Bab 27: The Black Wedding
It was in front of the Tree of Crowns where we were made husband and wife before the eyes of the Seven and the Golden Company.
Septon Luceon was the one to say the sermon and was de-facto the highest ranking septon in service to the army. He was a stout man with a monk haircut and gained renown by shouting his reverence to the Warrior as he charged headfirst into battle with a mace engraved with holy scripture. I had wanted Septa Lemore to stand where he stood, but it wasn't considered proper for a woman to perform this function when a septon was available. I was forced to concede so we stood before the giant tree atop the hill standing in solemn pride with its bark bleached white as bone. Hanging from its leafless branches that jotted out like cruel grasping hands were nine iron crowns – one for each member of the Ninepenny Kings of Maelys Blackfyre.
In a strange fusion of Northern and Andal marriage customs, the Septon stood behind a makeshift lectern with a thick tome engraved with gold. At the bottom of the hill stood Jon Connington in a fine doublet quartered with combatant griffins and standing beside him was the homely but smiling Myles Blackheart. The captain whispered something into Connington's ear and made him smile for just a moment before Griff's usual solemnness reappeared. Ser Rolly Duck was in a handsome green doublet and standing beside him was Doreah in a beautiful blue dress. One needed several witnesses to state the marriage was legit and there were witnesses aplenty. Alongside those that I was close to, there were magisters and archons, prince-admirals and merchant princes, but most importantly were the Golden Company officers. Lady Lynesse Hightower had a front row seat, holding the arm of her lover with a practised smile, and beside her was Illyrio Mopatis in robes of red and orange silk with sparkling jewels visible from a distance.
I wasn't surprised Illyrio ordered the wedding to happen at this moment. It had no doubt to do with the red comet burning so bright it looked like a second sun. The men heralded it a sign that foreshadowed our immediate victory in Westeros and the gods favour. I wasn't one to believe such things and instead cynically knew my backers saw the comet coming in advance, so they ordered the wedding to add symbolic value and boast the Company's spirit.
Before coming to this world, I never imagined I would marry or have a partner at all, let alone a princess and a beautiful one at that. It was a political union, but you wouldn't have thought that when we were alone and laughing together. She was young as well. Only a year younger than I, but still a teenager who was small for her age which made Daenerys look younger still. I took a deep breath and the septon gave me a reassuring smile as if to say this wouldn't be so bad. I knew it wouldn't. Me and Daenerys were friends and that was better than anything you could truly hope for considering the circumstances.
Daenerys Targaryen was brought forth in a shaded palanquin escorted by several knights in polished armour and leading the way was Ser Jon Hawkwood with his stern face and watchful eyes. The knight was perhaps overzealous, and a little ahead of his time regarding security. The books had proven weddings were dangerous affairs, but we were hopefully before that point. Less than three deaths are considered a dull affair in Dothraki culture, I remembered. No doubt they'd consider the Red Wedding among the most exhilarating.
The palanquin lowered at the foot of the hill and Ser Jon helped Daenerys out where she smoothed out her skirts. Some musicians were playing a Myrish love song in the tongue of Old Valyria, but I wasn't listening to them and instead stared at Daenerys garbed in the same ivory dress she wore when I was made a knight. Ser Aegon I was now, but I didn't believe my newly made title made me look any worthier in her eyes.
Against Lemore's wishes, Daenerys had forgone her long wig and let everyone see the silver-gold fuzz atop her head. From the muttering it was clear a few were surprised by her decision. But even with that, there was no doubt about her. She put every other woman to shame (I say, completely unbiased). Despite not coming to full bloom and cuter than outright beautiful, it was clear Daenerys would indeed be a queen the singers would sing about. She had unblemished skin, gentle purple eyes that could trap you, a cute pert nose, and shapely lips that smiled bashfully. Atop her head she wore her mother's crown that just made her look queenlier and, from the sounds of the crowd, they knew she was the queen as well.
The most beautiful woman in the world and not even yet grown. I felt strangely uneasy by the thought.
The ceremony passed like a dream from that point on. A dream I felt like I could wake up from any moment and curse myself afterwards. There were prayers and vows and singing as could be expected in any Westerosi wedding under the roof of a sept before the statues of the Mother and Father. I only wondered how Dany felt as she stood facing me with a face that hid her innermost thoughts. Was she worried? Frightened? Was she thinking about running away like those many crappy rom-coms and spend her life with some dashing sellsword? I was nervous and prayed it didn't show. I did my best to show a brave face – my own lord's face – even whilst my hands became clammy, and my throat become so parched I'd trouble speaking when needing to. I needed a drink. Something strong, not simply water.
After Septon Luceon spoke the sermon for each of the seven aspects, a wedding song was sung and when the challenge for those who denied the marriage went unanswered, he declared it was time for the changing of the cloaks. Because Daenerys had no family member to take her Targaryen cloak, it was Ser Jon Connington who'd been given that honour as her regent. When the man's hands fumbled with the clasp of her cloak with the red dragon emblazoned on the back, Daenerys stood stiff as a lance and it was then I could see she was as tense as myself. I comforted her with a little smile and Dany awkwardly returned it. She had such a sweet smile and dimpled whenever she did so. Being a showman, Connington didn't sweep off her cloak with a flourish but instead let it drop unceremoniously to the ground before returning to his spot. Not one for ceremonies that man.
Now it was my turn.
The cloak in my hands was heavy velvet, embroidered with the large black three-headed-dragon of House Blackfyre spraying black flames. Standing taller than Daenerys, it wasn't the joke that was Tyrion's wedding with Sansa, but for me, it certainly felt like it in that moment. My hands were sweating and almost out of spite, had become clumsy. But I performed my duties as gallantly as I could, as both a show to the audience and my new wife. I swept it over her shoulders and laid a tender kiss on her cheek as I leaned over and fastened the clasp. You are under my protection now, that I vow before them all.
Pulling away, I discovered Daenerys' cheeks were a startling pink. I took her soft hands in my calloused ones and forgot what I needed to do next. Thankfully, it was Daenerys who went first, "With this kiss I pledge my love and take you as my lord and husband."
"With this kiss I pledge my love and take you as my queen and wife."
We leaned forward and our lips touched. Hers was gentle and light. Mine awkward and more inept than usual with everyone's eyes upon us. Daenerys didn't seem perturbed though. It began as a minor peck and hesitant, but gradually our mouths pressed more firmly against one another, her tongue teasing my closed lips that gradually opened for her. It wasn't like that time when she sprang upon me after her brother died when she was so desperate for contact and affection. At that moment I didn't recall feeling my body warming with unfamiliar energy sizzling and sparkling just under the skin, the warmth that filled my belly that shifted and turned, changing and morphing into something else that spread to my fingers and toes. Her fingers joined with mine, intertwining and tightening.
I didn't know how long we were kissing but when she pulled away, my eyes fluttered open. My lungs had begun to burn with need of air and her lips were still near brushing mine. "How was it?" were her words, so quiet I strained to hear.
I found myself smiling. My head was in the clouds, only thinking about the girl before me, her smooth skin, her soft lips, her gentle eyes and gentler hands, the smell of her perfume and the redness of her cheeks. "Perfect."
The Warrior Septon rose his crystal up high and with a booming voice declared, "Here in the sight of gods and men of all faiths and peoples, I do solemnly proclaim Ser Aegon of House Blackfyre and Princess Daenerys of House Targaryen to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."
If anyone does, I'll gut them myself.
...
It was nighttime when we feasted on the outskirts of the encampment. Amidst the clamour of cups and howls of sellswords, the surrounding campfires kept the darkness at bay, with the soft glow turning the world orange and giving the camp a comforting and festive aura. The nobles of the Golden Company, sons and daughters of exiled lords, wealthy merchants and Essosi politicians sat before us in the salt while only those of the highest standing sat at the high table. This was a feast of both Essos and Westeros, where the tastes of two worlds collided in an orgy of different flavours.
Six monstrously huge aurochs had been roasting since the early morning, turned slowly on long spits as cooks' boys basted them with spices and herbs until the meat crackled and split. Tables and benches had been erected beneath long tents providing shade from the hot afternoon sun, and piled high on platters were sweetgrass and pastries, fresh-baked bread and a wide variety of meats. Around us they were shouting our names: "Prince Aegon," they cried, "the Black Knight! The Black Dragon of the East!" To Daenerys they cried, "Queen Daenerys the Mother of Dragons. A beauty, a beauty. The Queen of Love and Beauty."
"You do both look like royalty," Lynesse Hightower said as she took a seat to Daenerys' left – the chair that'd been left open for various guests to come and go. It was no great surprise Lynesse would be among the first. She looked beautiful in a cloth-of-gold gown with golden Myrish lace and her golden hair tied in a golden net. She looked positively golden. "I must congratulate you both on the crowning and wedding ceremony. Though I must confess the former cannot compare to this."
"The crowning was only a simple affair," I admitted. A small ceremony and nothing grand. But Daenerys being queen would look better once we finally land in Westeros. "Once we take King's Landing, we plan for Daenerys to have another crowning and be anointed by the High Septon himself."
"A wise decision. I do think this will turn out well, Your Graces. If I remember correctly, the second Daenerys Targaryen was besotted with Daemon Blackfyre, and him with her. Just as you looked to be when you were made husband and wife. Mayhaps the union of the black dragon with the red was always meant to be."
Daenerys blushed prettily and I allowed myself a smile. "Fitting don't you think, my lady?"
"Very much so." Hightower signalled a server forward for a glass of Arbor Gold and took a delicate sip. "And with dragons as well. Seems the gods are indeed on your side in this bout against the Lannisters. Though I do think it should have been three dragons over the four, but I'm not going to encourage you to remove one for the sake of truly emulating the Conqueror."
"I thank you for the kind words, Lady Lynesse," Daenerys said politely. "Pray, tell me, are you taking your leave after this wedding?"
"Indeed. We both seek to return to Lys. It will fortunately be straight after the festivities. Don't take it the wrong way. I have simply had enough of smelly army camps. My Tregar's manse is much more comfortable with its halls of white marble veined with gold, fragrance from the straits of Qarth and cushions stuffed with the softest feathers. Mayhaps you desire to come visit one day. My love will be all the willing to host the king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms when they finally sit the Iron Throne."
"That sounds most reasonable, Lady Hightower," I bowed my head slightly. "We might accept the invitation in due time. I for one seek closer relations to the cities of the Triarchy both politically and economically. No doubt there are many in Essos who would be interested in certain privileges within the Seven Kingdoms."
"I'm sure we can come to some arrangement with that," she smiled mildly, not giving me a hint of her true thoughts.
"I'm sure we can, and I know you can provide insight when it comes to dealings with our two states. It seems to me you do love Lys. Though if I remember correctly, you were married to Ser Jorah Mormont." Ser Jorah the Neckbeard.
"The late exiled lord of Bear Island." Lynesse didn't look happy with mention of his name. "A rebel and assassin I heard. A terrible traitor. A kingslayer who slew your brother in the streets, Your Grace. I cannot deny I was married to him and was his second wife."
"I heard from Ser Jorah he was first married to a Glover, though I can't remember her name. He said he fell in love with you at the Tourney of Lannisport. He asked for your favour and upon gaining it he defeated all challengers."
"That story is true. It was the first time a knight ever asked for my favour. I was young then and upon Ser Jorah asking my father for my hand, Lord Leyton Hightower accepted because he desired to make alliances and forge trade links with the North which is most unaccommodating to outsiders. It wasn't a happy marriage. On our wedding night I had wept. He believed it was me losing my maidenhead. It was because his hands were rough. I was fourteen, no older than you. It didn't get any better. When we were sailing north, Mormont regaled me with stories of his home, but they couldn't be farther from the truth. Bear Island is a harsh land, its people and lands cold and savage. His so-called castle was nothing more than a wooden longhouse built atop a hill with a palisade circling it. The foods were as bland as the people. As soon as you taste stew mutton and fish, you've experienced all the dishes that exist on Bear Island. Instead of wine, there was this ale that was so thick it makes your eyes burn. The people who live there didn't even attempt to treat me with respect. They saw me as an outsider and made it most known I had no place there. I'd never been treated with such disrespect."
"That is unfortunate, Lady Hightower," Daenerys said softly. "Though it seems you are happier now. I can only assume Lys is treating you kindly."
"Much so," Lynesse smiled from where her face had been a frown. "My Tregar treats me most gently. While my lord father and kin in Oldtown will no doubt look down upon me, I have discovered I have a higher degree of freedom here. I've found the Free Cities are much more liberating than being a lady of Westeros, and the men are much less concerned with their honour."
"I pray your lover and Lys continue treating you well. But concerning Oldtown, can you confirm we'll have their support?" Daenerys asked with much caution in her voice.
"I cannot make any promises," the Lady Hightower replied. "My father hasn't left the tower in many a year and my brother, well, we have not seen eye to eye since I arrived at Lys and been living under the roof of a man who is not my late husband. I will do my best to ensure they won't raise swords against you. I know what happened when Khal Drogo stood against Aegon and I do not desire the same thing to happen to House Hightower. You can count on me to ensure ten thousand swords won't be marching with the Tyrells if the Reach does ride against you."
"You think they will?"
"I cannot be certain, nor will I deny Lord Tyrell is an ambitious man. He is smarter than he looks, and he looks like a fool. He will laugh at your jests and praise your actions but will be watching for any sign of weakness. Despite not having the foresight of Prince Doran Martell nor the ruthlessness of Lord Tywin Lannister, he is an opportunist and does have a sort of low cunning akin to that of a rodent. He is a master of survival and little else, and not to mention hopelessly self-important despite coming from a family of lowly stewards."
"I do not understand," Daenerys began. "He was loyal to my father. He fought for him and his bannerman defeated the Usurper at Ashford."
"During the Usurper's Rebellion he had laid siege to Storm's End with a host fifty thousand strong. I may not have been educated in warcraft as my brothers were, but I know you don't need a host that vast to lay siege to a castle with a garrison of a few hundred. He was waiting for whoever won the Battle of the Trident just like Lord Tywin. He could have provided more men and support but what would that get him? If Prince Rhaegar won the battle, Lord Mace could proclaim himself a loyal supporter and storm Storm's End or just wait it out and gain riches and titles without raising his fat fingers. If Robert won which he did, Mace can strike down his banners and bend the knee with favourable terms which he surely got because Robert Baratheon is like that." She stroked Daenerys' tiny hand. "Just remember, my little dragons, who helped put you on your throne. House Hightower has always been loyal to the Targaryens."
Lynesse left than and Daenerys turned to me, a flicker of uncertainty crossed her comely face. "Does she speak truly?"
"She's not wrong," I admitted. Not in the slightest. I did think Mace the Ace was under looked in that way. While people saw him as a buffoon who fancied himself a master general and cunning politician – with much of his achievements being down to his mother and bannermen – he wasn't a complete idiot. "He's like many lords in that regard. They will make sure they don't lose so rarely will they fully commit to one side. You'll see many houses, both in the future and the past, have members of their family join both sides of a conflict to ensure they have the support of the winner."
"I'll remember that."
Many others came and took a seat to Daenerys' left and spoke of things important or completely trivial. All wished us the best for Westeros and our marriage. Throughout the camp, many celebrated as only sellswords could, which involved arguing and more than a few fistfights and not even ones sanctioned for entertainment. A cupbearer rushed forward to pour a flagon of dark Arbor red into our silver wedding chalice that was gifted to us from the Myrish Magistrate while guests presented their wedding gifts. But from the flask we did not drink. Instead I stood up, rose a slender glass cup and declared, "To my wife, the true queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"
"To Queen Daenerys!" the camp shouted back at me, "To Daenerys! Daenerys! The Mother of Dragons!" A thousand cups rang together, and the wedding celebrations were alive and well. Not everyone was drinking though. While most drank their fill and demanded evermore, with the river of alcohol never drying up, some of the more vigilant stood in full armour and never accepted so much as a sip. Ser Duck stood behind Daenerys, eyes surveying the camp while dressed in full mail as if that would stop the most likely assassination attempt: poisoning. Dalabhar stood behind me, in full legionary kit and crested horsehair helm. To ward off poisoning, I'd a cup of Myrish glass that was supposedly enchanted to shatter should it make contact with poison but on the off chance that didn't work, both me and Daenerys had food tasters and Haldon had antidotes at the ready. There were even guardsmen watching the cooks and were accompanied alongside specially trained sniffer dogs. Even the Faceless Men would have difficulty breaking through these defences if Illyrio was to be believed.
The wedding had seven dishes and the first was a creamy broth of crab and prawns, monkfish and saffron, with cold egg lime soup, buttered snails, fish eggs and a small dish of fermented fish sauce which was a Lysene delicacy called garum. I tasted the soup, congratulated the head chief and scarcely took another bite. For wine there was plenty and was accompanied by near as much entertainment. It seemed Daenerys was drunk and giddy from the festivities if not the alcohol. Just like me, she hadn't eaten much.
"Not hungry, my queen?" I asked with some concern.
She smiled shyly before whispering, "I'm a little nervous. There is much food to come and my tummy is only tiny."
I couldn't help but softly chuckle. Dany was adorable. "You should try something else the guests may get the wrong idea. Here." I scooped out the snail from its garlicky shell and offered her the piece. She accepted and I leaned over to kiss her lightly on the cheek.
That, as it turned out, caused a pattern between us. As dishes came and went, we fed each other choice morsels off the other's plate and shared wine from a single cup between kissing often and unpredictably. I did my duty as a husband and, as a show of gallantry, served Daenerys myself. While the first course was only light, the next was a thicker soup of barley and venison, with salads of sweetgrass and spinach, mushrooms bathed in molten cheese and butter, salads sprinkled with crushed nuts, and trout fished up from the local river. Quails, a saddle of lamb, goose livers drowned in wine, buttered parsnips and a suckling pig glistening with honey and with an apple stuck in its mouth. There were further snails and honeyed locusts, sickly sweat beet soup from Volantis that was as rich and thick as purple honey, Arbor wine and more exotic vintages from the far eastern lands of Qarth and Yi Ti. There was thick porridge and roasted sausages, animals stuffed inside animals such as the four-bird roast where a deboned chicken was stuffed into a deboned duck stuffed into a pheasant, which in turn was stuffed inside a turkey, and yes, turkeys did exist in Westeros.
Singers sang throughout the camp but only the finest were permitted near the dais. The current singer, Collio Quaynis, was Tyroshi and sang in an accent so thick I'd difficulty understanding him in the common tongue, never mind when he sang in High Valyrian. Other singers came and went. One all in red told a ballad about the Doom of Valyria, one dark-haired chap about Daemon Blackfyre fighting for the love of Princess Daenerys while another sang a love song of two lost lovers. When a young and handsome singer sang of the story of Queen Daenaera Velaryon trying to melt the cold heart of King Aegon the Third, Daenerys was teary-eyed by the end and no doubt the singer would have his weight in silver when this night was done. Other singers followed to sing songs to impress me and Daenerys while others performed to the Golden Company who loved songs of their exploits, and the elites of the Free Cities who would generously shower rewards on artisans who impressed them.
One young singer called Moreo the Harper had made up his own song and his slender fingers moved across the high harp expertly, filling the world with a sweet sound. "From the east, the black dragon comes. Rising his sword up high to smite the evil khal's throat . . ." Moreo began, and went about my exploits in Essos, detailing in exquisite detail on how cunning and brave and wise I was, how I was such a great leader of men and sang how instead of killing a ko, it was Khal Drogo I fought against. How I formed the Triarchy not by manipulating their democracies and pushing them into a political and economic union, but instead conquering each city to throw down the corrupt oligarchies and installing true honest statesmen in their place. There was also a verse about the Maiden coming down from the heavens and bestowing me the Seven's power and the sword of kings itself, but I had grown annoyed by then. When Moreo finished, I smiled and clapped and gave him his dues despite loathing the many creative liberties. Propaganda was always good, but not when it came off as unbelievable.
I listened with only a single ear as I made small talk with Arya who looked cute with flowers in her hair, between discussions with those coming up to sit at Daenerys' side including Septa Lemore who praised me for my chivalry, Haldon for my wit, and Connington who said I was acting a king. No doubt Jon would see me as kinglier if I was indeed Aegon Targaryen and not some pretender that made him lose everything for a lie.
When Jon Connington left our side, a small and elderly bear was brought forth and danced clumsily to pipe and drum. The crowd cheered and laughed then howled in disappointment when I ordered the man stop after he whacked the poor creature with a lash. I would see the man receive the same treatment after the festivities. A juggler jumped atop the table and spiralled burning clubs through the air while a bunch of fools in motley formed a human ladder. Another fool, this one from Volantis, made japes (half of which were about his member) that I didn't find the slightest bit amusing, but everyone else was coughing with laughter.
The wedding guests feasted on roast herons and pies while a troupe of Pentoshi tumblers performed cartwheels and handstands, balanced platters on their bare feet and stood upon each other's shoulders to form a pyramid with a naked little girl standing on the very top with a wig of white hair. I didn't watch, instead chatter with Daenerys who watched with wide eyes while I sampled roasted fowl and crabs flavoured with eastern spices. When the tumblers went, the wrestlers came forward and tables were pushed out the way to give them more space.
Something the Golden Company had inherited from its stay in Essos was an impressive repertoire of martial arts and various other combat sports as it assimilated the best martial traditions of wherever it fought. Eventually these were merged into what the Company called "close-quarters-combat" which was effectively mixed-martial-arts (though with much less regulations) and competitions became as popular among the Golden Company as jousts and melee were in Westeros. Here, knights and officers and common legionaries grappled and struggled and fought, each trying to get their opponent to concede which, because the men could get stupidly stubborn, caused a few near fatal injuries. Qarro fought and won his first round before being beaten into submission by a giant built of more fat than muscle. Prominent fighters included Ser Caspor Hill, Malo Jayn, Torman Peake, Humfrey Stone and Black Balaq, but it was Ser Franklyn Flowers who won in the final in a close round against the massive Chains and losing a few teeth in the process. That was the highlight of the entertainment, and not only because I made a few golden dragons by wagering. But, unfortunately, it couldn't continue because when the aftermath was cleaned and Flowers loudly proclaimed he'd get himself some golden teeth, the next entertainment was brought forth as were peacocks served in their plumage, roasted whole and stuffed with dates and nuts, bowls of blandissory, a mixture of beef broth and boiled wine sweetened with honey and dotted with blanched almonds and chunks of capons. Making their entrance were strolling pipers and performing animals and sword swallowers, with buttered peas, chopped nuts and slivers of swan with saffron and peaches. Two men fought a mock battle performed as a dance as skewers of sausage were brought still sizzling to the tables.
The last of the acts was jousting, and they came riding forward with painted shields and stripped lances. A wave of drunken laughter followed the pair as they cantered before the high table atop clumsy mounts. And unorthodox mounts they were. The jousters were a pair of dwarfs. One mounted atop an ugly grey dog, long of limb and heavy of jaw, while the other rode an immense spotted sow I'm surprised the cooks didn't take for one destined for the feast. Their armour was painted wood that clattered and clacked as the little knights bounced up and down, and they lacked saddles so one could imagine how hard it was to remain upright. The one on the dog was painted black and red with a roaring and crudely painted dragon on the shield while the false knight on the pig was all in gold with a stag emblazoned on his own.
I frowned, though everyone else was laughing and spilling wine. Harry Strickland – who was drunk – was red and breathless while Tregar Ormollen was hooting and his paramour chuckled politely like a true castle bred lady. Myles Toyne looked amused but Connington looked like someone had spat in his coffee. I glanced over at Daenerys who was smiling, but hers was faint and forced.
Both attempted to give a salute but the dwarf in Baratheon colours dropped his lance with a loud clank. As he leaned over to grab it, the jouster lost control of his mount, fell and was run over by the pig which squalled and shat everywhere as it went around in circles, hemmed in by the guests who laughed all the louder. When the other rode to his companion's aid, he 'accidentally' dropped his lance on the stag's antlered head. That elicited more laughter, and even more when the stag picked up the lance and pushed the dragon knight off, so they were both on the ground and soon in a great tangle of wood and limbs. When finally rising after cursing each other with muffled voices, they both attempted to mount the dog where much shouting and shoving followed. I wasn't amused and wished I was anywhere else. The whole thing was embarrassing to watch. When both fake knights finally mounted up, one sellsword came forward and kicked the stag off the dog to the roars of the audience and the man went back to his bench grinning like an idiot.
It took some time to mount up again and then began the so-called joust. They spurred to opposite ends, wheeled about for the tilt while the guests guffawed and laughed, chuckled and howled. Vaquo was breathless and beside him, Lyra's face was curled into a sinister smile. It got deafening when the little men came together with a crash and a clatter, the dragon's lance struck the helm of the stag and knocking the head clean off. The head spun through the air, nearly striking Haldon but instead landing in his soup and splashing the contents all over his face. You can be certain he wasn't entertained by that. The headless dwarf fell off his mount, flailing his arms and collided with everything as he scampered around in circles.
Illyrio Mopatis was roaring two chairs across, his chins and gut rolling with every throaty laugh, so hard I wondered if his heart would burst. But where everyone else was having a jolly good time, I leaned back into my chair, ignoring the dull pain from the still sore wounds, and drummed the table impatiently. The stag pulled his head from out his armour, did a little dance and went to climb the mount for another joust only for the dog to throw the rider to the floor and climb atop the table to get at the food. The huge sow squealed as did the wedding guests when the stag dwarf grappled the dragon only for the latter to pull down his breeches to bring out an obscenely massive leather member and pump away frantically at the others nethers.
"I yield, I yield," cried the stag at the bottom. "Good ser, good ser, this is your victory. I am at your mercy so please put up your sword!"
"I would, I would, when you stop moving the sheath!" the dwarf on the top replied to the merriment of the wedding guests.
"Your Grace," Illyrio called me. His face was red and beads of sweat ran down his forehead from where he'd been stuffing himself with spicy and cloyingly sweet food. He also smelled like he'd pissed himself beneath his choking perfumes. "Are you not entertained? I brought these two straight from Westeros. They had entertained for the Sealord of Braavos and came with high praise."
Daenerys' spine was stiff, and she looked like she'd rather not be here. I sympathised. "The act is sweet and silly, but . . ."
"Frankly, I'm not that amused by their comedy," I said much more bluntly. "I do not find the capering of fools to have a place during such celebrations. What I had just seen is perverse and idiotic." Not worthy of a lowly tavern, let alone a royal wedding. Perhaps it was traditional elitism, but I'd expected something more highbrow and cultured. The jousters are not to blame though. They are merely providing a service they know others will pay for. Supply and demand. When they are done, we will commend them and pay them well and that'll be the end of it.
"Egg," Daenerys scolded me. "That is rude. Your father—"
"It is fine," Illyrio interrupted her and all the warmth had been stripped from his face. "I heard from a friend that humour is subjective, that some are more sober and serious than others. I only thought that my son—"
"It is fine," I allowed, draining my wine cup halfway and ordering a refill. "I'm only tired, father. It has been a long day and I am growing tired. Pray forgive my callousness. It was unworthy of me."
...
Thankfully the feast came to an end as had the so-called entertainment but what laid next was the bedding ceremony which I dreaded, if not for myself than for Daenerys who seemed to know what was coming and had grown increasingly anxious with every passing moment. It was a barbaric practise where both bride and groom were stripped of their clothes and carried to their bedchamber – or tent in this case – and guests would be on the other side shouting drunken suggestions.
Beside me, Daenerys was staring at some fruit tarts. She wasn't eating any, instead moving them around the plate. "Are you well, Your Grace?"
"Me?" Dany's face was flushed from the wine and her eyes were slightly glazed over. She smiled. "I'm well, Egg, only tired."
"I was only wondering. You don't look happy. I hear it's a bad omen when a bride isn't smiling on her wedding." Which was strange when you make note of all the arranged marriages in Westeros. No wonder so many bad things happened if such superstitions were true. "I don't want you to worry or be upset or—"
"You are sweet. I'm worried about the dragons. They are on their own and I don't like leaving them. You understand?"
"Completely." I leaned in closed so my lips were nearly touching her ears. "Daenerys, no doubt they'll expect a bedding ceremony. I'm going to refuse. Just so you know."
"Refuse? But why?"
Because it's barbaric, improper, perverse. It's complete degeneracy. There are many reasons and fuck Westerosi customs. "Do you want them to tear those clothes off you after they've been draining their cups?" Her face quickly grew to one of understanding. No doubt it's an easy excuse to molest you. The fact she was only fourteen filled me with disgust.
It didn't take long for Illyrio to stand and lift his cup up high where everyone grew quiet. They knew. "I for one want to congratulate my boy for finally taking and wedding the dragon. A fine creature she is, a fine nubile and no doubt fertile creature." He laughed with everyone else. "But it is late, and the wedding has dragged on. It is now time for one of the finest of Westerosi customs, the bedding ceremony! It is time to bed them!"
The men thumped their cups against the tables and loudly took up the cry: "Bed them! Bed Them! Strip them of their silks and bed them!"
"There will be no bedding ceremony," was my hard response. The crowd didn't seem to hear.
"You should," Illyrio argued, "You will. Listen to them, Aegon. The men demand it!"
"The men can demand and demand all they want, but they're not getting it," I growled, standing up. That made a few go silent and watch me. It must have been the wine that had given me courage. I had never drunk alcohol before this life and only sparingly after. Intoxication must have had a greater effect on me for this wedding was the only time I'd allowed myself a taste of this world's vintages. "If anyone is brave enough to come up and touch her, go ahead, I'll see them lose a hand."
That had silenced them. Illyrio looked at me with surprise and a few murmurs went through the audience that sounded like I'd stolen their favourite toy. I didn't want to imagine how many of those drunks were looking forward to stripping Daenerys of her garbs and play the molesting game. "I . . . I believe we can dispense with the bedding. I hope you didn't intend to threaten anyone during the wedding."
"Why threaten?" I asked loudly. "I do not intend to threaten anyone, father, only provide them a warning of what may happen should they step out of line. I'm a prince, now – right?"
A burst of laughter came from Dalabhar's lips and Haldon snickered. Rolly smiled and Connington leaned forward, his face as red as his surcoat but there was a slight smile as if to add support. Lemore nodded.
I span around to Daenerys who was still in her chair, and I offered a hand. "Lady wife, may you be willing to follow? We have a marriage to consummate and I for one look forward to such a thing." Reluctantly she accepted and I helped her to her feet. Thankfully none of the guests followed. Our walking was slow as we went through the camp, past soldiers looking up from their cups to cheer and shout various suggestions for taming the dragoness.
Our bedchambers was an airy tent of white canvas with the red Targaryen dragon emblazoned on the flap. The pavilion was impressive, almost as large as a house and furnished to every comfort. There was a feather mattress and sleeping furs, wicker mats and trunks of oak and polished bronze. A copper tub, leather chairs with cushions and a writing table messy with parchments and quills. On a table was a bowl of peaches, lemons, apples, cherries, plums and pears, with a choice selection of wines. In the corner was a harp, dresses and a scratched-up bed where four dragons were curled around each other. All had been given to Daenerys by my father who saw fit to spoil my barely legal wife and myself, though I didn't see the need for needless extravagance and instead kept to more humble accommodations. I wanted the respect of the men who will fight and die for me, and besides, much of what I'd been given wasn't practical and had no place during a campaign.
But this is expected to be my tent now, not only Daenerys'. We need to be a united front.
Someone had left a cup of Arbor Gold to the side, with a bowl of strawberries and rich cream. I had no hunger, but I did take a cup and turned to Daenerys who only sat on the edge of the plush bed to stare down at her feet. "Do you want some wine?"
She only shook her head. "Do you think that is wise, husband?"
Husband. I laughed. "Mayhaps not, wife. But I mean to be drunk it seems. There is a first thing for anything so why not have this night be when I jump into the abyss and explore all life has to offer?" I will need to be drunk to consummate this marriage . . .
"No doubt it is a very fine vintage, but I have no thirst. I have drunk enough this night and my mind is cloudy. Would you help me undress, my prince?"
"I suppose I am a prince now. Prince consort of the rightful queen regnant. I am still a Blackfyre though. Prince Aegon Blackfyre." I chuckled softly and pressed the cold glass against my forehead, feeling my skull begin to pound. The wine was stronger than expected but perhaps it was me being a novice. "I will help undress you . . . of course . . . to some extent."
Daenerys stood before the mirror and I wasn't as graceful as I could have been. Perhaps it was the wine, maybe the nerves, but my hands were clumsy, and the tips numb. I also didn't know how to undo all the laces that formed the intricate network that was an Essosi dress. "Mayhaps letting the guests undress us would have made this easier," Daenerys mused aloud. "Most certainly quicker."
I laughed. "My queen may have a point there." Do what a good Brit does and perform your duty. Lay back and think of England. Soon the dress was gone, and Daenerys was left in her smallclothes of simple linen. She was petite of build, slender and delicate with a small chest. My thoughts were clear in that moment. "You are a child."
"I am flowered."
"A child," I repeated before pinching the bridge of my nose and let out a sound that sounded half a groan and half a curse.
"Should I remove my smallclothes?"
I shook my head. My mind had a hundred different thoughts rushing through it. "No. Just . . . just get in the bed, Daenerys." She gaped at me for a moment but did as I bid. A scented beeswax candle burned on the bedside table and rose petals had been scattered on the sheets. Daenerys pulled the covers to her chin.
Taking a deep breath, I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off my boots. "I'm sure this is not how you expected your wedding night to end and, to be honest, neither had I."
"Who said the night is over?"
I looked over at her beneath the furs with a face expecting me to join her. The more primitive and drunk part of me had half a mind to, the other half was filled with revulsion at those very thoughts. "It is getting late, Daenerys, and after all the festivities I'm tired. I'm not sure about you, but I will let you know this: I will not touch you unless you truly want it to happen." And please say no.
"What if I do want it to happen?"
Fuck. "Then I will perform my duties to my wife, but not tonight. Let's not have the world know that, however . . ." I unsheathed my dirk and threw back the covers. Daenerys, eyes going wide, scooted over.
"Aegon . . . w-what are you doing?"
"Counterfeiting a consummation and providing so-called proof we did lay together. Custom dictates a maiden should bleed to provide proof she has lost her maidenhead." I laughed once more and this time I was certain it was the alcohol and not just nerves. "Athletics and riding horses will also make girls lose their maidenhead, I've heard, and I'm pretty sure you're not meant to bleed should I perform my duties properly. But, regardless, it would be the woman that does this and not the man." I pricked my thumb with the point of the dirk and blood pooled to the tip where I let it drip onto the centre of the mattress. "No one will dare question we consummated this marriage. I shall now take my leave and hopefully the men will think I came and left quickly out of embarrassment."
"You didn't need to do that. We can still perform our duties. I am the last Targaryen and you're the last Blackfyre. The last of our lines." She licked her lips nervously and averted her gaze. "We need to do this. It's our duty. Our duty to our houses and Westeros."
"We do," I conceded grudgingly. "But said duties can wait. You know how old your mother was when she birthed Rhaegar? She was four-and-ten, no older than you are now. House Targaryen has a tradition of marrying young and having the women perform their duties soon as possible. Princess Daella was another such instance. She was the mother of Lady Aemma Arryn who later became the mother to Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful queen during the Dance. She died in the birthing bed. Floris Baratheon was married at fourteen and died of childbirth two years later. It seems they were married and performed their duties too early. At fourteen your body has not fully grown, and I have no desire to put your life in danger. Such things would do no good for either of our houses should you die or whatever child we have be stillborn or you miscarry. Your mother had eight children, but only three survived and you were her last. Are you not telling me her birthing Rhaegar too young, and during Summerhall no less, had no effect on her? That is why I will not consummate this marriage, Daenerys. I cannot risk your health in such a manner."
She opened her mouth but hesitated, leaving a silence between us before she said, "When will you?"
"Four years, maybe two if we're desperate. Not now though. It's too soon." And should you die from childbirth no doubt Illyrio will come up with a list of potential brides before your body's even cold . . . Should such a thing happen, I would never be able to forgive myself. My face flickered and I was about to walk out.
Reaching out to gently touch my arm, Daenerys stopped me. "Don't go, Egg. I know that . . . please stay here. You may not want to, but you could stay and we talk, if it pleases you."
I stared into her eyes for a moment and knew I couldn't refuse. Joining Daenerys on the bed, she closed the distance and pressed her cheek against my shoulder. In return I wrapped an arm around her, pulling Daenerys closer while her legs intertwined with mine. "What is it you want to talk about?"
Daenerys Targaryen shrugged and nestled closer. Her clothes were thin and did little to stop me feeling her warmth. "Tell me a tale, ser husband. Some valour you have performed with a happy ending. Tell me how you escaped the Usurper in King's Landing. You are very secretive about what happened with the Stark girl."
"I'm not secretive about it. Just not much happened. I don't have the skills of storytelling to make wandering aimlessly through a city worthy of song."
"I don't want you to sing it, only tell me what happened. Surely my husband will tell me that. I'll hear about it at some point and would you rather tell me yourself or have a singer tell me. No doubt they'll be a few songs made."
There already are. "If Your Grace desires, I'll regale you with the tale." And I told her of King's Landing, the Great Sept of Blessed Baelor, of the Red Keep and wandering aimlessly through the streets. I didn't go into much detail of the squalor but Daenerys wanted so much to hear about the sights and listened with awe as I described the ruins of the Dragon Pit from a distance, almost getting ambushed by a group of cutthroats and the push to get Arya during Ned's beheading. "And then we tried to find a ship. With Arya in our procession we needed to flee before the Gold Cloaks grew aware. Even if the Spider was on our side, the queen and her loyalists would have eyes and should they find us, you know what would happen. Varys found us a ship, with one coming in from Pentos and belonging to the Pentoshi mercantile alliance Illyrio commands. You know the story from there."
At some point during the telling, Daenerys had rolled off me and onto her side. "Stark was a traitor who met a traitor's end. I know what happened, but he was still a traitor and was involved in the killing of my kin."
"Out of all the traitors, Lord Eddard was the most benign," I said carefully. "When your niece and nephew's bodies were discovered in Lannister cloaks, both he and Robert had an argument and a rift grew between them. He never forgave Robert for that."
"But he still accepted his offer of handship," Daenerys argued, unhappily. "It is clear he forgave the monster. Otherwise he would have remained in the North."
"That was a while ago and they only began repairing relations upon Lyanna Stark's death. He forgave and you might want to follow his example once we finally invade. Don't give me that look. Never forget what they did but let them bend the knee and once Robb becomes the next kneeler, rise him up and offer friendship but keep a wary eye upon him. Keep a wary eye on everyone, including your friends." To make sure the North wouldn't rise again, I'd an idea to build up Moat Cailin but instead of pointing to the south to protect the North, it'll point to the north to protect the south from Northern aggression. A castle to hold the Neck. We can call it the Strangler.
"Easy for you to say. Stark wasn't involved in killing your family. You are quick to forgive. Mayhaps too much. The Starks, even if they are no Lannisters, are still the usurper's dogs. If a child is set upon by a pack of hounds, does it matter which one tears out the babe's throat? All dogs are just as guilty. I'm the last Targaryen, Aegon, I can't afford to simply forgive traitors. They betrayed the crown once, what's to say they don't betray me as soon as I show weakness and they'll think I'm weak because I lack a manhood between my legs."
"They will underestimate you then." I grinned and wrapped an arm around her, drawing Dany close once more. "Should you be merciful and they betray that mercy, they'll regret it. I will make this promise to you. That should they rise up against you, I will put every rebel to the sword. I will tear down their castles, put their holdfasts to the torch and salt the earth so nothing will ever grow again. I will purge their histories so thoroughly no one will remember they ever existed. Those who control the present control the past and those who control the past control the future." I cupped her cheek and thought of Arya Stark, the Wall and a certain Jon Snow. "You know, Daenerys, you may not be the last Targaryen."
She touched my hand on her cheek, a light and gentle touch. "Are you calling yourself a Targaryen now? Did you join my house without me suspecting it?" There was humour in her tone.
"No. Not me. Someone else. Someone still in Westeros. Kin you might be interested in hearing about. There is someone in the North, having joined the Night's Watch who is a Targaryen even if he lacks the family name. A maester. Maester Aemon, the brother of Aegon the Unlikely."
That caught Daenerys' interest. She sat up and stared into my eyes. "Aegon the Unlikely? That's a century ago. A long time ago. The Night's Watch you say? A maester? How have I not heard of him?"
"Maybe because he's simply a maester in the Night's Watch, far to the north on the edge of the civilised world and of little importance to anyone. But he lives."
She smiled. A bright smile that could outshine the sun. "Family . . . we should visit him. We should go to the Wall and see him. He must—we should go before it's too late."
"Someday we will visit the Wall and you can see him and no doubt he'll love to see you especially with the dragons. The dragons were long gone when he was young and to see a dragon now, well . . ."
Daenerys kissed my cheek. We just laid there, intertwined, where she said, "Thank you," before closing her eyes and falling to sleep. She looked so beautiful laying there, so content. I kissed her forehead and heard her softly mumble, "I love you." I couldn't help but smile and joined her in blessed slumber.
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone