After the Queen's words rang through the hall, silence fell like a shroud.
The lords and councillors shifted uneasily in their seats, glancing at one another with eyes full of hesitation and doubt.
At last, Grand Maester Bennifer broke the stillness. His tone carried sympathy, but also deep reluctance.
"Your Grace, your proposal is righteous and just, but in practice… it is exceedingly difficult to enforce. If His Grace seeks to preserve peace and stability across the realm, he cannot lightly strip away what the lords have long considered their rightful privilege. You know how fiercely they guard their lands, their wealth…"
He faltered here, hesitating to utter the word "rights." With the Emperor already reclaiming much of their authority, the lords' resentment was no secret.
"…and their wives?" Queen Alysanne cut in coldly, her eyes locking onto her husband's. She spoke slowly, each word deliberate.
"Your Grace, I remember our wedding day—it was a moment of pure joy. But imagine you were only a humble smith, and I a washerwoman. On the day we vowed ourselves as husband and wife, a lord appeared to claim that vile first night, to take my maidenhood. What then?"
"I would kill him without hesitation." Regalus's gaze was steady, his voice resolute. Then he added, "But I am not a smith. I am the ruler of this kingdom."
The Queen pressed on.
"I said suppose, Your Grace!
A smith is a man, the same as you. Is he not? And if a man must stand by while another forces himself upon his wife, how is he not a coward? Of course, we don't expect a smith to raise his hand against a lord—that would be like an egg striking stone."
She turned to Bennifer and continued, "But I know the fate of Gogen Corlys, the one called the 'Wedding Guest.' How many tragedies like his have been born of this so-called right?"
"Too many to count, Your Grace," Bennifer admitted with a sigh. "To avoid encouraging imitators, we seldom speak of it. But yes… such tragedies are all too common."
"Then it is clear," said the Queen, her voice sharp with conviction, "that the right of the first night has long since shattered the peace of the realm. It is not only a vile affront to a woman's dignity, but also a humiliation to her husband.
And let us not forget—the lords' wives also suffer. While their husbands despoil innocent girls, what are those ladies doing? Sewing in silence? Singing softly? Or praying devoutly?
If it were me, I would pray my husband broke his neck on the ride home."
Her words, biting yet edged with dark humor, drew laughter from Regalus.
"My love, you speak true. But as the saying goes, 'Wake not the wrath of a sleeping dragon.'"
"But we are the true blood of the dragon, Your Grace," Alysanne shot back instantly, her eyes burning with resolve. "Those lords who cling to the first night are nothing but cowardly curs.
Why must they take their pleasure with maidens already promised? Do they not have wives? Are there no brothels? Or can they not use their own hands?"
At this, the Master of Laws, Lord Albin Massey, rose to speak, his voice calm but commanding.
"Your Grace, the first night is more than mere lust. Its roots are ancient—dating back to the Dawn Age, long before the coming of the Andals or the Faith of the Seven.
In that savage time, the First Men were little different from the wildlings beyond the Wall. They revered only strength. Their lords and kings were warriors, champions, heroes.
If a war-chief blessed a bride by sowing his seed, it was deemed an honor. And if a child came of it, the husband took pride in raising a hero's son."
"Perhaps ten thousand years ago, that was true," the Queen answered without flinching, her tone firm. "But tell me—what lord today, who dares claim this so-called right, is worthy of the name 'hero'?
You did not hear the words of the women. I did. To them, these men are old lechers, fat gluttons, beasts, rapists, useless boys, drooling lords, scabbed men, scarred men, boil-ridden men, lice-bitten heads, greasy swine who haven't bathed in half a year…
These are the 'strong men' you speak of?"
"From the tone of those girls, I heard no blessing—only endless fear and humiliation."
"The Andals, in their own age, knew nothing of the first night," Grand Maester Bennifer added. "It was only after they came to Westeros and conquered the realms of the First Men that they encountered this local custom. And like the heart trees, they chose to preserve it."
At that moment, Septon Barth, silent until now, finally spoke.
He looked straight at the king, his voice earnest:
"Your Grace, forgive my bluntness, but in this matter the Queen is right.
The First Men may have once seen this tradition as sacred, but they also fought with bronze weapons and watered the weirwoods with blood.
The times have changed. We are no longer the First Men. Why should we cling to their savage relics?
And this so-called right of the first night stands in direct opposition to the very chivalry we profess.
Our knights swear oaths to protect the virtue of maidens—yet when their lords themselves seek to violate it, they can only stand aside.
We pledge before the Father and the Mother to be faithful until death, yet nowhere in the Seven-Pointed Star is there a passage excusing lords from this sacred vow.
Your Grace, your concerns are not unfounded. Some lords—especially those of the North—may take offense.
But as the Queen has said, the maidens of the realm, their husbands, and their families will bless us for it."
Hearing Barth's words, Aegon II slowly lifted his hands in resignation and gave a weary smile.
"Very well. I yield. Let it be as the Queen says—the right of the first night is abolished."
And so "Queen Alysanne's Second Law" was proclaimed.
From that day forward, whether a couple wed before a Septon or beneath the heart tree, the bride's chastity belonged to her husband alone.
Any man—be he lord or peasant—who forced himself upon a bride on her wedding night or thereafter would be guilty of rape.
...
Years passed, and the fifty-ninth year since the Conquest neared its end.
In the Hall of Conquest, Emperor Aegon II held a solemn ceremony to mark the tenth anniversary of his coronation.
The boyish youth of old was gone. In his place stood a man of twenty-five, every inch a king.
From the early years of his reign, he had grown a beard; now the stubble had thickened into a full, commanding beard, silver streaked with threads of gold.
His long hair, left uncut, had been worked into a great braid that fell nearly to his waist.
Aegon II stood in his prime—tall, striking, and graceful in bearing. Whether in a gilded hall or a tiltyard, he carried himself with effortless poise.
They said his warm smile could melt the heart of any maiden in the Seven Kingdoms; yet a single furrow of his brow could chill the blood of even the proudest lord.
At his side, Queen Alysanne was even more beloved than he. From bustling Oldtown to the frozen Wall, the smallfolk called her "Good Queen Alysanne."
The Seven had favored their union. They had blessed them with four strong, healthy children—three gifted young princes and a princess adored throughout the realm.
Together, Emperor and Queen had endured a decade of trials: tragedy and treachery, grief and loss. Yet they had never faltered.
Each hardship only made them stronger, their rule wiser.
The proof lay before all eyes: under their reign, the Seven Kingdoms enjoyed a time of peace and plenty—the most prosperous era in living memory.
Such an age demanded celebration.
And so, in honor of the tenth year since his coronation, King's Landing hosted a grand tournament.
Prince Jaehaerys, Princess Daenerys, Prince Aemon, and Prince Baelon appeared in the royal box beside their parents, receiving the people's thunderous cheers.
At the lists, Ser Lyann Redwyne shone brightest.
The youngest son of Lord Manfryd Redwyne of the Arbor—Admiral of the Royal Fleet and Master of Ships—he rode with fearless skill.
One after another, he unhorsed Ronnal Baratheon, Arthor Oakheart, Simon Dondarrion, and Harys Hogg (better known as "Ham Harry"), as well as two knights of the Kingsguard—Lorence Roxton and Lucamore Strong.
At last, the young victor rode before the royal box in triumph and laid the Queen's Crown—the wreath of love and beauty—at the feet of Good Queen Alysanne.
The crowd's excitement blazed like wildfire, reaching its peak in thunderous cheers.
As the tournament came to its close, so too did the fate of two Free City kingdoms across the sea in Essos. Regalus' judgment had been flawless. Under the command of dragonborn generals with extraordinary gifts, and warriors rising swiftly to prominence, the formidable strength of the Western Protectorate shattered the two kingdoms' armies in short order. Their capitals fell with ease.
The two remaining among the Nine Free Cities received desperate pleas for aid from Pentos and Norvos. Yet faced with the swelling might of the Targaryen dynasty, they quailed like frightened birds, unwilling to stir.
In this war of annihilation, the Targaryens had not even needed to unleash their deadliest weapon—the dragons. And yet, two kingdoms that had endured for thousands of years were wiped from the map. Now only Lorath and Qohor remained, trembling before the Targaryen advance—like candles guttering in the wind, ready to be snuffed out.
...
Far in the North, beyond the Wall, the power of the White Walkers crept ever closer. They had reached the Frostfang Mountains, just outside the Wall itself, their movements spotted in time by the Night's Watch rangers.
Meanwhile, the first batch of dragonglass weapons—long promised by Regalus—had been forged and carried swiftly to the Watch by dragonback. The White Walkers, enemies of all mankind, threatened the safety of all Westeros.
At the Emperor's command, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms dispatched reinforcements to the Wall, swearing to hold this last line of defense against the dead and make it unbreakable. Along the hundred leagues of the Wall, a dozen castles stood in guard. For the first time in thousands of years, all nineteen strongholds were fully manned, their garrisons stronger than ever before.
The bells of the New Year were about to toll. As tradition demanded, Regalus inquired about the year's daylight.
The Archmaester of the Citadel reported respectfully that the daylight of the fifty-ninth year since the Conquest was shorter still than the year before. The news cast a heavy shadow across the Emperor's mind.
It was no good omen.
He immediately sent word to the great lords of the realm. With the White Walkers now confirmed to exist, some began to believe at last that the prophecy of doom Regalus had spoken of was no baseless tale.
Among them, the Duke of Hightower offered counsel: they must seek the legendary sword Lightbringer. For in the old tales, when humanity last faced the terror of the Long Night, it was Azor Ahai reborn who drew the burning blade from the fire. With that sword, he had driven back the darkness and saved mankind.
Aegon II could not see how a single sword might change the course of heaven and earth. But he knew the Duke's advice could not be dismissed. Any power that could strengthen humanity's hand against the Long Night was worth the effort.
Thus, he issued a royal proclamation:
—A rich reward shall be given for any word of the flaming sword Lightbringer.
...
The leaves turned brown, orange, and gold as autumn settled upon the land. The ladies of court donned long gowns to welcome the harvest season.
At the feast that followed the tournament, Rogar Baratheon arrived as promised with his two children, Boremund and Jocelyn. The Emperor and Queen welcomed them warmly, embracing them as kin.
Lords from every corner of the realm came to offer their congratulations: Lyman Lannister of Casterly Rock, Daemon Velaryon of Driftmark, Prentys Tully of Riverrun, Rodrik Arryn of the Eyrie—even Lord Rowan and Lord Oakheart, once allies of the Moon Septons, were present at the feast.
Theomore Manderly had come south from distant White Harbor. Alaric Stark, unable to attend in person, sent his two sons and his daughter. Flushed and bashful, Alarra was welcomed into the Queen's company of ladies.
It was a time of joy beyond compare. The hall resounded with warm embraces and merry laughter. Cups clinked in toasts, old grievances forgotten, smiles and kisses freely shared between old friends and new.
It was a golden autumn, an age of peace and plenty.
But the Long Night was coming.