightly away from her sides. Three handmaidens moved around her, quiet and breathless, pinning and smoothing the folds of black velvet and blood-red silk. It was a gown cut from a bolt of true Yi Tish silk, brought across the Narrow Sea. A fabric of obscene value, one she did not want to truly imagine.
Her mother, Jocelyn, stood some distance away, her hands clasped tightly at her waist. She watched the maids work in silence, her eyes tracking every adjustment.
"Leave us," Jocelyn said quietly.
The handmaids bowed and scurried from the chamber, closing the heavy oak door behind them. The sudden silence left only the crackle of the hearth and the muffled, distant rustle of the gathering court below.
Jocelyn stepped forward. She reached out, her fingers gently adjusting the Valyrian steel chain around Rhaenys's neck so the ruby rested perfectly against her collarbone. For a long moment, her mother did not speak. There was a quiet, melancholy in Jocelyn's eyes, a sadness that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the cruel passage of time.
"You look ethereal, my love," Jocelyn whispered as she rested her chin on Rhaenys's shoulders. Her voice thick with pride and tears she did not wish to shed.
Rhaenys looked at her own reflection. She did not feel like a bride. She felt like a piece being moved in a game. But she also knew it was a move required for her own making. For years, the realm had looked at her and seen a vulnerability in House Targaryen. A girl who would one day have to fight her own uncle and his line for the Iron Throne.
She did not view this betrothal as a duty, nor a sacrifice. It was a necessity. A necessity to defend her birthright.
Rhaenys reached up, covering her mother's hand where it rested against her forehead. Gently drawing it down, she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Jocelyn's knuckles.
"I am not going anywhere, mother. You need not worry," Rhaenys said, her voice soft.
A single tear escaped Jocelyn's dark eyes. She brushed it away with her thumb before it could fall, letting her hand cup the side of her daughter's face. "And I am glad for it."
She held her daughter's gaze in the polished glass. "The realm is a dangerous place for a woman with a claim, Rhaenys. You must be strong. Today, you put on your armor. When they look at you tonight, they must see only strength."
A faint, resolute smile touched Rhaenys's lips. "They will, mother. They will."
A knock came on the door at that moment. Rhaenys turned from the mirror to face her mother fully. Jocelyn stepped close, pressing a soft kiss to her daughter's brow, a silent, final blessing before they exited the chambers.
When Rhaenys stepped through the massive open doors of the Great Hall, the sheer weight of the eyes in the hall hit Rhaenys like a physical force.
Despite the looming war, the Old King had spared nothing. Today, the cavernous hall of the Red Keep was to be a blinding display of the Crown's power and wealth. Thousands of beeswax candles burned in the iron chandeliers, casting a golden light over the gathering. The tables were filled with silver platters piled high with exotic fruits, roasted swans, and a never-ending supply of the best Volantene wine. The lords and ladies of the realm were draped in rare fabrics and jewels, brought to the continent by the consortium. Countless banners of the three-headed dragon decorated the high ceilings and the towering spikes of the Throne.
Due to the abruptness of the King's decree and the imminent threat in the Stepstones, the great lords of the South, West and the North were absent. Only sending their regards by raven as was expected, and many others sending a representative. But the Crownlands, the Narrow Sea houses, and the immediate court packed the hall from wall to wall, a sea of power, wealth, and whispered ambitions.
Rhaenys kept her chin perfectly level as she walked the length of the hall. She felt the weight of every gaze, but she looked only toward the highest table.
Her family was waiting for her.
Rhaegar stood as she approached the table. He wore a sharply tailored doublet of black and crimson, the three-headed dragon woven subtly over his chest. He looked every measure the prince he was claimed to be. When she reached the base of the steps, he offered his hand as he helped her onto the raised dais.
At the center of the high table, King Jaehaerys stood.
Age had certainly begun to take its due from him. But he did not look like an old, weary man today. He looked like the conciliator king he was. When he spoke, his voice was charismatic, imperious, and laced with the absolute authority of a man who had reigned supreme for over half a century.
"My lords," Jaehaerys's voice boomed, echoing off the stone arches and demanding instant silence. "We have known a long peace. It is a peace built on honour, on law, and on the strength of our unity. It is a peace that is now standing to be threatened. And we shall face that threat together without doubt or fear in my heart. For a united Westeros shall always be stronger than any alliance the East can muster."
A wave of 'Aye' reverberated throughout the hall.
"But today we are gathered here for a joyous occasion."
The King's gaze shifted down to Rhaenys and Rhaegar.
"A house divided cannot weather the storms to come. Tonight, we bind two lines into one. We ensure that the legacy of the Conqueror remains whole and unquestioned. It is my decree, and my great pleasure, to formally declare the betrothal of my grandson, Prince Rhaegar, to my granddaughter, Princess Rhaenys."
The applause broke like a thunderclap.
"May the gods bless them with a long and hale life," Jaehaerys said, finishing his words.
Rhaenys saw her father, Prince Aemon, standing at the high table, his hands clapping steadily, a look of profound pride and quiet relief on his face. Beside him, Baelon beamed, clapping Aemon on the shoulder in jovial celebration.
But it was Queen Alysanne who caught Rhaenys's eye. The Good Queen sat perfectly still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears, and as she looked at her two grandchildren standing together, she let out a long, shuddering breath. It was the exhale of a woman who had spent a decade terrified her family would tear itself apart, finally watching the wound be stitched shut.
The harpers in the gallery struck the first chords of a slow, measured courtly dance.
Rhaegar led Rhaenys to the center of the floor. The crowd parted, giving them a wide berth. Rhaenys placed a hand on his shoulder, stepping seamlessly into the rhythm of the strings. It was a highly performative dance, every step watched and judged by the court.
"I suppose we should be grateful to the Triarchy and Dorne," Rhaenys murmured, her voice carrying only to his ears as they turned.
"Oh?" Rhaegar asked, a faint amusement in his eyes.
"If not for their threat," she noted dryly, "we would be suffering the Lannisters and the Tyrells tonight. The Crownlanders are exhausting enough on their own."
Rhaegar chuckled softly, the sound lost in the music. "A pragmatic way to look at a war, cousin. But I cannot say I disagree."
They moved together with grace, perfectly aligned in the music as they were in their ambition.
As the dance concluded and the feast descended into the loud, wine-soaked rabble of the court, Rhaegar stepped away from the high table. He navigated the periphery of the hall, taking a cup of wine from a passing servant.
He stood near a pillar, letting the noise wash over him.
A few yards away, a cluster of Crownlander lords and household knights were drinking heavily, their voices rising over the music.
"Let them sit on their rocks," a knight of House Rosby boasted, sloshing wine from his goblet. "Petty merchants playing at war. Give the King's fleet a moon, and we'll sweep the Stepstones clear."
"Aye," some other knight agreed loudly. "The levies will smash them. They have no chivalry. They will break at the first charge."
Rhaegar stood perfectly still. The room slowly began to blur, the edges of his vision losing focus. The music of the harps, the laughter of the lords, the clatter of silver plates, all faded into a dull, rushing drone in his ears.
He looked at the laughing, boastful men. His face betrayed nothing. His gaze was entirely unreadable. But inside, his heart was hammering against his ribs, a violent mix of adrenaline, mania, and a creeping nausea.
He was going to kill them.
Not with his own hands, but with his mind. He was going to let these proud, arrogant men sail south with their chaotic peasant levies. He was going to let them smash against the hardened mercenary companies and the naval might of the Triarchy. He was going to let them die by the thousands, bleeding the Crown's strength, the nobility's pride, and their innocent people, all while his own perfect army sat hidden in Essos, waiting for the realm to grow desperate enough to need them.
He was orchestrating a slaughter for his own gain. If he was honest with himself, truly brutally honest in the darkest corners of his mind, he was becoming worse than the self-serving lords he despised.
Rhaegar swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He took a slow breath, forcing the room back into focus. The colours sharpened. The noise returned.
He never claimed to be a hero. He was just a prince of House Targaryen, and he would do what was necessary to win the game.
His facade snapped back into place. When Lord Stokeworth glanced his way, Rhaegar offered a polite smile, raising his goblet in a silent toast before turning away.
"Rhaegar."
He turned. His father, Baelon, was approaching through the crowd. The prince looked jovial, the joy of his son's betrothal radiating from him, though he maintained the upright, proper decorum expected of a prince in the Great Hall.
Beside Baelon walked a man dressed in a very well-tailored doublet of dark green velvet.
"A magnificent match, my boy," Baelon said, his tone carrying a warm, fatherly pride. "The King is immensely pleased. But I have someone I wish to introduce to you. You would find his intellect immensely impressive."
Baelon gestured to the man in green. "Rhaegar, this is Ser Otto, of House Hightower. Younger brother to Lord Hobert."
Rhaegar's blood instantly ran cold. Every nerve in his body jumped to a razor-sharp, screaming alert at the sound of the name.
Otto Hightower stepped forward and offered a bow. A heavily calculated one. Deep enough to convey the respect owed to a prince of the blood, yet shallow enough to retain his own aristocratic dignity. It was supposed to indicate the bow of a man who served, but did not grovel.
"My prince," Otto said. His voice was quiet, cultured, and perfectly even. "It is my greatest pleasure. Allow me to offer my congratulations on your betrothal. It is a profound comfort to the realm to see the succession secured so elegantly. House Targaryen has done a great service to the realm at this difficult time."
The greeting was flawless. To anyone else in the room, it was merely the polite praise of a minor noble. But Rhaegar heard the subtle purpose behind the words. Otto had already read him. He had calculated exactly what to say to try to appeal to Rhaegar's intellect without crossing the line into sycophancy. A show to prove his competence.
Rhaegar did not speak immediately. He let the silence hang for just a fraction of a second, letting his father finish a brief remark about Otto's great work with the laws and governance in Oldtown.
Then, a smile crept onto Rhaegar's face. It was completely harmless. It was the warm, welcoming smile of a young, happy prince celebrating his betrothal, devoid of any hint of threat.
"Ser Otto," Rhaegar replied, his voice a picture of genuine, pleasant surprise. "My father speaks very highly of you. Rest assured, the pleasure is entirely mine."