96 AC
The air on the Narrow Sea was unnervingly still. Before them, the journey ended in a wall. A curtain of uniform, light-devouring grey stretched as far as the eye could see, a six-mile-wide blasphemy against the natural order. This was the Cursed Murk. The Strangler's Mists. A year ago, it had simply appeared, and since then, it had swallowed every fool and every ship that dared its embrace.
The trade galleon, a sturdy vessel flying the flag of a red gull, cut through the placid water. Most of the crew worked in a grim silence, their movements economical, their eyes fixed on their tasks or the deck, anywhere but the looming grey wall. The only sounds were the creak of timbers, the lap of water against the hull, and the terrified whispers of the five new hires.
"By the Seven, look at the size of it," one boy breathed, his knuckles white where he gripped the rail. "They say the Stranger himself waits in there, with fingers of fog."
"My uncle's fishing galley was lost near here," another muttered, his voice trembling. "Not even in it, just… too close. They found him on the deck, black lines crawling up his neck like vines, his face blue. Choked on nothing."
"I heard there's treasure in there," a third offered, a desperate hope in his eyes. "Valyrian steel, chests of gold from sunken galleys…"
"Aye, and demons to guard it…" the first boy shot back. "The gold is a lure. It's a mouth, not a mist. And we're sailing right into its gullet."
Their fear was a palpable stink in the air, but the veteran crew members offered no reassurance, no scolding. They just worked, their silence more eerie. Each of these men, from the burliest deckhand to the cook, bore a small, identical brand on the side of their neck: a simple, stark red circle, like a drop of fresh blood.
The new boys, their necks unmarked, began to cluster together, their panic feeding on itself. "We have to turn back!" one of them finally cried out, his voice cracking. "This is madness! It's suicide!"
The revolt was short-lived. As the boys made a frantic move toward the helm, the veteran crew was upon them. There were no shouts, no drawn steel. Just a swift, silent, and overwhelming application of force. In moments, the would-be mutineers were subdued, their protests muffled by gags, their limbs bound in heavy chains. They were dragged below, their fate sealed.
Through it all, Captain Olyvar had not moved. He stood at the bow, gazing into the impenetrable grey. He did not turn at the commotion. The ship was now close enough that the outer tendrils of the mist seemed to reach for them. The Old first mate, his own red brand stark against his leathery neck, approached.
"Captain," he called, his voice low.
Olyvar's eyes, deep-set and shadowed, remained fixed ahead. "Proceed," he said, the single word flat.
Nodding, the first mate stepped back. Olyvar then drew forth something from his cloak. It was a sphere of black dragonglass, the size of two fists, obsidian so pure it seemed to drink the faint light. He cupped it in his hands.
As the galleon's prow came within a hundred yards of the wall, the dragonglass began to glow with intricate inscriptions. Not a bright light, but a gloomier, colder one. In response, the wall of fog directly ahead of them shuddered. It did not part like a curtain, but roiled and convulsed, pulling back with an unseen force, peeling open a narrow, tunnel-like path just wide enough for their ship. The mist churned at the edges of this passage, a solid, swirling barrier on either side.
The silence was broken only by the ship's passage into the tunnel. The world vanished, replaced by a twisting corridor of oppressive grey. Strange, muffled sounds echoed from the walls of fog, distant, watery groans, the ghost of a ship's bell, a whisper that might have been the wind or a dying breath. The temperature dropped sharply. The crew, even the veterans, huddled inward, watching the dread that pressed in on them from all sides.
Olyvar stood unwavering at the bow, the glowing obsidian sphere in his palms, as the galleon was swallowed whole, and the fog sealed shut behind them, leaving no trace of their passage on the empty, terrified sea.
Red Keep
Rhaenys Velaryon lifted her chin as the maid settled the last silver-and-sapphire clasp at her shoulder. In the polished bronze mirror, a woman with silver-gold hair and dark, sea-bright eyes looked back at her, Targaryen and Velaryon both, and yet, at this moment, she felt most of all like a mother trying to keep two squirming children from wrinkling their best clothes.
"Lady Laena, if you pull at that lace again, it will tear," she said mildly.
Laena, three years old and already possessed of the wilful tilt of chin that came from both sides of her blood, froze mid-tug. Her small fingers released the bodice of her deep blue gown, embroidered with tiny silver waves.
"It itches," Laena muttered, scowling down at herself.
"Gowns always itch on important days," Rhaenys answered, smoothing a palm over her daughter's soft hair. "That is how you know they are important."
Across the room, Corlys Velaryon was waging his own battle, trying to coax Laenor's chubby legs into tiny green breeches. Their son, two and indignant, kicked at the air like a landed fish.
"I told you we should have dressed him in the nursery," Corlys grumbled, though there was fond amusement under it.
"And let the nurse-maid choose colours for a royal ceremony?" Rhaenys replied, arching a brow.
Corlys huffed a laugh and finally caught Laenor's heel, tugging the breeches up and fastening them with quick, competent fingers. Laenor glared at his father, then at his own clothes, then at the world in general.
"Done," Corlys declared, lifting the boy easily into his arms. "You will thank me when they all say how fine you look, little lord."
Laenor responded by burying his face in Corlys's shoulder.
In the corridor beyond, Rhaenys could hear the hurried steps of maids and servants, the low murmur of voices, the scrape of chests being dragged, the distant call of guards. King's Landing itself seemed to be drawing breath. The lords and ladies of the Crownlands, the Riverlands, and the Reach were making their way up through the city, winding toward the hill of Aegon's High Hill and the Red Keep beyond, a river of colour and expectation slowly pooling toward the Grand Sept.
"Your cloak, my lady," one of the maids murmured.
Rhaenys held her arms out, and the maid settled the mantle across her shoulders, a rich Velaryon blue lined in pale sea-green, clasped with silver fashioned in the shape of twin seahorses. She adjusted it once, then turned to Corlys.
"How do I look?" she asked.
"Like the woman every sailor wants waiting for him at harbour," Corlys said without hesitation, his dark eyes warm. Then, softer, "And like a princess of the blood, as you were born."
She smiled at that, the familiar ache in her chest flaring and settling. "Come then," she said. "If we are late, the Queen will never forgive us."
They stepped out into the corridor, a small, self-contained fleet, Corlys with Laenor in his arms, Rhaenys with Laena's hand folded into hers, two maidservants bringing up the rear. The passage was a swirl of movement: scurrying maids, harried stewards, a harper hurrying by with his instrument clutched like a newborn.
Rhaenys kept her pace unhurried. Laena kept skipping a half-step and being gently tugged back into a more dignified walk.
As they descended toward the outer yard, the corridors widened, and they began to encounter other highborn guests. The colours of many houses mingled: dark green of the Rosbys, blue and red of Stokeworth, the crowned stag of Baratheon on a surcoat far ahead. The murmur of voices grew louder.
At a turning in the corridor, a small knot of people came into view, moving with grace. Rhaenys recognized them at once by their bearing and colours: white tower on grey, picked out in fine thread.
Hobert Hightower, walked at the front. Beside him, his younger brother Otto moved with a slower, more deliberate gait. Even from a distance, the black patch over one eye was obvious, a stark slash of darkness against his skin. The other eye, a clear and chilly green, missed very little.
They were speaking in low voices, heads tilted close.
Behind the brothers walked their families. Hobert's wife, a pleasant-faced woman in Hightower grey, was speaking animatedly to a dark-haired woman at her side, Alyrie, Otto's wife. Alyrie's arm was full with a small girl of eight or so, with chestnut hair and clear green eyes that watched everything in quiet, serious silence.
Alicent Hightower, Rhaenys remembered. The child had been at court a year now, in and out with her father, always so very well-mannered it was almost funny.
The women dipped small curtsies as they drew near.
"Princess Rhaenys," Hobert said, offering a deep bow. "Lord Corlys. The day grows more splendid for your presence."
Rhaenys inclined her head. "Lord Hobert. Lord Otto. You honour my house."
Corlys nodded politely.
"The honour is ours," Otto said smoothly. The patch did nothing to dull the focus of his gaze. His eye flicked, just once, to Laena and Laenor.
Laena pressed in closer to Rhaenys's skirts under that look.
"Hush," Rhaenys murmured down to her, squeezing her hand.
The girl Alicent glanced at Laena, their eyes meeting for a heartbeat: child to child in a hall full of towering adults. Alicent gave a small, polite nod. Laena stared, uncertain, then offered the ghost of a frown in return. Rhaenys hid a smile.
"We should not keep the High Septon waiting," Corlys said, courteous but brisk. "The city grinds to a halt when all the great lords clog the streets as it is."
Hobert laughed in booming agreement. Brief farewells were exchanged, and the parties flowed past one another, each carried along by their own currents.
As they emerged into the outer ward, the full scale of the day became clear. Litters, carriages, and mounted parties were streaming down from the Red Keep, joining the broader flow making its way toward the hill where the Grand Sept's white stone rose against the sky. Banners rippled above polished helms and feathered hats, a field of heraldry marching through the streets of the capital.
Laenor squirmed in Corlys's arms, staring in round-eyed fascination at the sight of so many knights and bright colours.
"Ships, Mama?" he asked hopefully.
"Not ships," Rhaenys said, smiling. "But something just as important."
Laena tilted her head up.
"And it will all be very solemn, so you must both be on your best behaviour," Rhaenys confirmed, her heart softening.
Laena's lips pressed together with exaggerated seriousness. Laenor just yawned.
The Grand Sept
The High Septon's hands were old, but they moved with careful precision as he adjusted the fall of his heavy crystal-worked cloak. He regarded his reflection in the polished steel plate hung on the wall, more for neatness than vanity. His thin white hair curled damply against his scalp where acolytes had sprinkled scented water earlier. The seven-pointed star on his chest was an old one, worn smooth by years of use.
Behind him, the younger septon waited with hands folded, his plain face anxious.
"Has our learned brother of the Most Devout said anything more?" the High Septon asked without turning. His voice was mild, but there was an edge beneath it.
The younger man swallowed. "No, Holiness. He did not speak against the ceremony. We have… been watching him, as you commanded."
"The smith must beat the iron before it warps," the High Septon said. He sighed and finally turned from the makeshift mirror. "He is not wrong to hate the Targaryens. Their fires have burned many in their time. But he forgets that even kings and dragons must bow their heads to the Seven. Better to have them bowing in our hall than raging outside it."
The younger septon nodded, though his eyes flicked nervously toward the door that led to the great hall.
"Is it noon yet?" the High Septon asked, moving to the narrow window slit. The light poured in, bright and almost directly overhead.
"Almost, Holiness."
"Then we had best not keep the realm waiting." The old man's mouth quirked.
The younger septon smiled despite himself and reached for the ornate staff. He handed it over with a small bow.
The High Septon leaned on it more than he once had, but the weight felt right in his hand. Symbol and support both. He breathed in deeply, catching the faint lingering scent of incense and beeswax, and felt his role settle around him like a second cloak.
"Come," he said, and pushed open the door.
The great hall of the Grand Sept was a forest of pillars and coloured light. Tall windows of painted glass threw dappled hues of red, blue, and gold across pale stone floors, the images of the Seven in all their aspects gazing down on the gathered nobility.
The murmur of voices filled the space, rising and falling like a tide. Crowns and cloaks and house colours flared everywhere Rhaenys looked as she entered with Corlys and the children, finding their places among the kin of House Targaryen on the lower steps of the dais.
Higher up, on the broad steps that led to the main altar, the royal family stood in formation. King Jaehaerys I, tall still despite his years, his beard gone mostly white. Beside him, Queen Alysanne in pale blue and silver, her hair like spun moonlight. Between and below them, their children and grandchildren: Baelon with his easy warrior's stance; Viserys with his softer face and thinning hair; Aemma at his side; Daemon restless as always, Jocelyn's steadying presence. Septon Barth stood a little to one side, heavy book in hand, eyes crinkled in amusement as he watched the crowd.
Rhaenys lifted Laena up onto the step in front of her and rested a hand on her shoulder. Corlys kept Laenor cradled against his chest, the boy already leaning drowsily against his father's doublet.
"…would have been better if Maegelle could have come," Alysanne murmured, her voice just audible above the low hum.
"She is as ever busy with her charges," Jocelyn answered gently, her widow's black softened with simple jewellery. "The sick children will not pause their suffering."
Alysanne sighed and nodded, a flicker of pride and sadness crossing her face. "She has her own calling, I know. Still. She should see this."
Jaehaerys glanced sideways at them, one brow lifting, but said nothing. Instead, he caught Barth's eye and gave the slightest of nods.
Barth understood. The old septon-scholar pushed himself to his feet with a small groan that was more habit than pain.
"Be welcome, everyone," he called, his voice carrying easily across the hall. "Why we are here needs no further introduction, saving this old man's breath."
A ripple of laughter moved through the assembled lords and ladies, easing the tautness in the room.
Barth turned, inclining his head towards the High Septon, who had taken his place before the altar, and then faced the crowd again.
"Well then," he said, louder now, "without further ado, let the betrothal ceremony begin."
At his words, the great doors at the far end of the hall swung inward with a slow, sonorous creak. Sunlight, bright and direct, spilled in from the open forecourt, spearing through the dust and incense.
Two figures entered, hand in hand.
The light caught them first, halos of yellow on silver-gold hair: Aegon Targaryen and Gael Targaryen, side by side, walking the long path between the watching houses of Westeros.
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