Chapter Text
Otto Hightower departed the Red Keep without spectacle, bearing himself with a quiet dignity I could not help but respect. Not a day after our conversation, my father had acted. He summoned his once-closest friend and counsellor to the Small Council chamber and informed him, with measured formality, that his service was no longer required at court, nor in King’s Landing.
With thanks for his many years of loyalty, Otto Hightower was dismissed, and arrangements were made to see him returned to Oldtown in restrained disgrace.
By the time his retinue stood ready to depart, the whispers had already taken root. Half the court muttered of overreach, some even of treason; the other half cast veiled glances toward Rhaenyra and me, their disapproval barely concealed. Otto had spent decades weaving his influence through these halls. Many who walked the Red Keep counted themselves his creatures, whether they knew it or not.
It would take time to unravel what he had built.
But it had to be done.
At the same time, ravens flew from the rookery, bearing an invitation to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, requesting their return to court. The reply was slow in coming, but it arrived all the same. A small portion of the Velaryon fleet set sail from Driftmark toward King’s Landing, while the rest of the family chose the faster route.
Rhaenys upon her Red Queen, Meleys.
Laenor astride Seasmoke.
And most startling of all, Laena upon Vhagar, the great war dragoness, oldest and largest of them all.
Word of her claiming had reached the capital only months before, much to the horror of my father’s councillors. Lord Corlys had waged war in defiance of his king, crowned Daemon, King of the Narrow Sea, and refused all correspondence from the Crown. Now, House Velaryon commanded Vhagar herself, the mightiest living dragon.
Claimed by the girl my father had once brushed aside in favour of the daughter of a second son of Oldtown.
As Otto left, his influence wounded but far from extinguished, the Velaryons entered with an air of victory. Their power was a sight to behold as three immense shadows swept across the city, each larger than the last.
Ships crowded the docks, heavy with gold, seahorse banners, and Velaryon kin, while dragons wheeled overhead in a spectacle not seen in decades.
It was breathtaking and deeply unsettling.
My stomach churned as my household readied itself for their arrival. When we stepped into the courtyard to receive them, my gaze found Alicent.
She stood pale and drawn in her heavy gown, dark circles stark beneath her brown eyes. Too thin. Too strained.
Resentment burned alongside reluctant pity as I recalled what Rose had reported upon my return. Almost as soon as I had left to retrieve Daemon from his drink-fuelled debauchery, Alicent had summoned Rhaenyra to the Godswood and questioned her without my father’s leave.
Rhaenyra had seemingly convinced the young queen of her innocence, but that had been before Otto’s dismissal.
Now the Hightower queen regarded me and my allies with barely veiled fear and contempt. Gods alone knew what parting poison Otto had poured into her ear before he departed.
I was pulled from my thoughts as Daemon came to stand behind my left shoulder, dressed in black with only the faintest touches of red. His tall frame loomed over both Rhaenyra and me, and we tensed at his proximity.
I fought the urge to reach for Rhaenyra as her breath left her in shallow, controlled exhales. They had not spoken since their disastrous venture into the city. I knew she was both furious and heartbroken by his actions. As she clasped her hands before her, I could not ignore the faint tremor in her slight frame.
Daemon settled behind us, either oblivious to our discomfort or entirely unconcerned by it.
Aegon and Helaena, cradled in their nursemaid’s arms, began to fuss and whimper, restless and confused by a ceremony they were far too young to understand. Their small cries echoed through the courtyard as the royal household arranged itself in careful order.
At the forefront stood my father, clad in his finest garments, the crown upon his head, and Blackfyre clasped firmly in his hand. He held himself at attention, every inch the king.
At his side stood Lord Lyonel, the Hand of the King, the brooch pinned neatly to his doublet.
Behind them waited Ser Harwin and Larys, the latter’s gaze drifting across the gathered court with open, unsettling curiosity.
As the distant sound of horses and carriage wheels reached us from beyond the gates, I gathered my skirts and took Rhaenyra by the arm, hurrying to claim my place beside my father. She stepped just behind me, as was proper.
Daemon followed close at our backs. I did not look at him as he settled into position, his hand resting lazily upon the hilt of Dark Sister.
The gates creaked open.
Through them rode a vast retinue of fine horses and richly adorned carriages, moving in perfect procession as they entered the courtyard.
I tried not to wince as my intricate hairstyle tugged at my scalp with every slight turn of my head, the silver diadem pressing into my skin, its gemstones heavy against the interwoven strands of braids. Ignoring the discomfort, I fixed my attention on the largest carriage by far, painted in Velaryon blue and silver, broad enough to seat ten at least. Eight black Frisians drew it forward before the assembled court.
A page in seagreen blue and silver hurried to place a stepping block, while another stationed himself beside the door. Once all was set, the carriage was opened.
Lord Corlys emerged without needing to stoop, stepping into the midday sun with a bright, unabashed smile as he took in the crowd gathered to receive him.
With a buoyant little hop, he descended and turned to offer his hand to his wife.
Princess Rhaenys regarded us with far more restraint than her husband, though she allowed him to assist her down. Clad in Velaryon blue and silver, she cut an imposing figure, with black hair streaked with silver, gleaming against her tall frame, every inch the Targaryen princess.
As she stepped forward and linked her arm through Corlys’, their children followed. Dark skin and silver hair caught the light in stark contrast, their bright blue garments embroidered with silver seahorses glinting as they took their place before the court.
Ser Steffon’s voice rang out across the courtyard.
“Lord Corlys of House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark, and his lady wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, and their children: Ser Laenor Velaryon, heir to Driftmark, and Lady Laena Velaryon.”
Polite applause rippled through the gathered court as the Velaryons approached the king.
My father stepped forward with a warm smile, extending his hand to Corlys before drawing Rhaenys into a brief embrace, pressing a kiss to her cheek. When he stepped back, his gaze sharpened as he took measure of Laenor and Laena in turn.
Laenor stood tall, though not yet as broad as his father. His long silver hair was braided tightly against his scalp and drawn back from his face. He was handsome in a youthful way, traces of boyhood still softening his fine features at seventeen.
Beside him, Laena had blossomed into the sort of beauty that would inspire songs. Long silver curls framed her face and lifted in the breeze as she moved with a natural grace I could not help but envy. Though only fifteen, she already carried herself like a woman grown, the cut of her gown accentuating the curve of her hips and the fullness of her form.
My father’s greeting to Laena was measured, almost cautious. The young woman returned it with perfect courtesy, no trace of resentment or envy in her genial expression. Her gaze was steady as she turned to offer her respects to Alicent, who looked faintly ill as she stared at the Valyrian beauty before her.
As the Velaryons moved down the line of nobles assembled to greet them, I maintained my smile. Lord Corlys stopped before me, pride gleaming in his gaze in a way that made me feel less like a princess and more like something being appraised.
“Princess Rhaella,” he murmured, his purplish-blue eyes sweeping over me with undisguised calculation. “You grow lovelier by the day. I am pleased to see you again.”
“Thank you, my lord,” I replied, though my stomach churned. He inclined his head and moved on, his attention shifting to Rhaenyra.
My sister did not bother to mask her own scrutiny of the Velaryons. The faint wrinkle of her nose told me she found them wanting.
Rhaenys followed after her husband, her expression unreadable as she studied me. Her gaze lingered on the diadem woven into my silver hair and the elaborate gown my father had commissioned for the occasion. At last she spoke, her tone smooth and even.
“Good morrow, Princess. We have heard such pleasing reports of your accomplishments. You have my congratulations.”
The words were gracious.
The sentiment, less so.
Rhaenys had once stood as her father’s heir, the expected successor to the Iron Throne, until his death in his own campaign upon the Stepstones. When he fell, King Jaehaerys had passed over her in favour of my grandfather, Prince Baelon. After Baelon’s own untimely death, a Great Council had been called, and the lords had chosen my father almost unanimously.
Rhaenys had been left with a different title instead.
The Queen Who Never Was.
It could not be easy for her to watch another woman named heir a generation later, the lords compelled to swear fealty, the king upholding a princess’s claim to the Iron Throne where once hers had been denied.
As she moved on, I fought the urge to stare after her, uneasy that she might disrupt the proposal or, worse, endorse it now only to sabotage me later in some quiet act of revenge.
I was pulled from those thoughts when Laenor stepped before me. My stomach dropped.
He looked sheepish and reluctant, despite the smile fixed upon his handsome face. Swallowing hard, he bowed slightly.
“Princess,” he murmured.
He said nothing more, and the silence stretched awkwardly between us. Mindful of the eyes upon us, I moved to fill it.
“Cousin,” I said, forcing warmth into my tone as I reached for his hands and stepped closer. “I am glad to see you well. Congratulations on your victory in the Stepstones. I hear you fought gallantly. The realm owes you and your family a debt for your service.”
He offered another strained smile, murmured his thanks, and made his escape further down the line.
Guilt pricked at me as I watched him go. He did not want this. Like many before him, he dreaded marriage, though for reasons of his own.
Letting my gaze drift among the Velaryon retinue, I caught sight of a man standing slightly apart. His long reddish hair framed his handsome face as he watched Laenor with open longing.
Ser Joffrey Lonmouth.
I felt a flicker of pity for the knight, forced to watch his beloved pay court to a princess he might be compelled to wed, while he remained in the shadows, unseen and unacknowledged.
The rest of the introductions passed without further incident. Once concluded, the court drifted toward the gardens, where a luncheon had been prepared, and minstrels played to entertain us as we awaited the grand feast planned for that evening in honour of the Velaryons’ return.
Meanwhile, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys, Lord Lyonel, and my father withdrew together to discuss the particulars of my betrothal to Laenor. I knew what would be said; my father and I had already debated it at length. Still, it stung to be excluded from the final negotiations.
I also knew Lord Corlys would be offered his former seat as Master of Ships, and that, should he accept, Ser Tyland would be moved to take up Lyonel’s old office as Master of Laws.
Gathering my ladies, I turned and offered a bright smile to Laena, who stood in quiet conversation with Rhaenyra.
“Cousin,” I called lightly, “will you not join us in the gardens? We have much to catch up on. My uncle will no doubt see that Laenor feels welcome.”
I shot Daemon a pointed look when I caught the sneer curling at his mouth.
In the weeks since Otto’s dismissal, Daemon had appeared almost content. He played the dutiful prince at court, dividing his time between the yard and reacquainting himself with the City Watch. He had not, however, been restored as Lord Commander. My father’s trust was too frayed for that. Instead, Daemon had taken to the library, spending long hours with Vaegon over Valyrian histories and old tomes on dragons and Old Valyria.
I did not trust his newfound gentility. My agents among the servants kept me informed of his movements, and Ser Harwin watched the men who had followed Daemon to Dragonstone with particular care. Many still sang the Rogue Prince’s praises.
As if summoned by the thought, Ser Harwin stepped forward. For once, he was not clad in City Watch armour, but in a well-cut doublet of blue and red, his hair combed neatly back and tied at the nape.
He reached out and clasped Daemon firmly on the shoulder, ignoring the glare my uncle sent him at the familiarity.
“I will join them, Princess,” Harwin said easily. “We have much in common.”
He flashed a comradely smile at Laenor, who struggled to return it, then turned and bowed to a blushing Rhaenyra. She extended her hand, and the great knight pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
It seemed that after a brief period of wounded pride, their courtship had rekindled in earnest.
With the king’s approval and a betrothal contract already drafted so they might wed a few months after my own, the pair made little effort to conceal their affection. They hunted together in the Kingswood, lingered in the library and gardens, and accompanied me into the city for my charitable work. When Ser Harwin was not occupied with his duties, he was at my sister’s side.
Much to Daemon’s irritation.
And, surprisingly, to valiant Ser Criston’s as well.
The Kingsguard stood nearby, his displeasure plain as he watched Rhaenyra laugh and rise onto her toes to press a kiss to her betrothed’s cheek.
Eyeing the Dornishman with unease, I made a quiet note to add him to the list of those my informants were to watch more closely. He had always been kind, if somewhat overzealous in his protection of Rhaenyra. Since her betrothal, however, that vigilance had sharpened into something more unsettling.
He volunteered for extra shifts to ensure he accompanied her on every excursion into the city. Whenever anyone lingered too near, he bristled like a hound guarding its master, issuing sharp commands as though he, not the crown, dictated who might approach.
Yet despite my concerns and the hints I had offered my father, Criston had done nothing overtly wrong. Nothing worthy of censure. And so he remained at her side.
But despite their show of perfect contentment, of a love that could rival the best love songs, I could see the tension that lingered underneath. How Rhaenyra darted away from Harwin, her gaze lowered as he stared at her with dark, inscrutable eyes.
They put on a good show, but I could see the fractures hidden underneath.
Harwin loved Rhaenyra, but her brief foray with our uncle had hurt him, and despite her own affections, I knew Rhaenyra’s pride ached at the idea of apologizing. Add that to her fear of marriage and childbirth, and the couple appeared to be at a standstill.
Shaking my head, I forced those thoughts aside and linked arms with a beaming Laena, leading her into the gardens. Bright flowers and perfectly trimmed hedges stretched before us, the grounds sprawling for acres, thick with exotic flora and carefully tended fauna.
My ladies followed several steps behind while the rest of the court dispersed, wine goblets in hand, nibbling at sugared cakes and murmuring amongst themselves. Laena and I wandered at a measured pace.
When I glanced at her, I did not have to force the warmth in my smile.
“How are you enjoying the gardens, my lady?” I asked once I was certain no one lingered close enough to overhear. “It has been some years since you last saw them. We have expanded the grounds. My father had additional species brought in from Essos.”
“They are beautiful, Princess,” Laena replied, her manners impeccable. She squeezed my arm, then gave it a playful nudge as she lowered her voice. “I hear we are soon to be sisters. How exciting. Laenor may appear shy, but he understands what an honour it is to serve as consort to the realm’s first ruling queen.”
My smile faltered for the briefest moment before I steadied it.
“I am glad to hear it. Our houses must stand united if the realm is to remain strong. Together, none would dare stand against us.” I inclined my head slightly. “And congratulations on claiming Vhagar. I saw her overhead. She is magnificent.”
Laena snorted softly.
“She is a cranky old bitch,” she said, drawing a startled laugh from me.
Grinning, she continued, “I adore her, but she is. She refused to enter the Dragonpit, so I had to land her in a nearby field. She will only eat cows and sleeps half the day. It takes an age to coax her into the sky, but once she rises…” Her eyes lit with pride. “She is beyond compare.”
Beaming at her enthusiasm, I let Laena chatter on as we wandered through the gardens. Over my shoulder, I glimpsed Rhaenyra, intent upon something Willa whispered in her ear. She appeared at ease, which was comfort enough.
When I turned forward again and realized where our path had led, I quickened my pace.
“If you wish to see something truly wondrous, cousin,” I murmured, lowering my voice, “come with me.”
Laena followed eagerly as we passed through a guarded gate into a walled section of the grounds. High stone enclosed a wide stretch of meadow, newly planted trees lining its borders. At its center lay a small pond, and beyond it, berry bushes and other greenery had been cultivated for the enclosure’s newest resident.
I did not have to search long.
From the treeline stepped a familiar, imposing white figure.
Phantom.
My white hart moved forward with a quiet majesty that could not be taught or imitated. Several does trailed behind him, none white, though graceful all the same.
My gaze drifted past them, searching.
There, nestled against their mother’s flank, were two small shapes—tiny fawns, their coats a brilliant white like their sire.
Our breeding programme was working.
Swelling with pride, I led my ladies toward a nearby gazebo, where a servant waited with a tray of refreshments. We seated ourselves, and I summoned a minstrel, who began to play a soft, lilting tune as we looked out across the meadow. The herd grazed peacefully, hooves pressing into the earth, ears flickering, and tails swishing in quiet contentment.
Taking up a small bucket filled with grain, I rose, Laena quick to follow at my side. I gave a low whistle.
At once, the herd lifted their heads.
When they caught sight of the bucket, they trotted toward us, ears pricked, nostrils flaring as they scented the feed. Knowing how spirited they could be when food was involved, I scattered the grain wide before me so they might eat without crowding.
Only one did not rush forward.
Phantom remained apart, watching.
He regarded the bucket with interest but did not approach, standing instead at a slight distance as the others fed. Lifting my skirts, I crossed the space between us, a handful of grain cradled in my palm.
I held it out in silent offering.
For a long moment, he simply stared at me. Then he lowered his head and accepted the grain from my hand, his velvet-soft lips brushing my skin as he fed.
A quiet laugh escaped me as I reached up to stroke his neck, feeling the steady strength beneath his white coat.
“They are gorgeous, cousin,” Laena called from where she knelt before the twin fawns, her eyes wide with wonder as she watched them nurse at their mother’s side.
“They are,” I replied softly.
The fawns wobbled on uncertain legs, their white coats catching the sunlight like fresh-fallen snow. Phantom lifted his head at last, ears twitching, ever watchful even in peace.
For a brief moment, the noise of court and politics felt far away. There were no whispers here. No shadows creeping through corridors. Only sunlight, music drifting on the breeze, and the quiet pulse of life continuing as it always had.
I let my hand rest against Phantom’s neck a moment longer before stepping back.
Soon enough, the feast would begin, and with it, the negotiations and bargains.
But for now, I allowed myself this small moment of peace to nourish me for what was to come.
As I retreated to the quiet of my chambers to ready myself for the feast, I could not help but feel this all encompassing weight upon my shoulders as I made my way up into Maegor’s Holdfast, for the first time in a long time, I was alone, my ladies having all left to ready themselves in the privacy of their chambers, and a save for Ser Steffon’s comforting, silent, presence, I was alone.
Sighing, I untangled the heavy diadem from my hair and, with shaky hands, set it down on my vanity as I sat down heavily and began to attempt to untangle the intricate braids Rose had coiled my hair into that morning.
Pulling out pins headed with red rubies, I sighed as I took in my reflection. My cheeks looked gaunt despite my hearty diet; small, dark bruises circled my eyes, hidden by powder.
Sighing, I returned to the task, keeping my eyes from the mirror whenever I could.
The door creaked open behind me. Rose stepped inside, a gown draped carefully over both her arms. When she saw what I was doing to my hair, she clicked her tongue under her breath. After laying the gown across the bed, she crossed the room in quick strides.
“Give me that, Princess,” she muttered, her scolding more habit than actual irritation. “You’ll tear out all your pretty hair like that.”
I surrendered the pins without protest.
Closing my eyes, I let my head fall back slightly as she worked. Her fingers moved deftly, undoing the braids I had half-destroyed, only to begin weaving them anew with far more care than I possessed at that moment. The steady rhythm of her touch, the quiet scratch of the comb through hair, lulled me.
I do not know how long she tended to me.
At some point, I drifted into dreams of clear skies and wind rushing beneath my wings.
A gentle nudge at my shoulder brought me back.
“Up, Princess,” Rose murmured softly, urging me to stand.
I obeyed, though my eyes burned with the urge to close again. Standing there, loose-limbed like a doll, I let her guide me as she stripped away the black and red and replaced it with my customary Arryn blue and silver. Ironically close in shade to Velaryon blue.
How fitting.
My lip twitched at the thought as she tightened the ties at my back and smoothed the skirts into place. With a satisfied hum, she turned me toward the floor-length mirror near my wardrobe.
I had to admit, I was pleased.
Silver embroidery followed the lines of the bodice in deliberate patterns, narrowing at my waist. At the centre sat a worked metal belt, a small three-headed dragon set plainly against the blue.
The sleeves draped from my shoulders in long, open falls of fabric, heavier than they appeared, settling near my wrists before tapering into fitted cuffs edged in silver. When I lifted my arms, the cloth shifted. The skirt fell straight to the floor, structured enough to hold its shape. A cloak fastened at my shoulders, its lining a shade darker, grounding the blue's brightness.
Blue and silver, tiny falcons in the stitching, dragons embroidered at my waist. I straightened, watching the sleeves settle as I did. I was ready.
Stepping into the slippers Rose had laid out, I drew in a steadying breath and made for the door, only to pause when a knock sounded against it.
I had not sent for anyone.
Frowning, I glanced at Rose. She lifted one shoulder helplessly, her freckled face drawn with the same confusion I felt.
“Enter,” I called.
The door opened to admit Ser Steffon, broad as a tower in his white cloak, his weathered face set in careful neutrality.
“Ser Laenor Velaryon, Princess.”
He bowed and stepped aside at my gesture, allowing Laenor to enter.
He wore Velaryon silk, darker than I had ever seen him favour, the blue so deep it was nearly black. Gold thread traced the seams instead of silver, catching the candlelight with restrained brilliance.
To match his Targaryen betrothed.
My lips twitched faintly as I took him in. His pale silver hair had been brushed back with unusual care, though one stubborn curl had already fallen loose at his temple. He stopped a few feet from me, painfully stiff, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His hands flexed once at his sides before stilling. His gaze skittered around the chamber, searching for somewhere to land and finding nothing.
He looks as though he stands before a headsman, I thought.
Compassion rose in me, unbidden. We had grown together in these halls. I remembered him smaller, all limbs and laughter, sunburnt from the sea, his skin peeling at the nose while he boasted of storms weathered aboard his father’s ships.
Now that same sea-glass brightness in his eyes was dulled by dread.
I offered him a gentle smile and waited. Silence, I had learned, often forced truth to the surface.
Nearly five full minutes passed before he forced the words out.
“My father says… he says we are to be wed.”
I inclined my head slowly, careful not to patronize him. “Yes, cousin. Does the idea trouble you?”
His eyes widened in alarm, their violet almost startling against the flush rising in his cheeks. “No. I mean— I hold nothing against you, dear Rhaella, it is just…”
The rest caught in his throat. Shame settled over him like a visible weight, bending his shoulders a fraction lower.
Seven save me, he thought himself monstrous.
I could not bear it.
Stepping forward, I took his hands in mine. His fingers were warm, calloused from sword hilt and reins, though they trembled faintly within my grasp. I held firmly enough that he could not retreat. I tried to catch his eyes, though he fought to look elsewhere, blinking rapidly against the tears gathering there.
“I know, Laenor,” I said softly, “that if it were left to you, you might choose differently. But the gods are the only arbiters of a person’s… inclinations.”
His head snapped up, disbelief cutting through his misery.
“You… know?” he breathed.
“You shared a tent wall with Daemon for three years,” I replied gently. “And even before that, we were children together. I noticed your gaze lingered less on the maidens of the court and more on the training yard. Or rather, on the squires within it.”
A flicker of remembered glances passed between us. I had not understood it fully then, only that it was different. Now I understood very well.
“Then why?” he asked, voice tight. “My father said it was your idea that you helped the king draft the betrothal contract. If you knew… why?”
Because I cannot afford softness, I thought.
“Dare I say,” I answered evenly, “that it was precisely your inclinations that guided me to the decision. That, and your father’s fleets, his gold, and your family’s dragons.”
He looked painfully lost, as though I had shifted the ground beneath him.
“I am to be the first ruling queen of Westeros,” I continued. “To do that, I must bolster my claim. Your house will suit perfectly. And, selfishly, I will not have to worry over entertaining a husband or keeping him enthralled.” I let the faintest edge of wryness touch my voice. “You are loyal, brave, and a proven warrior. Given the chance to shine, you will make a fine consort.”
I watched him carefully. Awaiting his reaction.
“I don’t understand,” he said, frowning. “You don’t want love in your marriage?”
Love. The word felt immaterial in my mind, like dandelion seeds in the wind.
“Not the romantic kind, no. It only complicates matters. What I need is a partner. Someone I can trust to stand beside me, to help me build stability, and to fight for my claim when the time comes. You can do that.” I said, firmly.
His cheeks flushed deeper. “I cannot,” he blurted, then stumbled over himself. “What I mean is… I have never been able to lie with a woman, Rhaella. I do not think I could give you children.”
There it is. The true issue at hand.
“Then it is fortunate,” I said calmly, “that it is not required of you in the way you fear.”
His confusion sharpened.
“With the help of my great-uncle, Archmaester Vaegon, I have been reading of fertility methods used in Essos. When a man cannot perform the marital act, there are tried and tested ways to fulfill one’s duty.”
His mouth parted, shock plain upon his face.
“As long as you are discreet,” I added, lowering my voice, “you may continue as you have. With Ser Joffrey… was it?”
His breath caught sharply. Colour drained, then returned.
“And you would… allow…?”
“As long as you are discreet,” I said quietly, “your private affections are your own. I have no desire to govern them. I ask only for loyalty and discretion.”
Above all, discretion.
“You would truly permit that?” Laenor asked, his words faint from awe.
“I would.” I replied, before my voice turned stern, furrowing my brows, I continued, “But not recklessness. There cannot be a scandal. I will not have my reputation tarnished because my husband cannot restrain himself with one of my household knights.”
He winced, though he did not protest. Good. He understood the consequences of such a blunder.
“You would offer him a position?” he asked carefully.
“Yes. A respectable one. Something fitting his station and skill. And, if he serves well and remains prudent, a suitable marriage can be arranged for him in time. To a woman as… understanding as I am.”
Laenor stared at me as though I had rewritten the laws of nature.
“You have thought of everything,” he whispered.
I have had to think of everything since I was fifteen and suddenly named heir.
“I have had to,” I answered simply. “The realm will scrutinize every glance between us. They will watch for weakness. We cannot afford to give them any.”
He swallowed, then finally squeezed my hands in return, his grip firmer now.
“You would trust me with this?”
“I would. But understand me, Laenor. If ever your discretion falters, if ever gossip threatens my claim, I will act. Not as your cousin. As your queen.”
My words held weight, a silent threat as I held his gaze until he did not look away.
He paled in response, but after a long moment, he nodded.
“You shall have my loyalty,” he said quietly.
“That is not enough,” I replied, though not unkindly.
Understanding dawned. Slowly, deliberately, he released one of my hands and dropped to one knee before me, the movement controlled, ceremonial.
As it should be.
“I swear it,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet mine. “Before the Seven, before the Old Gods, before whatever gods still watch us from Valyria. I swear to stand beside you, to defend your claim, to guard your name, and to place your crown above my own comfort. You will have no cause to regret this match.”
The room felt very still.
I studied him, not as a girl who had once chased him through corridors, but as a future queen measuring her consort. The resolve in him was real. Frightened, yes. But real.
I placed my hand lightly upon his shoulder.
“Rise, Laenor Velaryon,” I said softly. “And stand beside me, future Prince Consort.”
He rose at once, colour still high in his cheeks, but something steadier now in his posture. The trembling had left his hands.
Good.
I moved to the door first, then paused, offering him my arm.
“Shall we?”
A faint, almost relieved smile touched his lips. He took my arm properly this time, his grip respectful, measured. Not a scared little boy, but a man choosing his own path.
When Ser Steffon opened the door, the noise of the keep rolled in, music swelling, voices rising, the bright clash of goblets and laughter.
The feast awaited.
Laenor drew in a breath beside me. I felt the tension leave him in increments.
“Together,” he murmured.
“Together,” I echoed.
And with that, we stepped out to meet the court.