Chapter 15: 'Marriage'
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"Aenys has always been a storm wrapped in silver.
He carries the weight of our blood with a quiet ferocity, his every step echoing with the pride and burden of what it means to be a Targaryen. I cannot claim to fully understand him; he is as much dragon as he is man, and that makes him both a wonder and a danger.
Yet, I trust him,— more than I trust myself at times. He is my brother, my heir, and perhaps the fire this realm needs… or the one that will consume it."
— Viserys Targaryen.
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The gardens of the Red Keep were quiet in the early evening of that very same day, the slowly, but surely, fading light casting long shadows among the flowering trees and bushes.
The air carried a faint hint of salt from Blackwater Bay as always, mingling with the sweet aroma of lilacs and roses, it was here that King Viserys I Targaryen had chosen to meet with Lord Corlys Velaryon, away from the prying eyes and straining ears of the court.
Viserys stood by a marble bench, one hand resting lightly on its back, his gaze drifting across the sculpted hedges and neatly tended flowerbeds.
The Iron Throne was 'far behind him', but its weight was ever present, a ghostly pressure upon his shoulders.
He turned as Corlys approached, the Sea Snake's stride as purposeful as ever, while behind him, a step behind as decorum demanded, was his wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen,— his cousin,— her expression unreadable beneath the soft glow of dusk.
"Your Grace!" Corlys began with a bow, his voice deep and measured, as steady as the tide.
"Lord Corlys." Viserys acknowledged, offering a small smile that did not quite reached his eyes. "I'm grateful we could meet... tempers ran high in the council chamber today, but I wanted to assure you of my respect for the bond between our houses,— Rhaenys is my favorite cousin, after all."
Rhaenys inclined her head slightly, though her lips remained pressed in a thin line, and Corlys, ever the diplomat, replied, "I wish to extend my apologies for the tone I carried earlier, Your Grace. It was not my intent to cause you any offense."
Viserys waved a hand dismissively, as though brushing away an errant leaf. "Your fleet remains one of the realm's greatest assets, Lord Corlys. But as king, you must understand, it is my duty to avoid unnecessary war until there is no other recourse. And I'm sure none among us desires open conflict, correct?"
Corlys's eyes narrowed, a flicker of impatience breaking through his carefully maintained composure. "Might I speak plainly, Your Grace?"
"I always welcome the unfettered thoughts of my council." Viserys said, though the words felt more courtesy than conviction.
Corlys then took a measured breath, ready to speak his mind. "Then plainly, I fear the eyes of our enemies are fixed upon the Red Keep. The Queen is gone, a disowned prince, long thought dead, has been named heir,— a first in our history might I add. Your brother, so disinherited, has taken Dragonstone without resistance until yesterday, or so I hear. And now, a foreign power has established itself in our most vital shipping lane."
Viserys's smile faltered at Corlys' words, and he exhaled slowly through his nose. "You paint such an aspirant portrait of my reign, Lord Corlys."
"It is but an honest one, cousin." Rhaenys interjected, her voice smooth but firm.
Her eyes meeting Viserys's, unblinking, as if daring him to disagree, while Corlys nodded, emboldened by his wife's support. "At present, the Crown is seen as vulnerable, and this perception invites boldness from our enemies."
"And a blind incursion into the Stepstones is the solution you propose?" Viserys countered, his tone sharper now. "Is that how we demonstrate strength?"
"To avoid a storm, one must either sail into it or around it, but never sit idle awaiting its wrath." Corlys said, his voice rising with the conviction of a man accustomed to command.
Viserys regarded him for a long moment, his fingers drumming lightly against the marble bench. "Do you have a specific course of action in mind, my lord?"
"Yes, I do." Corlys's answer was immediate. "Unite our families. Wed my daughter, Laena. Let the Targaryen dragons and Velaryon fleet bind in blood, together, we would signal to the realm that the Crown's might is not waning but ascending."
"Marriage?" Viserys repeated slowly, his brow furrowing. "I must admit, the thought has barely crossed my mind. It has, after all, been less than three moons since Aemma passed."
"The realm will expect you to take another wife, Your Grace." Corlys said, pressing forward. "It is a duty of kingship, to secure your line and produce heirs."
"You could not ask for a stronger match than Laena, Cousin." Rhaenys added, her voice softening, though her gaze remained intense. "She has the blood of Old Valyria, and her father,— my husband, commands the greatest fleet in the world."
"Perhaps that is so." Viserys said, his tone cautious and hummuring. "But you seem to forget that my brother, is heir to the Iron Throne. It is his line that will carry on, not mine." For the briefest moment, Rhaenys's expression soured, a flicker of resentment crossing her features like a shadow over still water.
Neither man noticed, however.
And so Corlys pressed on. "Your brother's claim may stand for now, but House Targaryen has endured misfortune since the time of Aegon the Conqueror. The line has been threatened more times than I care to recount, securing it further would be a prudent act, whether your children are heirs or not."
Viserys sighed, the sound heavy with weariness as he looked between his cousin and Corlys. "I will think on it."
"That is all we ask, cousin." Rhaenys said, her tone conciliatory, while Corlys inclined his head, sensing that further argument would be unwelcome.
The Sea Snake and his wife then departed together, their footsteps fading into the growing quiet of the gardens.
Viserys though, remained where he was, his eyes lifting to the deepening blue of the evening sky. .
The first stars were beginning to prick through the twilight, faint and distant, and he sighed again, his shoulders sagging under the invisible burden of kingship.
"Vultures..." he muttered under his breath.
"All of you." The wind stirred the leaves around him, carrying his words into the nearing night.
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A few hours later, the council chamber of the Red Keep was dimly bathed in the waning glow of the now setting sun.
Rays of amber light pierced through the high, narrow windows, casting elongated shadows over the carved oak table where Viserys I Targaryen sat.
His crown, gleamed faintly in the light, while around him, the air was thick with the unspoken weight of duty, as the few small council members he had choosen to call for, debated his own next marriage.
Viserys drummed his fingers against the table, his expression one of mounting irritation.
The 'debates', if they could be called that, had dragged on for almost an hour now, and the voices of his few, choosen counselors,— measured, impassioned, and occasionally venomous,— echoed in his ears.
"What say you all?" Viserys asked at last, his voice weary but firm, his violet eyes, lined with exhaustion, swept across the chamber.
Lyonel Strong, the current Master of Laws, was the first to answer, being a bear of a man with a thoughtful demeanor, Lyonel inclined his head respectfully. "In my humble opinion, Your Grace, it seems the most prudent course amidst these turbulent times. A match with House Velaryon could secure a powerful ally and bolster the Crown's position in the realm." He said.
Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, however, straightened in his seat.
His sharp features, framed by his streaked brown hair, betrayed no emotion, but his words carried the precision of a blade.
"With all due respect, Your Grace, I must disagree. That man,—..." he did not bother to name Lord Corlys Velaryon ",— is ambition made flesh. To accept such a proposal would undermine this court and cast doubt upon your reign. His obsession with the Iron Throne is no secret to any here, I presume?"
From the shadows at the far end of the table, Prince Aenys Targaryen, the king's elder brother, leaned forward. His growing mismatched eyes,— one a pale violet, the other growing as dark as night,— gleamed in the dim light. Though he was yet to be blind in it.
A faint smile played at his lips, though it held no warmth. "The Hand speaks truly." he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Yet every marriage proposal you receive from now on, brother, will be driven by self-interest, not love. Joining with the Velaryons might be the wisest course for our family, as it would place potential dragonriders within our fold. Save for Laenor with Seasmoke and Rhaenys with Meleys, their numbers would dwindle."
Viserys frowned. "So two of you counsel that I wed a girl young enough to be my daughter?" And that made Lyonel clear his throat, his voice carrying a note of caution.
"Not Lady Laena specifically, Your Grace, but the union itself would indeed serve the realm's interests better than most alternatives."
Otto's emerald gaze sharpened, disbelief present on his eyes. "Do you hear yourselves? You would hand Corlys Velaryon a clear path to the Iron Throne? His ambition is boundless,— what if he were to call a council, as was done during the Great Council of 101? He could push his line forward as heirs. Corlys's family should never be allowed such proximity to the Crown, in my opinion." (A/N: Huh, big words coming from the man who did almost exactly that.)
Aenys chuckled darkly, the sound low and derisive. "And what would you propose, Lord Hand? That my brother wed your daughter, Alicent?" Viserys quickly shot his brother a glare. "Aenys, peace. Otto's counsel is sound, and I find myself inclined to agree with much of it."
Lyonel folded his hands before him, his brow furrowing. "Still, Your Grace, making the Velaryons allies to the Crown would be far better than making them enemies."
And that made Otto scoff, the disdain in his tone unmistakable. "Enemies? The Velaryons should remember their station,— House Targaryen's supremacy stands leagues above theirs. If they were to become an 'enemy' over a declined marriage proposal, they would prove themselves unworthy of their current position."
Aenys's tone grew colder, his words laced with threat. "Any house foolish enough to rise against House Targaryen over a succession would find their end swift and merciless. I would burn their halls to the ground, turn their strongholds to ash, and make Harrenhal's fate seem like a child's tale."
Viserys's hand tightened around the armrest of his chair. "That will not come to pass!" he said sharply. "The succession is decided,— Aenys and his line will inherit the throne, I believe that much I made public, no?"
For a fleeting moment, Lyonel hesitated, and when he spoke, his voice was careful, yet resolute. "A firm declaration, Your Grace, though ambition is a fire that must always be watched closely." Otto decided to lean forward, his tone clipped. "My position on the matter remains unchanged,— Corlys Velaryon and his kin must not be brought closer to the throne."
Aenys leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "And mine is the same, though the choice is yours, brother. Corlys Velaryon's ambitions can be managed later,— if you choose to wed at all." Viserys's eyes flicked between his brother and his Hand, his brow furrowing in thought. "Damned words, brother..." he muttered. "Must you sound so much like a butcher?"
Lyonel offered a small nod, as though to placate the king. "I am no advocate for drastic measures, Your Grace, but the truth remains, Corlys Velaryon is a dangerous man. Securing his family support while tempering its 'head's' ambitions could fortify your dynasty for a few years to come."
The chamber fell silent save for the crackle of the already, recently lit, hearth.
Viserys leaned back in his chair, the weight of the realm pressing heavily upon him.
Before him lay two paths, each fraught with peril, and that made him sigh, his gaze drifting to the flickering flames. "I will think on the matter a bit further, if you would allow me." he said at last.
The words hung in the air as his 'truly small council' exchanged wary glances.
The decision was his to make, but the consequences would ripple through the realm like stones cast into still water.
And as the two lords and his brother filed out, Viserys remained seated, his thoughts swirling.
Alone in the council chamber, he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible above the crackle of the fire. "What should I do, Aemma?"
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The soft knock on the chamber door echoed in the stillness like the toll of a distant bell.
"Enter." Aenys commanded, his voice calm yet laced with an undertone of authority.
The heavy oaken door creaked open, and Ser Arthur stepped into the room with the poise of a man unshaken by the weight of any summons. (A/N: The knight from that time when Aenys reached the Targaryen mande in Essos. He is the 'head' of Aenys' spy/personal soldiers group.)
"You summoned me, my Prince?" Arthur's voice was quiet, unyielding, and Aenys Targaryen who sat at his writing desk, quill poised above a half-written letter, nodded his head.
The chamber around him was modest for a prince, though richly adorned with tapestries of Targaryen dragons twisting through a sea of flame.
A brazier burned low, just like the many torches around, casting flickers of red and gold that danced across his face, his eyes,— one violet, the other growing darker,— glimmered in the dim light of the fire, betraying a mind ever at work.
"Indeed, Arthur." Aenys said, setting down the quill. "I have need of your particular talents." Arthur straightened, the faintest hint of curiosity softening his disciplined composure. "I am at your service, my Prince."
Aenys rose from his seat, clasping his hands behind his back as he moved toward the window.
He gazed out at the city below, where the sprawl of King's Landing stretched into the horizon, its streets bustling even at this hour of the night. The faint sound of a street crier hawking his wares drifted up, carried by the cool breeze.
"Otto Hightower." Aenys began, his tone measured. "The man is cunning, meticulous, and wholly untrustworthy. His every move drips with ambition disguised as duty, and I cannot allow his schemes to go unchecked any longer."
Arthur inclined his head. "You suspect him of treachery, my Prince?"
"Not treachery, no. Not yet, at least." Aenys turned, his gaze locking with Arthur's. "But his 'quill dances too freely'. Letters leave the Red Keep in his hand, bound for places unknown. I would know their contents, their purpose,— I need his movements watched, his letters intercepted. Should any missive carry whispers of self-interest cloaked in the guise of the realm's welfare, it must find its way to me. Can I trust you to ensure this is done?"
Arthur's eyes narrowed, his expression resolute. "Without fail, my Prince. The streets of King's Landing shall be combed for whispers and movements. My men will see that the Crownlands themselves do not escape our notice."
Aenys allowed a small smile, though it held no warmth. "Good. Waste no time, Arthur,— I want this matter resolved before it festers further."
Arthur bowed deeply, his armor catching the firelight. "As you command, my Prince. I shall see it done."
He turned to leave, his movements precise and silent as the shadow of a dragon.
But before he could reach the door, Aenys's voice cut through the chamber like the hiss of steel unsheathing. "Arthur."
The knight paused, his hand hovering over the door latch. He glanced back, his gaze questioning but calm. "Yes, my Prince?"
"There may come a time..." Aenys said, his tone quieter now, yet somehow heavier, "... when King's Landing will need to be... cleansed. Certain elements,— a cockroach, if you will,— may need excising." Arthur's expression did not change, but the faintest flicker of understanding passed through his eyes.
He bowed his head once more, deeper this time. "Say the word, and it shall be done."
Aenys held his gaze for a long moment, the firelight painting his features in shades of gold and shadow. "Good." he said at last.
"Go now, and see to it." Arthur straightened and left without another word, his steps fading into silence as the door closed behind him.
Alone once more, Aenys returned to his writing desk, though his quill remained untouched. He stared into the brazier's flickering flames, his thoughts swirling as smoke from the embers.
The game had begun ever since he sent that letter to Viserys, before coming back to Westeros, and the pieces were in motion from then on.
Yet he knew what the cost of playing would be,— it was not gold or steel he gambled with, but fire and blood.
Always fire and blood... and he loved it.
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The night pressed heavy against the Red Keep, the air thick with the weight of secrets and unspoken words.
Darkness crept through the halls like a living thing, curling around corners and swallowing the faint glow of the torches lining the cold stone walls.
The muffled crash of waves against the cliffs below served as a steady rhythm, but it did little to calm Alicent Hightower's fraying nerves. Her slippers clicked softly against the floor, each step deliberate yet hesitant, her unease betraying the purpose she was struggling to hold onto.
She hadn't anticipated encountering him again so soon, but fate,— or something crueler,— had its way of bending the night to its whims.
From the chambers of the king ahead, he emerged like a wraith given form, his silver hair catching the dim light of the torches, his violet eyes gleaming with an authority that felt almost suffocating.
Aenys Targaryen carried himself with an air of control that brooked no challenge, and in that moment, the weight of his presence consumed the space.
"Again, Lady Alicent?" His voice cut through the stillness, low and sharp, its edge brushing against her composure like the kiss of a blade. And Alicent froze, her breath hitching. "M-my prince?" she stammered, her voice faltering as guilt and fear intertwined in her chest.
"These visits of yours must come to an end." he said, his tone steady but tinged with irritation. "I thought I made myself clear the last time we spoke."
"I just thought that,—..." He sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of impatience.
"Walk with me, one more time, my lady."
Without waiting for a response, he glanced over his shoulder at the knight trailing behind her. "Ser Criston, remain here."
Criston Cole bowed stiffly. "As you command, my prince."
Aenys turned on his heel, his steps purposeful as he strode through the corridor.
Alicent hesitated for a moment before following, her slippered feet barely able to keep pace with his longer strides. The air between them crackled with an unspoken tension, her unease amplifying with every step.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried a sharpness that sliced through the quiet. "Do you have no aspirations of your own, Lady Alicent? Or is it your sole ambition to follow your father's commands like a hound chasing scraps?" The accusation struck her like a blow, and she stopped in her tracks, her composure cracking as her trembling hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Don't call me that!" she snapped unknowingly, her voice rising before she could stop herself.
He paused, turning to look back at her with a faint smirk that seemed to mock her defiance. "Oh? And why shouldn't I? Is it not how you behave? Trotting after your father's whims, with no thought for yourself or what you desire?"
"You,—…" she began, but her words faltered under the weight of his piercing gaze.
"What?" he pressed, his tone laced with cruel amusement. "Speak plainly, woman. Or has my bluntness robbed you of your tongue? I tire of repeating myself, only to have my words ignored. Do you meet with me seeking excuses for your defiance, or are you so bold as to think you can sway me into permitting this farce to continue?"
Her composure shattered further, and her voice trembled as she finally managed to respond. "No,— I…"
His smirk faded, replaced by a colder, more calculating expression. "Ah, so you cannot even muster a response. What a pity. I've always found your voice pleasant enough, yet now it seems fear has silenced it. Or perhaps..." he added, his tone softening into something almost cruelly teasing, "... it is I who frightens you."
"I… need help, my prince." she whispered, her words barely audible, but they hung in the air between them like a confession.
His head tilted slightly, intrigue flickering in his violet eyes. "Oh, so the doll does speak. Tell me, then. Why do you need my help?"
"I don't want to do this." she admitted, her voice trembling. "But my father… I cannot think of even defying him. I don't have the strength to face what would come my way if I did."
Aenys hummed thoughtfully, his gaze drifting to the balcony ahead as the faint flicker of movement caught his attention,— a shadowy tail slipping out of view far away.
Without a word, he resumed walking, and Alicent was forced to follow. "Do you even know what it is you wish of me, little doll?" he asked, his tone deceptively light.
"I… confess that I am not sure" she murmured, helplessly. "Gods, I don't even know how I am speaking of this to you, my prince..."
"You are Rhaenyra's friend, are you not?" he inquired, his voice carrying a sharper edge, as if an idea had entered his mind suddenly.
"I like to think so." she replied hesitantly.
"Then why not seek her aid?" he asked, his tone turning almost mocking. "Surely my niece, fiery and willful as she is, would do anything for her dearest friend. Perhaps even enough to expose your father's schemes for what they are."
"I'm... afraid." Alicent admitted softly.
"Afraid of what?" He questioned, a knowing look on his eyes. "Of losing her friendship. If she knew… if Rhaenyra discovered I've tried to seduce her father, she would hate me. She would never forgive me." she said, her voice breaking as tears threatened to spill.
And Aenys sighed heavily, his patience clearly waning. "Hate you? Don't be absurd. Do you truly believe Rhaenyra, her heart brimming with love for her only friend, would cast you aside over something so orchestrated by your father? Foolishness, is what I say about that."
"Wouldn't she?! You don't understand,—..."
"Enough!" he snapped, his voice cutting through her protest. "Your fretting tires me, little doll." They stepped onto the balcony, the cool night air brushing against their skin.
Aenys turned sharply, his fingers catching her chin with surprising gentleness, forcing her to meet his gaze, their faces closer than ever before.
Above them, suddenly, Cannibal roared, his massive shadow blotting out the moonlight as he swept low over the Keep.
The force of his wings sent Alicent's hair whipping wildly, her fear etched clearly across her face. "Listen closely, Alicent Hightower." Aenys said, his voice dropping to a cold, measured tone. "I have little patience for meddling in my family's affairs, yet I see the strings that bind you, and I'll not punish you for what isn't your fault."
"Then,—..." she began, but he cut her off.
"However, you will no longer visit my brother under any pretense. I care not what orders your father gives you, you will refuse them all. And should you fail to heed my words, I will act. Is that understood?"
"Yes, my prince." she whispered, her voice trembling like the fragile strings of a harp caught in the wind.
Yet, beneath the quiver of her words lay a subtle undertone,— something elusive, something Aenys couldn't quite name. It lingered there, faint but undeniable, tugging at the edges of his perception like a shadow just out of reach.
His fingers slipped from her chin with deliberate ease, and he stepped back, his posture commanding as he straightened to his full height. "Good!" he said, his tone clipped, decisive, the faintest trace of weariness laced beneath his authority. "Now, off you go. I've no more time to waste teaching you the art of defiance."
Aenys turned sharply, his tone brisk and edged with authority as he addressed the nearest guard. "Ser, see Lady Alicent to her chambers. She's feeling rather... tired tonight." The faint pause before his words carried an air of quiet finality, the kind that brooked no argument. The guard inclined his head in a swift bow. "At once, my prince."
Alicent cast one fleeting glance back, her expression a mix of relief and something unspoken, before the guard ushered her away into the torchlit corridors.
Left alone on the balcony, Aenys remained still, his hands resting on the cold stone railing as his eyes swept across the horizon.
The distant roar of Cannibal pierced the night, reverberating through the cliffs and city like a primal oath,— a promise of fire and destruction for any who dared test the will of his master.
It was a sound that lingered, much like Aenys himself, ever-watchful and unyielding against the vast expanse of the encroaching dark.
And thus, Cannibal returned once again to his sole bonded, having rested enough on the mount of Dragonstone for the last two days.
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| Fire & Blood |
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