Rhaenyra's facepalm moment

A few days later, at Rhaenyra's "second Stormlands matchmaking gathering" in Storm's End, Borros had finally learned his lesson.

He sat at the head of the hall. Rather than stepping out to act as master of ceremonies himself as he had yesterday, he followed his wife Elena's advice and invited two friends to sit below him and help.

On the left sat Lord Lorent Grandison, the master of Allview. House Grandison had guarded the western border of the Stormlands for generations.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a few gray strands running through his dark brown hair. His face was square, his lips thick, his looks the sort that would disappear in a crowd. Yet even sitting there with his eyes closed, he had a presence no one dared dismiss.

He reminded Aegon of the gossip Erich Dondarrion had shared yesterday-at twenty, Lord Lorent had single-handedly chased down his father's killer, dragged him off his horse, and chained him behind his own mount to drag him three miles. After that, everyone coveting Allview had changed their minds.

That hardly matched Aegon's memory of the "Sleeping Lion," Aegon III's incompetent regent in the original story. Still, anyone who made the list of regents probably wasn't entirely useless. After all, as time passed, Aegon had forgotten plenty of what the original story recorded.

But the lord certainly lived up to the sleeping lion on his family's sigil. Ever since entering the hall, he had leaned against his chair, eyes half closed, breathing slow and deep, looking ready to fall asleep at any moment.

On the right sat Lord Roland Clinton, the young lord of Griffin's Roost. He had a lean face, a steady gaze, and striking red hair combed with meticulous care.

He sat as straight as a drawn sword, his back rigid, his hands folded over his knees. His gaze moved among the candidates like a hawk counting chicks.

Erich had told him about this man too. He had inherited his title earlier than anyone else of their generation in the Stormlands-his father, Lord Roy Clinton, had been exiled by King Jaehaerys when Roland was only a few years old and had never returned.

Roland had held Griffin's Roost together alone for over twenty years. Aegon had heard his history from Erich: his father, "Red Roy," had once been one of Princess Saenyra's closest friends. She was Aegon's great-aunt. Later, a scandal had led to his exile, and a prostitute had stabbed him to death abroad. He had never made it back to Westeros.

Roland had grown up under that shadow. Rather than becoming gloomy or obsessive, he had turned out more clearheaded and practical than his peers.

As Borros introduced the candidates, Lorent occasionally opened his eyes, glanced at the young man standing up, then went back to pretending to sleep.

Roland, meanwhile, stayed awake throughout, his expression mild. He only nodded slightly when someone he knew was introduced.

The matchmaking gathering began in this delicate atmosphere. Borros sat at the head of the hall, trying to look like an observer, but occasionally glanced toward Rhaenyra like a dog crouching beside a henhouse, wanting to approach but afraid of being kicked.

Lord Lorent had originally come to Storm's End to accompany his younger cousin, Ser Gude Fell. Ser Gude was the heir to House Fell of Fellwood, a tall, sturdy, quiet man in his early twenties who stood below them like a small mountain.

Another young man stood behind him-his younger brother, Viry Fell. Viry was three years younger than Ser Gude and not as tall, but his shoulders were broader, his looks handsomer, his arms longer, and his hands a little larger.

He stood behind his brother with a steady gaze. The longsword at his waist shone, and the leather binding around its hilt was neatly wrapped. Aegon gave him a second look.

Not because of his looks, but because of his stance-feet slightly apart, weight settled low, his right hand resting lightly on the hilt, ready to draw at any moment.

This was someone who had truly trained with a sword, not some young lord who bragged everywhere after placing in a few tournaments.

Lord Roland hadn't planned to come a few days ago. If his friend Borros hadn't written asking for help, he would never have come under the pretext of accompanying his brother.

His younger brother Steffon was only six this year, just three years older than Aegon. Roland said he was "bringing him out to see the world."

Little Steffon sat a short distance below him, his legs dangling and swinging beneath his chair. His equally striking red hair stuck up, and his wide eyes curiously examined everyone in the hall.

Rhaenyra sat in the center of the high table. She had changed into another gown today, with her hair pinned a little lower than on previous days, making her look less formal.

Since Elena needed to keep a constant watch on Borros's "loose tongue," Laena happened to be sitting beside Rhaenyra today. This time, Aegon hadn't been left in Laena's care-

He had slipped down early to sit with Erich Dondarrion.

Erich wore a dark black coat today, with House Dondarrion's purple lightning bolt embroidered on his chest.

He was only a little over ten years older than Aegon, and over the past two days, thanks to his old connection with Cole, Aegon had found him surprisingly easy to talk to.

Before joining the Kingsguard, Cole had been the son of House Dondarrion's steward and had traveled around Westeros as Erich's attendant. That connection made Erich especially warm toward Aegon-so warm that Aegon wondered whether he had transferred his friendship with Cole onto him.

At that thought, Aegon silently apologized to Ser Criston Cole, his future "Kingmaker" in the original story. After all, it was because of him that the brothers Ser Alec Cargyll and Ser Erryk Cargyll had snatched this escort assignment from Cole.

Erich had no interest in matchmaking, and Aegon was enthusiastic about "helping" Rhaenyra sabotage it. They quickly reached a certain understanding.

"Who's first today?" Aegon asked Erich quietly, hoping to learn more beyond what he remembered.

Erich tipped his chin toward the aisle. "Ser Gude Fell, heir to Fellwood. His cousin Lord Lorent came with him."

Sure enough, the first man pushed forward was Ser Gude Fell. His cousin's wife, Lady Grandison, shoved him straight out of his chair and into the middle of the aisle.

The tall young man stood straight, bowed to Rhaenyra, said, "Greetings, Your Grace," and then stood there like an oak planted in the wrong place.

Lorent opened his eyes, glanced at him, then closed them again. Roland nodded slightly, as though saying, "Not bad."

"A pleasure," Rhaenyra said, and nothing followed. Ser Gude stood there a while, realized the princess wasn't going to ask anything else, then returned to his seat.

His brother Viry shifted aside to make room. His gaze lingered on Rhaenyra's face for an instant before moving to something behind her.

Aegon followed his gaze-he was looking at Sunfyre. Sunfyre hadn't entered the hall today and was basking on the steps outside, his golden scales dazzling in the sunlight. Viry watched him for a long time, then lowered his head, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he were smiling.

Ser Gude's movements were proper, his tone appropriate, neither overly eager nor overly aloof. After watching him briefly, Aegon thought he wasn't bad-at least he seemed more reliable than yesterday's candidates.

Then Aegon's gaze settled on Viry, who was watching Sunfyre behind Ser Gude.

The youth was about fifteen or sixteen, with brown hair, gray-blue eyes, and regular but unassuming features.

He wore a coat bearing House Fell's white-and-green sigil. With his straight posture and steady gaze, he resembled a young tree that hadn't finished growing but already had deep roots.

"Who's that?" Aegon asked.

"Viry Fell, Ser Gude's brother," Erich said. "Their father died years ago, so they grew up with their aunt-Lorent's mother, that is. Viry's good with a sword. He's beaten several grown knights in the Stormlands tourney grounds."

Aegon stared at the youth for a long time. Viry Fell-he remembered that name. A future member of the Kingsguard and a loyal defender of the Greens, he would escort Princess Jaehaera to Storm's End and become Lord Commander of Aegon III's Kingsguard after Aegon II's death.

Some called him a "false knight" because he had chosen the wrong side in the Dance of the Dragons. Aegon didn't care about that. He only knew that, through the most chaotic times, this man had stayed faithful to his vows and never betrayed them. But who was Aegon? His body's original owner was the future Aegon II.

Aegon had already been interested in this impressive fellow. Hearing his name only increased that interest.

He watched Viry, who seemed to sense something and turned his head. Their eyes met. Viry paused, then nodded slightly, a faintly shy smile appearing on his lips.

Aegon smiled too and silently made a note of him.

Next came Michael Mertyns. The heir to Mistwood had changed into a dark gray coat today, his hair meticulously combed. His smile was as bright as ever, and he still liked to look people in the eye when speaking.

But today he sat beside Aegon, and at such close range, Aegon realized his facade wasn't just for Rhaenyra. It was for everyone.

The instant he stood, his smile vanished, replaced by a serious expression. He walked into the aisle, bowed, and began to speak.

His voice was steady, his words carefully chosen, every pause perfectly timed, as though he had rehearsed countless times. But Aegon noticed his hands trembling, so faintly that only someone close by could see.

Rhaenyra's expression shifted from numbness to strained patience-she clearly had no interest in this overly perfect young man.

After watching him, Aegon decided he wasn't really fake, just too nervous. He was so nervous that he needed to conceal it with a "performance," yet that same nervousness made his speech far too perfect.

But Aegon also noticed that Michael's smile disappeared as he left the aisle.

It wasn't disappointment or dejection, but the exhaustion of someone who had taken off a mask. He went to the back, found a corner to sit in, and lowered his head to straighten his cuffs, his fingers trembling slightly.

"He doesn't actually want to be here," Erich leaned over and whispered. "His father forced him. Lord Mertyns wants a marriage connection with the royal family. Michael would rather go study at the Citadel, like Lord Lyonel Strong did back in his day."

Aegon glanced at Michael. The young man was looking up, his gaze following Rhaenyra, but there was no admiration in his eyes, only the anxiety of someone wondering when it would end.

"Then why did he come?"

"Because his father said his friend Jasper Wylde had already become Master of Laws, and if Michael didn't come, he'd burn all his books." Erich shrugged. "Michael has thirty-seven treasured books. Some are the only copies in existence. Once they're burned, they're gone."

Aegon's mouth twitched. Thirty-seven treasured books. This man really ought to go to the Citadel.

Bryce Caron wasn't sitting with his "special male friend" Robin Beesbury today.

He too had been dragged into helping entertain the guests. His elder sister Lady Elena sat beside him in the higher seat-with his eldest sister personally presiding, he didn't dare misbehave.

When he stood to bow to Rhaenyra, his movements were proper and his voice clear. He even sang a short passage from an ancient Stormlands ballad, its melody lingering, its lyrics telling of a battle between a Storm King and a sea monster.

When he finished, Rhaenyra nodded slightly. "Well sung."

Bryce Caron breathed a sigh of relief, sneaking a glance at Robin Beesbury below as he sat down.

Robin sat across from him and gave him a thumbs-up. Their eyes met briefly before they both looked away, faint smiles on their faces.

The sweetness was so cloying that Aegon could only join the Stormlands nobles around him, who were already used to it, in pretending not to notice.

Erich leaned over again. "Do you know why Bryce sings so well?"

"Why?"

"His mother and sisters raised him. He was the male heir his father had waited so long for, so his father never dared discipline him," Erich said. "House Caron is in the Dornish Marches and has guarded the western border for the Storm Kings for generations, but their words are still 'Sweet as Song.' They're all good singers. Bryce sings better than any of them, though-supposedly he trained his voice by singing toward the Red Mountains from the walls of Nightsong as a child."

"Singing toward the Red Mountains?" Aegon asked.

"Yes." Erich paused. "But I later heard that Robin Beesbury visited Nightsong once when they were children, and they hit it off straightaway. Honeyholt isn't far from Nightsong, really. Gradually, they started singing together."

Aegon glanced at him. Erich looked perfectly innocent, but a mischievous smile tugged at his mouth.

"...How do you know everything?" Aegon asked.

"I don't know anything," Erich said quickly. "I'm just telling you they sang together."

Aegon decided not to ask any more questions.

Byron Swann sat in a corner today, arms folded, his expression cold. His father, Lord Swann, nudged him several times, but he wouldn't move. Finally, the lord stood himself, bowed to Rhaenyra, and offered a few polite words on his son's behalf. Rhaenyra nodded without making things difficult.

Aegon noticed that although Byron hadn't stood, his gaze kept following Rhaenyra. It wasn't the appraisal of a prospective suitor, but the scrutiny of an opponent. He was evaluating her, not courting her.

He really was proud, but his pride wasn't an act. It was almost endearing.

Then came Astan Selmy. The heir to Harvest Hall nearly tripped over his chair when he stood, his face flushing bright red. His bow was awkward and his speech stammering. He looked like a calf that had wandered into a banquet. Rhaenyra's expression softened a little-at least he was genuine, not pretending.

Aegon watched Astan and thought he seemed an honest fellow. Unfortunately, honest fellows wouldn't get far here.

Next came today's greatest "highlight."

"Look at that one." Erich leaned over and tipped his chin toward the aisle.

Aegon looked. A man in his forties stood there wearing a coat with House Dondarrion's purple lightning bolt. He had a square face, a neatly trimmed beard, and a silver scabbard at his waist more ornate than any worn by the young men present. His bow to Rhaenyra was textbook-perfect.

"Who?" Aegon asked.

"Lord Dondarrion." There was a hint of helplessness in Erich's voice. "My father."

Aegon froze, then recalled the past few days and studied the middle-aged man closely. Sure enough, he resembled Erich, only much older, with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and white hair at his temples.

Aegon knew Lord Dondarrion's wife had died a few years ago. But he had never imagined the lord would enter the fray himself.

"He said I was too useless, so he might as well try himself," Erich said even more quietly. "He drank half a barrel of dark beer last night before he dared make the decision."

Lord Dondarrion was already standing in the middle of the aisle, trying hard to straighten his back and look ten years younger. As he passed Erich, he even glared at him, making Erich shrink back.

Rhaenyra glanced at him, then lowered her head and pressed her fingers between her brows. Aegon knew that gesture all too well-she was holding back both laughter and embarrassment.

Lord Dondarrion stood for a while. Realizing the princess had no intention of speaking, he decided to begin himself.

"Your Grace," Lord Dondarrion declared in a booming voice, "though I am somewhat older, I remain sound of body and rich in experience. My wife passed away years ago, and I have never remarried. Seeing your splendor today, I..."

But before he could finish his opening speech, Rhaenyra raised her hand.

"Lord Dondarrion," Rhaenyra said calmly, "I appreciate your kind intentions, but I am only thirteen, and you..."

She glanced at Erich. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

Lord Dondarrion stood rooted to the spot, his expression changing from hopeful to embarrassed, then from embarrassed to accepting. He chuckled and shook his head. "You are right, Your Grace. I have been presumptuous."

He bowed again and returned to his seat. Passing Erich once more, he murmured something, but Aegon didn't catch it.

Whatever it was, Erich immediately raised his head. His face was still red, but his mouth stretched into a grin, and he was plainly fighting laughter.

Aegon mentally gave Lord Dondarrion a point for that. The lord deserved credit for courage, even if he really couldn't read the room.

The hall inevitably fell quiet for a few seconds.

Then Borros cleared his throat and beckoned toward the back. "Steffon, come, come. Don't hide down there beside your brother."

Lord Roland Clinton's expression stiffened. He turned toward his younger brother below and murmured something.

Steffon slid off his chair and stood in the aisle, unsure what to do with his hands. First he put them in his pockets, then pulled them out and clasped them behind his back. Finally, he let them hang at his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists.

His legs trembled as he stood. He wore a coat bearing House Clinton's red-and-white griffin, but it had clearly been altered, and the shoulders didn't fit quite right. He walked into the middle of the aisle, bowed, and opened his mouth-

Nothing came out.

He cleared his throat and opened his mouth again-

Still nothing came out.

The hall went quiet for another few seconds. Borros was the first to burst out laughing, his booming voice echoing through the hall. Several Stormlands lords joined him, not out of malice, but because they found the boy utterly adorable.

Steffon's face turned from white to red, then from red to purple. His lips trembled as though he were about to cry.

Roland Clinton sat below the high table with a hand against his forehead, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and helplessness. He glanced at Borros with a look that said, Could you stop for a moment? Borros didn't notice and kept laughing.

Lorent Grandison opened his eyes from his feigned sleep, glanced at Borros, then at Roland, and closed them again, the faintest smile touching his lips.

Lady Elena gently nudged her husband's arm. Borros's laughter stopped abruptly. He looked at his wife, then at his friend Roland's livid face, and finally realized he had embarrassed himself again.

Steffon stood in the aisle, his face turning from red to purple, his lips trembling. Watching this boy two years older than himself, Aegon suddenly couldn't bear it. He was about to do something when Laena, beside Rhaenyra, spoke first.

"Steffon," she said, her voice neither loud nor soft, just enough to carry over the laughter, "I heard from a letter your brother sent mine that you can already ride a horse. Is that true?"

Steffon turned to her, hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. I-I started last year."

"What sort of horse do you ride?"

"A-a little bay pony. My-my brother gave it to me." His voice gradually steadied. "It runs very fast. Faster than my brother's horse."

"And do you ride well?"

"Yes." Steffon nodded, finally showing a small smile. "I can jump fences on it."

"That's very impressive," Laena said earnestly.

Steffon's face reddened again, but this time with happiness. He glanced at his brother. Roland lowered his hand and gave him a slight nod.

Steffon bowed, then turned and ran back to his seat. As he passed Roland, his brother reached out and ruffled his hair. Borros tried to say something from beside them, but a look from Lady Elena stopped him.

Once Steffon was seated again, his legs began swinging once more, but the embarrassment on his little face had long since vanished.

Roland turned toward Laena and inclined his head slightly. His lips moved without a sound, but Aegon could read them clearly-thank you.