The feast at Blackstone Keep continued. The sweet scent of mead mingled with the rich smell of roast meat, filling the vaulted hall with warm, lively noise. Members of House Celtigar raised their cups and sang ancient songs of Valyria, their silver hair glowing softly in the candlelight. Bartimos rose to toast Rhaenyra, his booming voice drowning out the faint clink of the crystal chandelier's pendants.
Aegon leaned against Rhaenyra's chest, a honey biscuit clutched in his little hand, but his gaze drifted past the bustling crowd to the Valyrian steel axe at the far end of the hall. Its blade reflected the flickering candles like a frozen bolt of lightning. His thoughts, however, had already wandered beyond this Blackstone Castle, back to Highgarden several months earlier, back to that land of roses and a dispute between trueborn and bastard children much like the one unfolding here.
This was already the second such dispute he and Rhaenyra had encountered since leaving King's Landing.
He still remembered what Highgarden looked like. The castle stood beside the Mander River. It lacked the austere majesty of Blackstone Keep on Claw Isle and the forbidding defenses of the Red Keep. Rather than a castle, it resembled a magnificent estate of flowers. Roses surrounded the entire castle, and pink climbing roses even crept through cracks in its walls. Whenever the wind blew, their sweet fragrance filled the city.
Duke Mathos Tyrell had greeted them personally beneath the gates, with dozens of lords of the Reach behind him. His reception was even grander than Borros's at Storm's End, and the golden rose banners glittered so brightly in the sun that it hurt to look at them.
Yet that magnificent welcoming feast had become a stage for House Tyrell's "wild roses."
The duke had no fewer than seven bastard sons. Dressed in silk coats no different from those worn by his trueborn son Garlan, with little rose sigils embroidered on their collars, they took turns approaching Rhaenyra and showering her with attention.
Some presented sonnets they had written, others flaunted prizes won in tournaments, and one even declared before the assembled nobles of the Reach that he would crush the pirates of the Stepstones for the princess. The way they strutted and displayed themselves resembled peacocks in heat.
Rhaenyra merely nodded politely throughout. In private, she leaned close to Aegon's ear and laughed, saying those affected verses were less pleasant to hear than the roars of Syrax and Sunfyre.
But Aegon had seen it clearly: Lady Redwyne, seated at the high table, had not worn a genuine smile all evening.
He understood the heart of the matter all too well. In Westeros, it was hardly unusual for a nobleman to father bastards. Most simply gave them some money or land and sent them elsewhere to fend for themselves. But taking every bastard back to Highgarden, raising them alongside his trueborn son Garlan, and even providing them with nearly the same food, clothing, and comforts as Mathos did was exceedingly rare-not just in Westeros, but in its entire history.
Lady Redwyne and Mathos had once been a loving couple envied throughout the Reach. Garlan was their only trueborn son, and had once been the apple of the duke's eye.
But everything changed after those bastards were brought to Highgarden. The duke still favored Garlan, yet he lavished far too much affection on his bastard sons as well, even allowing them to bully their way through the Reach.
Several of the older boys had grown ambitious under such boundless indulgence. When they looked at Garlan, they could no longer conceal their ruthless desire to claim his place as heir.
This was no way to raise children. It was a slap in Lady Redwyne's face, and a thorn driven into the foundations of House Tyrell.
Many nobles of the Reach already resented their rule. House Tyrell's ancestors had merely been stewards to the Gardener kings, yet a single decree from Aegon the Conqueror had raised them to the highest seat of power in the Reach. To those nobles of ancient lineage, Tyrell blood was nowhere near as distinguished as that of the Hightowers, Redwynes, or Florents.
Now Duke Mathos's indulgence of his bastards had drawn criticism throughout the Reach. Many nobles whispered that he spoiled his "wild roses" like the Dornish spoiled their "Sand Snakes," with no regard for the customs or decorum of Westeros.
At last, House Redwyne could no longer contain its anger.
Lady Redwyne's family, the Redwynes of the Arbor, commanded the Arbor fleet, one of the three great fleets of Westeros. They were unquestionably the foremost naval power in the Reach. Even the Velaryon Fleet at its height would not have dared underestimate this force that ranged across the Sunset Sea.
Using Lady Redwyne's grievances as their opening, the nobles of the Reach approached Garlan, who in turn brought them to Tyland Lannister, the man responsible for the route and schedule of this journey. After several rounds of discussion, they completely scrapped the original plan to travel overland from Highgarden to the Westerlands.
They took the sea route instead. From Highgarden, they headed south to the Arbor, rested in House Redwyne's lands, then sailed with the Arbor fleet along the coast to Fair Isle in the Westerlands before continuing directly to Lannisport. It neatly avoided the overland route-and the nobles of the Reach waiting to laugh at House Tyrell's expense.
Aegon still remembered the day they left Highgarden. The docks were packed with people, and Garlan had brought relatives from House Tyrell's branch families to see them off personally. Duke Mathos Tyrell alone was nowhere to be seen.
The servants whispered that the duke had flown into a considerable rage over the change of route and refused to attend the farewell, claiming illness.
At that moment, Aegon had felt a melancholy he could not quite explain.
He thought of the Great Council of 101 AC.
That year, nobles from all across Westeros gathered at Harrenhal to formally determine the successor to King Jaehaerys, the Old King.
In 101 AC, the first Great Council convened to settle the kingdom's future succession.
The council first eliminated nine candidates with little support, leaving only two:
Laenor Velaryon, son of Princess Rhaenys, the late Prince Aemon's only daughter.
Prince Viserys, eldest son of the late Prince Baelon.
Nobles who supported primogeniture favored Laenor, while others preferred Viserys because the dragon's blood ran stronger in him.
Viserys had also ridden the great dragon Balerion, who died in 94 AC, though Laenor had just claimed his own young dragon, Seasmoke.
At twenty-four, Viserys was already a grown man, whereas Laenor was only seven. But Laenor possessed one enormous advantage:
His father was Earl Corlys, the Sea Snake-the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms at the time.
Through Earl Corlys's reputation and wealth, Laenor won the support of several nobles, including Duke Boremund Baratheon, whose sister Jocelyn Baratheon was Laenor's maternal grandmother; Duke Ellard Stark; Earl Blackwood; Earl Bar Emmon; Earl Celtigar; Earl Dustin of Barrowton; and Earl Manderly of White Harbor.
But that was nowhere near enough.
It was said that the nobles supporting Viserys outnumbered Laenor's supporters twenty to one. Among them were Viserys's younger brother Prince Daemon, who had even gathered a small army to oppose Earl Corlys after hearing that he had prepared a fleet to defend his son Laenor's claim; Duke Grover Tully; Duke Tarmond Lannister; and...
This very Duke Mathos Tyrell. With five hundred vassals, knights, and servants, he had marched in grand procession to Harrenhal, throwing the full strength of the Reach behind Viserys. His display had far eclipsed that of Duke Tarmond Lannister, Warden of the West, who had likewise come to support Viserys with three hundred attendants.
Back then, one had been a brilliant young lord of the Reach, the other the lion lord of the Westerlands. And there had been Daemon Targaryen, wielding Dark Sister and riding Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, declaring that anyone who dared question his elder brother Viserys's right to inherit would have war-and would first have to face his sword.
How spirited those three had been. How full of ambition.
Yet in just ten years, everything had changed beyond recognition.
Duke Tarmond's eldest son had died young, leaving behind the twins Jason and Tyland. He had painstakingly raised the two brothers to adulthood, only to die not long afterward. Power in the Westerlands had ultimately fallen into the hands of the spoiled, arrogant Jason;
Daemon Targaryen had all but broken with Viserys over the succession. He had abandoned the splendor of King's Landing for the blood and fire of the Stepstones, fighting the Triarchy among those shattered islands;
And Mathos Tyrell, whose call at the Great Council had once rallied so many, had become this muddleheaded man whose bastards kept his household in turmoil, who could not even decide the route taken through his own lands.
Aegon wondered how that young duke, who had once united and consolidated the Reach to bring it to heel, would feel if he could see himself now.
That thought brought Aegon back to his own father, Viserys Targaryen.
At sixteen, he had claimed Balerion the Black Dread, the mount of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel, becoming the legendary dragon's last rider;
At twenty-four, he had defeated his cousin Rhaenys at the Great Council and been chosen as heir by the nobles of all Westeros;
At twenty-seven, he had inherited the prosperous realm left by his grandfather, King Jaehaerys, the Old King. The Seven Kingdoms had placed great hopes in him and respectfully called him the Young King.
Back then, he too had been full of spirit. He too had dreamed of recreating his ancestors' glory.
But what about now?
He was trapped within the walls of the Red Keep, caught in the schemes of nobles and ministers, wavering endlessly between his daughter's and son's rights to inherit. He could not even decide his own daughter's marriage, and even a grand wedding anniversary celebration had become a stage for the rivalry between the two factions that would emerge in the original story.
How would that youth who had soared above King's Landing on the Black Dread feel if he could see the amiable pushover he had become?
"Aegon? What are you thinking about?"
Rhaenyra's gentle voice sounded beside his ear, drawing his wandering thoughts back. He lifted his head and met his sister's purple eyes, filled with confusion and concern. The singing in the hall had long since stopped, and Bartimos had returned to his seat. The assembled Celtigars had fallen quiet, their gazes resting on the two of them to varying degrees.
He had lost himself in thought for so long that the entire feast was drawing to a close.
"Nothing." Aegon shook his head and buried his face in Rhaenyra's warm embrace, wrapping his little arms around her neck. "I'm just a bit sleepy."
Rhaenyra looked down at him. The worry faded from her eyes, replaced by a trace of weariness and loneliness that was hard to detect. She had been in little mood for the feast to begin with. Aside from the necessary nods and replies, she had barely spoken all evening. Bartimos's attentiveness, the old earl's flattery, and the Celtigars' reverence mattered less to her than a single smile from the little boy in her arms.
Something weighed heavily on her heart.
Her father's raven had made it clear: once they returned to King's Landing, Aegon was to remain in the Red Keep under the personal care of his mother, Alicent, while Rhaenyra had to continue to the Vale, meet the nobles of House Arryn, and carry on that endless search for a husband. The thought of parting from Aegon, of facing those calculating gazes among the nobles of the Vale, left her heart cold and heavy, as though the chill winds of the Narrow Sea were blowing through it.
Old Earl Armond had lived long enough to become an expert at reading faces. Seeing the weariness in Rhaenyra's expression and Aegon listlessly leaning against her, he immediately rose with a smile, clapped his hands, and announced the end of the feast.
"The princess and prince must be tired after their long journey." His voice was gentle and appropriately respectful. "Let us end the feast here. The maids have prepared hot water and will escort Their Highnesses to the suite in the east tower to rest."
Seeing the princess's lack of enthusiasm and the prince's preoccupied expression, Bartimos and the old earl assumed that the journey had exhausted them. They therefore ended the feast and had the maids take the princess and prince away to rest.
But Rhaenyra was not simply uninterested. She was thinking about how, after returning to King's Landing, she would have to leave Aegon behind and continue "looking for a husband" in the Vale, the homeland of her mother, Queen Aemma. The approaching separation from Aegon hurt her.
As for Aegon being weighed down by worries, that was nonsense. He had indeed been thinking, but only about those unrelated matters that had led his thoughts astray.
Rhaenyra nodded slightly and rose with Aegon in her arms, saying nothing more. Bartimos hurried forward to lead the way, guiding them through the dispersing crowd and out of the banquet hall, then along a corridor laid with Myrish carpets toward the east tower at the castle's highest point.
The suite with a view in the east tower was as spacious and luxurious as Bartimos had promised. The bedroom's bed was large enough for ten people, covered with velvet bedding and fur blankets. A roaring fire in the hearth drove away the winter chill.
Huge floor-to-ceiling windows faced the Narrow Sea. From the terrace, they could even see the hazy outline of distant Dragonstone and the waves surging across the sea.
The maids brought hot water and helped them wash, then bowed and withdrew, softly closing the door behind them.
Only the brother and sister remained. Firewood occasionally crackled in the hearth, and outside came the sound of wind and waves striking the rocks. It was quiet enough to hear each other breathe.
Rhaenyra lay down on the bed with Aegon in her arms and wrapped them both in a thick blanket. She rested her chin on the crown of his head, holding him tightly, as though he might vanish the moment she loosened her grip.
"Sister, you're unhappy." Aegon lifted his head and touched her cheek with his little hand. His fingertips met cool moisture.
Rhaenyra neither denied it nor tried to hide it. She simply bent to kiss his forehead, her muffled voice carrying a trace of hurt. "I don't want to be separated from you. Once we return to King's Landing, they'll make me go to the Vale and leave you alone in the Red Keep."
"I won't be separated from you." Aegon burrowed deeper into her arms, his little hands gripping her clothes, his purple eyes utterly earnest. "No one can separate us. If Father tells you to go to the Vale, we won't go. Your marriage is yours to decide. No one can force you."
"But he's the king." Rhaenyra's voice grew quieter. "He's our father, but he's also the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. We can't keep defying him."
"He's the king, but he's also our father, and he loves us." Aegon rubbed his face against her cheek like a gentle kitten. "Last time in King's Landing, he already promised to let you choose your own husband. It'll be the same this time. When we get back, I'll speak to him with you. He'll agree."
He paused, then added with a certainty beyond his years, "Even if he doesn't, I'll stay with you. Wherever you go, I'll go. If you go to the Vale, I'll follow you on Sunfyre. No one is going to separate us."
As Rhaenyra looked at his earnest little face, his words warmed the heavy chill in her heart in an instant. She smiled, though her eyes reddened, and lowered her head to bury her face against his neck. "All right. We won't be separated. Never."
The fire in the hearth gradually dwindled until only dark red embers remained, giving off a gentle warmth. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows onto the brother and sister in each other's arms, while the wind and waves of the Narrow Sea became the gentlest background sound. Holding Aegon and listening to his steady breathing, Rhaenyra finally let go of the tension she had carried throughout their journey and slowly drifted to sleep.
Aegon, however, remained awake.
He lay with his eyes open, looking at the carvings on the ceiling. Again and again, his mind revisited Bartimos's face, Alyn's purple eyes with their hidden restraint and sharpness, the roses of Highgarden, the gold of Casterly Rock, and the schemes lurking within the Red Keep at King's Landing.
(The book's verification period has already ended, but it still keeps showing as being under verification, so I can't write an "Author's note." This is my first time publishing on this platform, and there are plenty of things I don't know how to use. But as someone who is socially anxious in real life and a chatterbox online, I've been holding back a lot that I want to say to everyone.
First, of course, I want to thank everyone for supporting this book. Second, the story of the Dance of the Dragons is, after all, only background history in the original Game of Thrones novels. Although other companion works and the television adaptation House of the Dragon provide more details and content, I still hope you can offer suggestions about the plot and so on. If they fit, I'll certainly use them.
Writing this book is my way of entertaining myself through a tedious internship, but when I write, I still easily get carried away, stirring up my own emotions and becoming sentimental. Even so, I hope I can produce something you'll enjoy. I also hope everyone who likes this book will offer plenty of guidance.
Actually, I originally wrote a lot of the "buts" that I habitually use without thinking, but I changed them all because I was afraid you'd think I sounded like a bot. The quotation marks are there to save my skin. Finally, I want to thank you again for reading this self-indulgent little work I've written to relieve my boredom.)
Before you continue