263 AC.
Rhaegar watched the sun rise above the castle; from city to sea the warm light glittered like gold, and every street in King's Landing blazed with banners and lanterns.
Gaming-houses, brothels, inns, and stables were all packed to the rafters; merchants sighed that if only the great Lords married more often—Prince Rhaegar must hurry and grow up—the celebrations would be even grander.
When weddings and gold are entwined, the world knows the feast will be remembered for its luxury and splendor.
Gold reacts with the soul: it makes the rich arrogant and the poor ferocious.
The smallfolk of King's Landing and the visiting Lords, hearing of the scale of Ser Tywin's nuptials, praised it as a "golden wedding."
The rite would begin at noon in the Great Sept of Baelor; at dusk the revel would move to the throne room for a feast of eight hundred guests and sixty-six courses, with singers, mummers, jugglers, and puppeteers all vying to delight the bride and groom.
Rhaegar could feel the gold burning itself into foam for the sake of that single, dazzling day.
The iron throne paid dearly, yet it was only a stop-gap—everyone still expected House Lannister to settle the king's debts.
What pained Rhaegar most was that neither father would be present: the bride's had fallen in battle, the groom's still chased pleasure across the Narrow Sea. He was not alone; the whole court felt the absence.
King Jaehaerys II granted Ser Tywin leave to break his fast in the Queen's Ballroom. "Though your father refuses us, we shall give you twice the warmth," he declared.
The Queen's Ballroom swirled with power, coin, perfume, flowers, and food—a heady current that left courtiers dizzy with delight.
Beneath soft music drifted flutes and harps, while fools capered to make the guests laugh.
Only those who wielded power might dine here; every figure who moved through the hall was lord or knight.
Conversation and laughter rang out, the mood as mild as spring.
King Jaehaerys set Prince Aerys and Rhaegar to attend the men, while Queen Rhaella, aided by the Princess of Dorne and Lady Cassana, received the women.
The gathering honored the newly-weds and welcomed the far-travelled Lord of the Eyrie and his lady—Jon Arryn and his wife.
The Arryns were rare guests, for like all Valemen they were cautious, aloof, and stubborn in their ways.
The greatest treasures in the hall were the Dragonlords of the iron throne, the Stag of Storm's End, the Golden Lion of the West, the Falcon of the Vale—present in person—the Trout of the Riverlands, represented by the duke's brother, Ser Brynden the Blackfish. Absent were the Direwolf of the North and the rose of the Reach.
The wolves were deemed savages by King's Landing and scorned the court's games; the Tyrells of the Reach had half a mind to come yet balked at seeming over-eager. Only Lord Hoster, perhaps ashamed to fawn upon a younger cousin, stayed away. The trout were proud but middling, and though their seat lay close, House Tully rarely entered the capital's inner circle.
Never had Rhaegar seen the breakfast so crowded; today every space was filled.
He looked across the ballroom and saw only great Lords and their heirs.
The king and queen, Lord and Lady Baratheon, Lord and Lady Arryn of the Vale sat at the high table with the bride- and groom-to-be; below them came Rhaegar and the other princelings.
Rhaegar's gaze lingered on Lord Jon Arryn: past forty, yet still handsome, golden-haired, blue-eyed, hook-nosed, with a dimple when he smiled.
His wife, Rowenna Arryn—a cousin, younger, sharing the same gold and blue—was the lord's second spouse. The pair were devoted, yet she had not provided an heir, and worry shadowed her smiles. King Jaehaerys, younger than Arryn, already had grandsons running through the Red Keep.
Sorrow clung to Rowenna's face whenever she looked upon Rhaegar and the Baratheon children.
Jon Arryn was accounted an honorable man; though long without issue he kept no mistresses and brought no bastards home—an honesty rare among great Lords.
Fate is a harp-string, Rhaegar mused, and Arryn's note had fallen low. The Eyrie's main line had more than once neared extinction, and the lord seemed resigned. Besides, Westeros loved its close marriages—though the dragon-kings carried kin-wedlock further than most.
"Good children, I rejoice to see you. May you grow as strong as mountain eagles." Lady Rowenna embraced Rhaegar and the Baratheon siblings, clasping a silver falcon pendant about each neck, and gave like gifts to bride and groom.
The board groaned with fare: milk, golden sweet-wine, hot mineral water, fried sea-fish, smoked capon, fat goose, oranges, and buttered milk-cakes.
Food held little interest for Rhaegar; gifts were what thrilled him—only the finest and rarest would suffice.
Already Ser Tywin had received a hoard: a golden lion from his western vassals, a splendid saddle from one brother and a red-silk campaign tent from the other; a rose of gold tipped with rubies from absent Lord Tyrell; a gemmed ring carved like a lion from the Princess of Dorne.
All were accepted with courtesy; each giver would later receive a return-gift.
Yet the morning's height came when the sworn brothers stepped forward.
Ser Steffon gave a Storm's-End carving of the three youths riding abreast through the woods, their youthful faces cut with exquisite care.
Prince Aerys presented a lion-headed sword: gilt-bronze hilt, scabbard of peach-wood wrapped in red-lacquered sharkskin, the blade bright as a boy's first kiss with fame—Lion's Roar in miniature.
"Let this make amends for the sword you lost," Aerys said.
Emotion choked Ser Tywin; the three brothers embraced while the women wept.
Rhaegar watched, his own feelings tangled.
Blood of my blood, iron of my iron—once brothers, until years and love's folly parted them.
The hearts of men, too, can break like porcelain.
Applause rolled through the hall; King Jaehaerys clapped and every guest followed like drilled soldiers, carrying the revel from crest to crest.
The company moved to the Great Sept of Baelor, and the golden wedding truly began.
The High Septon's crystal crown scattered prismatic light; he had no name. Rhaegar longed to touch those gems—how rich the priest must be.
It was said that when the crown was short of coin it sometimes haggled with the Faith.
Father Above, Mother Merciful—high in stone they received the incense of earth, while below the couple stood like matched pearls.
Ser Tywin and Lady Joanna shone in cloth-of-gold stitched with roaring lions.
Scarlet and ancestral gold made them splendid; garlands of golden roses on Joanna spoke of maiden purity.
Rhaegar glanced at Prince Aerys below the dais, torn between restless pride and the oath he had sworn not to mar the day.
Tywin's brothers scattered petals of gilt-paper rose; they drifted like a shower of gold.
A roar burst from the crowd—among the petals some were real gold.
The golden wedding had begun in truth!