Within the godswood of the Red Keep, the air carried both festivity and the sea breeze drifting in from Blackwater Bay.
At the center of the grove stood a weirwood so vast that five men could scarcely encircle it. Its pale bark bore a carved "face," worn nearly smooth by the passage of time, leaving only the deep hollows of its eyes still discernible.
Crimson leaves rustled in the afternoon sunlight, like countless voices whispering in low tones.
Viserys sat in a specially made wheelchair, carefully pushed before the weirwood by four attendants.
The king who had once ruled the Seven Kingdoms was now reduced to skin and bone. His splendid robes hung loosely upon his frame.
His swollen, pallid face bore eyes that had once been sharp and violet, now clouded and dim. The crown rested upon his thinning silver hair, as if it might crush him at any moment.
Queen Alicent stood beside the chair, clad in a deep green gown.
Her hands were clasped tightly before her, emotions churning in her eyes—relief at her son's marriage, fear at her husband's failing health, and a guilt buried deep within her heart.
She believed Viserys's condition was her doing. The medicines she had given him were all mild, meant to soothe and nourish—so why had his body only continued to worsen?
Not far away stood the High Septon of King's Landing, Ewan, alongside Grand Maester Orwyle.
High Septon Ewan, nearing sixty, was gaunt, his white robes hanging loosely from his frame. The seven-pointed star upon his chest glinted in the sunlight, yet his expression was as dark as a storm.
Grand Maester Orwyle stood beside him, his chain heavy around his neck, his face bearing its usual calm.
"Targaryen incest…" the High Septon muttered in a low voice, the mockery in his tone barely concealed.
"They grow ever more wanton. Kinslaying, and…"
He did not finish, but the meaning was obvious enough. In the Faith of the Seven, these were sins among sins.
Orwyle remained silent for a moment before speaking slowly. "Only Aegon is fit to be king."
"This Aemond, and Daemon and Rhaenyra… none possess the virtue required of a ruler."
He paused, lowering his voice further. "Though, regrettably, these Targaryens have never cared for virtue."
The High Septon nodded lightly, the muscles in his gaunt face twitching.
"The Faith, the Citadel, and House Hightower all support Aegon as king."
"We shall simply watch."
"Let these Targaryen madmen slaughter one another…"
"The envoys of the four regions will arrive soon," Ewan said, glancing at Orwyle, who stood composed. His voice was barely audible. "How fares His Grace's health now?"
A faint, meaningful smile touched the Grand Maester's lips. "What do you think, Septon?"
The two exchanged a look.
Ewan nodded slowly.
"A compliant Targaryen royal house, one without threat—that alone serves the realm's interests."
"We have no need for a… god above us, one who may do as he pleases and stand above all."
Their voices were so soft they were nearly swallowed by the wind.
Orwyle's gaze swept across the crowd, settling on a limping man leaning on a cane not far away—Lord Larys Strong of Harrenhal, Master of Whisperers, raising a cup in silent greeting.
Both the Grand Maester and the High Septon lifted their silver goblets in return.
Between the three of them, there was an unspoken understanding.
Footsteps sounded at that moment, breaking the murmur of the grove.
All eyes turned at once toward the forest path.
Aemond and Helaena walked side by side.
Behind them followed a silent line of guards clad in dragon-emblazoned armor, their footsteps uniform, crunching softly upon the fallen leaves.
Aemond wore a perfectly tailored black formal suit, its collar and cuffs embroidered with intricate silver-threaded Targaryen sigils that glinted coldly in the sunlight.
When his violet eyes swept over the crowd, many nobles instinctively lowered their heads.
Helaena held his arm. Her silver-white gown trailed along the ground, hundreds of embroidered violets trembling gently with each step.
Her silver-gold hair flowed freely down her back, adorned only by a single amethyst hairpin at her temple.
Her head was lowered, her cheeks faintly flushed, yet her hold on Aemond's arm was steady.
As they passed before the High Septon and the Grand Maester, Helaena inclined her head slightly in greeting, her posture elegant and composed.
At last, they stopped before the weirwood, standing before Viserys.
"Father," Aemond said, bowing his head slightly.
Viserys struggled to lift his head, his clouded eyes moving slowly between his son and daughter.
His lips trembled as if to speak, but in the end, he merely nodded.
Alicent stepped forward, taking her husband's withered hand, and reminded him softly, "It is time."
Viserys drew a deep breath and, with all his strength, straightened his back.
For that brief moment, the shadow of the king who once sat the Iron Throne returned.
Though hoarse, his voice rang clearly through the grove:
"Before the gaze of our ancestors, and in the witness of the Seven and the old gods, I, Viserys Targaryen the First, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—"
"—do, as father and king, preside over this union."
He turned to Aemond, speaking each word slowly and with weight.
"Aemond Targaryen, my son, will you take Helaena Targaryen to wife?"
"Will you protect her, honor her, and remain faithful to her until the end of your days?"
Aemond did not answer at once.
He turned to look at Helaena.
"I will."
His voice was heavy, carrying clearly through the silent godswood.
Viserys then turned to Helaena, his voice weaker still. "Helaena Targaryen, my daughter, will you take Aemond Targaryen to husband?"
"Will you stand by him, support him, and remain faithful to him, in glory and in disgrace, until the end of your days?"
Helaena lifted her head.
The morning light fell upon her face, and her violet eyes shone with startling brightness.
She did not look at her father, but directly at Aemond, as though the world contained only the two of them.
"I will," she said, her voice soft yet without hesitation.
Viserys nodded. His trembling hand reached from the armrest of his chair to take up a dagger.
It was a Valyrian steel heirloom, its hilt set with a blood-red gem that gleamed with an eerie light beneath the sun.
"Then," the king declared, his voice suddenly solemn, "let it be sworn in fire and blood."
Aemond took the dagger without the slightest hesitation, drawing the blade across his left palm in a clean, decisive motion.
Blood welled at once, flowing along the lines of his hand and dripping into the silver cup held by an attendant nearby.
He passed the dagger to Helaena.
She took it and likewise cut her palm. Her motion was slower than Aemond's, but no less resolute.
Her blood fell into the same cup, their two streams mingling.
Aemond took up the cup and drank the mingled blood in a single draught.
His throat worked as he swallowed, a few drops of blood spilling from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin.
Then he handed the cup to Helaena.
She took it, closed her eyes, and drank.
The blood stained her lips, stark against her pale face.
Then Aemond grasped her bleeding hand, pressing their wounds tightly together.
"Blood mingles with blood," Viserys proclaimed with the last of his strength, "and soul binds to soul."
"From this day forth, you are one—one fate, one life, one death."
"Let the ancestors of House Targaryen bear witness."
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