Early the next morning, Rhaenyra's "Storm's End matchmaking event" began on schedule in the castle's great hall.
The long tables had been removed and replaced with two rows of chairs facing each other, leaving an aisle down the middle. It looked almost like the opening procession at a tourney.
Sunlight streamed through the high windows onto the dark stone floor, dust dancing in its shafts. The Stormlands nobles sat on one side, with the young heirs placed toward the front. Each sat straight-backed, trying to look both gallant and graceful.
Rhaenyra sat in the central seat at the head of the hall, with Floris and two serving girls standing behind her.
She had dressed "especially" for the occasion in a formal black-and-red gown, its sleeves reaching her wrists, a Targaryen three-headed dragon brooch pinned at her neckline. Even her silver-gold hair had been arranged in an elaborate bun.
In truth, she had been forced into it. Aegon had been sitting in Laena's lap when Floris arrived early that morning with attendants, dragged Rhaenyra out of bed, and dressed her up.
She sat upright in her chair, back straight and chin slightly raised, wearing the smile she had practiced for so long: warm yet distant, courteous yet cold.
Borros Baratheon sat to Rhaenyra's right, Elena Caron to her left. The duke had put on a brand-new black-and-gold coat for the occasion. The crowned stag on his chest was embroidered in gold thread and glittered in the candlelight. He looked excited, like a collector about to display his prized possessions.
Aegon had been entrusted to Laena. She sat beside Lady Elena, with Aegon on her lap. Their bench was noticeably lower than Rhaenyra's seat, but his eyes were level with the chests of the "candidates" opposite them.
It was an ideal spot for observing-unobtrusive, yet offering a clear view of everyone's expressions.
Laena's arms held him securely, her fingers occasionally tapping his shoulder as though keeping a rhythm only she understood.
Borros cleared his throat, his voice echoing through the hall.
"Princess," he said, turning to Rhaenyra with a carefully measured smile, "the young men we are introducing today are the finest in the Stormlands. Take your time looking them over and speaking with them. There is no hurry."
He rose, walked into the aisle, and beckoned to the young man at the far end of the front row. "This is Byron Swann, heir to Stonehelm. House Swann has guarded our Dornish Marches for generations. Last year, Ser Byron distinguished himself in a border clash with the Dornish, personally slaying a Dornish noble knight."
Byron Swann stood and bowed to Rhaenyra. He was tall and reserved, his hand steady as he raised his cup in salute, his movements faultlessly proper. His gaze lingered on Rhaenyra's face for a moment before shifting to somewhere behind her.
"Princess," he said in a low voice, then sat down without another word.
Rhaenyra nodded and said, "A pleasure." Watching from Laena's lap, Aegon thought, He really is so quiet that it's impossible to tell what he's thinking. But perhaps that silence is an answer in itself-
The man was far too proud. He made no attempt to conceal it, and even Aegon could see it clearly. He seemed to think that marrying a princess would trample the pride and honor he held so dear.
Borros introduced two more men. One was Michael Mertyns, eldest son of the Earl of Mistwood. Blond and blue-eyed, he had a radiant smile and liked to look people in the eye as he spoke. Every pause was perfectly timed, as though rehearsed.
The other was Erich, heir to House Dondarrion. Sitting in a corner, he had to be prodded to his feet by his father. He gave a perfunctory bow, sat back down, and resumed quietly discussing this year's travel plans with the attendant beside him. He showed even less enthusiasm than his widowed old father.
Come to think of it, he had once been Criston Cole's young master. Before joining the Kingsguard, Cole, the son of their household steward, had served as Erich's attendant and accompanied him on his travels through Westeros.
Aegon silently gave all three his approval. The Swann was too proud, the Mertyns too false, and the Dondarrion fellow seemed as uninterested in marriage as Rhaenyra. None of them would do. Aegon would not even have to step in and "ruin things" himself.
Next came the heirs of several minor houses. Each was more nervous than the last. Some stammered, some did not know what to do with their hands and feet, and one had nearly tripped over his own scabbard while entering. Rhaenyra's expression shifted from politeness to endurance, then from endurance to numb resignation.
But Borros had clearly run out of patience. Having focused his introductions on the first three, he barely mentioned the minor houses that followed. He cleared his throat again, his expression changing from "enthusiastic host" to "proud patriarch," and skipped straight past the other respectable young nobles from the Stormlands' great and middling houses.
"Princess," he said, raising his voice another notch, "it is quite all right if none of those men interested you. Next, I shall introduce the men of our own House Baratheon."
His air of "there's no need for ceremony among family" made Aegon grumble inwardly. So now he remembers that his ancestor was a Targaryen bastard.
Borros raised a hand, and several men immediately rose from the middle of the second row. All wore black coats with gold stitching and crowned stags embroidered on their chests. Leading them was a man in his thirties, tall and powerfully built, with a short beard on his chin and a steady gaze.
The next two were younger, in their early twenties, and looked alike enough to be brothers. Aegon recognized one of them: Olyver Baratheon, Borros's cousin, who had accompanied Borros and his wife during the hunt in the Kingswood.
"This is my uncle, Raymond Baratheon." Borros pointed to the oldest man, his voice brimming with pride. "The acting castellan of Storm's End. Whenever I travel far from home, he manages the castle for me. Steady, dependable, and good with letters and numbers. He also fought in the Stepstones and personally killed seven pirates." He paused and lowered his voice. "Sadly, his wife passed away young. He is raising three sons alone now."
"He already has sons?" Rhaenyra's expression shifted slightly. It was surprise, not aversion.
Raymond Baratheon showed no embarrassment, however. He stepped forward and bowed as naturally as ever, his movements proper but unforced. Unlike the others, he did not rush to introduce himself. Instead, he first asked, "Was your journey from King's Landing a smooth one, Princess?" Only after Rhaenyra answered did he continue, "The winds at Storm's End are stronger than elsewhere. If you have trouble sleeping at night, you can ask the attendants for another blanket." His tone was natural, as though speaking to a younger relative rather than a prospective bride.
Aegon felt profoundly helpless on Rhaenyra's behalf. They really have dragged in every sort of freak... A widower? With three sons? Rhaenyra is only thirteen, and she'd become stepmother to three children the moment she married him? Is she supposed to follow in the footsteps of her grandmother, Princess Daenella Targaryen, and Duke Rodrik Arryn?
Borros, however, was clearly pleased with his uncle's performance. He turned to Rhaenyra and raised his voice. "Princess, as the nephew Raymond has always looked after, I know him better than anyone. He is capable, dutiful, and good to his wife. His late wife bore him three sons, all strong and healthy. If you marry him-"
Rhaenyra's fingers went still.
"-you will surely conceive a strong boy after the wedding, just like my wife."
The hall fell silent at once.
It was not a respectful hush, but the silence of air suddenly turning solid. Several attendants lowered their heads and pretended they had heard nothing. A few Stormlands lords seated opposite exchanged glances.
Raymond Baratheon stood where he was, his expression shifting from embarrassment to a deep, weary resignation. He clearly had not expected his nephew to say such a thing.
He glanced at Borros with a look that seemed to say, "I told you this was a bad idea." In fact, like the Earl of House Dondarrion, he had only come to accompany his son. A boy of fifteen or sixteen sat beside him-his eldest.
Rhaenyra's expression changed. It was not anger, but the coldness of someone who had been insulted. She looked at Borros without speaking, yet the warmth in her violet eyes dropped to freezing.
One corner of Aegon's mouth twitched. He lowered his head, stifled his laughter, and silently offered, May His Grace soon be blessed with a son. After all, if he remembered correctly, the child Lady Elena was carrying should be a girl: the couple's eldest daughter, Cassandra Baratheon.
And they would have three more daughters after her: Floris, Ellyn, and Maris. They still needed three more births to complete the future quartet of sisters known as the "Four Storms."
As for the son Borros longed for, he was still a long way off-and would be born after his father's death-
Borros himself would fall in the Battle of the Kingsroad, and his son would not be born until seven days later.
"But Princess, my uncle Ser Raymond is of the direct bloodline of House Baratheon. His military achievements-" Borros was still trying to salvage the situation.
"I already have Aegon to look after," Rhaenyra said. Her voice remained calm, but Aegon and everyone nearby could hear the unmistakable chill in it. "I am only thirteen. I do not need a widower with three sons. Nor do I need someone to help me 'conceive a strong boy.'"
The hall went utterly silent. Borros's face changed from the flush of excitement to the red of humiliation. He had clearly realized he had said the wrong thing, but the pride of the Duke of the Stormlands would not let him admit his mistake at once. He stood there, his lips moving without producing a word.
Seated to Rhaenyra's left, Elena Caron's accommodating smile had given way to obvious embarrassment.
She was Borros's wife, the hostess of this matchmaking event, and the duchess of Storm's End in the Stormlands. Her younger brother was even on the list of candidates.
Yet all she could do was sit there and watch her husband turn what should have been a dignified noble matchmaking event into a farce.
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