Red Keep
Aegon stood before the polished mirror in his chambers, adjusting the high collar of his tunic with care. The fabric was rich black, embroidered with subtle silver thread, suitable for the ceremony to come. He frowned faintly as a fold refused to lie flat.
From behind him, Gael appeared in the mirror's reflection. She wore a gown of soft yellow silk, the sleeves and hem edged with delicate silver vines that shimmered faintly in the light. A small, fond smile touched her lips as she gently brushed his hands aside. "Here," she said softly, her fingers deftly smoothing the stubborn fabric into perfect alignment. "It is only right you look your best today. The realm will see your brothers knighted… and learn that their prince can forge Valyrian steel."
Aegon met her eyes in the mirror, his own expression softening at her touch. "The realm was already expecting it," he replied, his tone calm, "just not so soon, perhaps."
Her hands lingered on his shoulders for a moment before she stepped back, her attention shifting to her own reflection. She turned slightly, checking the fall of her gown, the way the silk caught the morning light streaming through the window. The yellow made her pale skin glow and her lilac eyes seem brighter, almost luminous.
Aegon watched her quietly, taking in the earnest concentration on her face as she performed this final inspection. A low, quiet chuckle escaped him before he could stop it.
The sound made her glance up, catching his amused expression in the mirror. A faint blush colored her cheeks, and she looked away at once, flustered but unmistakably pleased.
He closed the distance between them, his arms slipping around her waist from behind, drawing her gently back against his chest. He rested his chin lightly on her shoulder, their faces side by side in the mirror, framed together in polished glass.
"You look beautiful," he murmured, his voice a low whisper near her ear.
He felt the slight tremor that passed through her at the words, subtle but unmistakable. She leaned into the embrace in response, her hands coming to rest over his, fitting there as if they belonged.
After a moment of comfortable, shared silence, he spoke again.
"I have a gift for you."
She tilted her head just enough to look at his reflection, curiosity lighting her features. "A gift?"
"Yes," he said simply. He unfolded his right hand, which had been resting against her. In his palm lay a necklace. The chain was made of fine silver links, delicate yet strong, and from it hung a pendant: a small, teardrop-shaped amber jewel that caught the light warmly.
With careful hands, he lifted the chain and brought it around her neck. His fingers were sure as he fastened the clasp at the nape, his touch brief and warm against her skin. Once it was secure, he drew her back into his arms again, both of them looking at the new adornment resting just above the neckline of her gown.
Gael lifted a hand, her fingers tracing the cool, smooth surface of the chain before brushing the amber itself. "It's beautiful," she said, her voice full of genuine warmth and awe.
"It is Valyrian steel," Aegon said quietly, watching her reaction in the glass.
Her eyes widened in surprise. She turned her head to look at him, her breath catching slightly as understanding settled.
He smiled then and kissed her cheek, a soft, fleeting touch. "How could I forge swords for my brothers and make nothing for my betrothed?" he asked, his tone light, though his meaning was clear and deeply felt.
For a moment, Gael could not find words. A low, heartfelt "Mmm…" was all she managed, a sound of overwhelmed affection as she leaned her head against his chest.
"You must always wear it. I have… enchanted it," Aegon continued, his voice turning more serious. "Imbued it with a measure of protection."
Gael did not ask what that measure was, nor did she need to. She turned fully in his arms so she could face him, her hands resting against his chest. She looked up into his eyes, her own shimmering with emotion. "I will," she promised, her voice firm despite its softness. "I will never take it off."
He smiled down at her then, a true, unguarded expression that softened the usual sharpness of his features. Bending slightly, he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, a gesture filled with affection and quiet promise.
The intimate moment was broken by a polite but firm knock at the chamber door.
Aegon did not immediately let her go. He held her gaze for a heartbeat longer before calling out, "Enter."
The door opened, and one of the senior maids stepped inside. The woman's eyes took in the scene before her, and a small, approving smile touched her lips before she carefully schooled her features back to polite neutrality. She dipped into a curtsy.
"My prince, princess. The King and the court are assembling in the outer yard. The ceremony will begin shortly."
Aegon nodded. "We are ready."
He finally released Gael, offering her his arm. She took it at once, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his elbow. She glanced once more at the mirror as they turned to leave, her fingers giving the Valyrian steel pendant one final, reassuring touch.
Together, they left the quiet of the chamber behind, walking side by side as the sounds of the gathering court swelled in the corridor ahead.
The Great Hall was filled to its vaulted rafters.
Most of the nobility of the Crownlands had gathered, joined by lords and ladies from farther afield who had arrived early for the ceremony. They stood shoulder to shoulder along the long stone floor, silk brushing wool.
Sunlight streamed through the tall, narrow windows high along the walls. The air carried the low murmur of voices: measured, restrained, but alive.
"It is long overdue," one lord whispered to another.
"Daemon, a sword on his own," came a reply. "Gods help whoever stands in his way."
"And Viserys," murmured a lady nearby. "A knight at last. His mother would have been proud."
From the high, dark iron steps of the Iron Throne, King Jaehaerys I looked out over them all.
Age had thinned his hair and bowed his shoulders, but nothing had dulled the sharpness of his gaze. His hands rested on the arms of the throne, still and steady. The hall quieted around him almost unconsciously, movements slowed, whispers softened. Even those who had seen him rule for decades felt the weight of his presence settle over them.
Near one of the great stone pillars, slightly apart from the densest press of bodies, stood Prince Aegon. Princess Gael rested on his arm. She stood quietly at his side, her posture graceful and composed, her soft yellow gown catching the sunlight when she shifted. Aegon's face showed little as he watched the hall, his eyes moving from noble to noble.
At the front of the hall, near the open space before the throne, Princes Viserys and Daemon waited with their father, Prince Baelon.
Viserys stood straight-backed, his hands folded neatly before him. His face held a calm satisfaction, a quiet pride. Daemon stood with his feet set wider, his arms relaxed. His eyes flicked briefly toward the crowd, then back to the throne, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
Whatever their differences, both brothers knew this moment mattered.
A herald stepped forward and raised his trumpet.
The blast cut through the hall, sharp and clear.
Silence fell.
The herald's voice followed, formal and ringing.
"King Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm."
All eyes turned upward.
King Jaehaerys rose slightly from the Iron Throne, resting both hands upon its arms. When he spoke, his voice was old but firm, carrying easily through the great space.
"Lords and ladies of the realm," he began. "You stand here today not merely to witness ceremony, but to bear witness to duty fulfilled."
He spoke of the Peace, of the simple right of smallfolk to travel their roads without fear, and of the lords' charge to guard that right. He acknowledged the efforts of Lords Rosby and Darklyn with a courteous nod.
His gaze then settled on the two princes below him.
"When word came of bandits preying upon the Rosby road, I sent my grandsons. They did not charge headlong into the woods. They showed patience. They used the knowledge of the local foresters."
Jahaerys spoke plainly, without flourish.
"At dawn, they found a camp. But the leaders, the Essosi deserters who had started this, were gone. They had fled, leaving lesser men behind as a distraction."
The King paused, letting the cunning of the tactic sink in.
"Prince Viserys remained. He and his men laid an ambush for the second group of outlaws returning to that camp. They were captured, and justice was served upon them there."
He then turned his attention to the other prince.
"Prince Daemon pursued the deserters. With his brother, he tracked them to the coast north of Duskendale. They were intercepted. The matter was ended, decisively. The road, now secure."
He did not speak of dragons or fire.
The result was the only testament required.
"They went on my command," Jaehaerys said, his voice final. "They faced ambush and deceit. They completed the task. They upheld the Peace. That is the essence of a knight's duty."
He raised his hand.
"Prince Viserys. Prince Daemon. Step forward."
The two brothers moved as one, stopping at the base of the dais.
"Kneel."
The brothers did so together, knees striking stone in unison.
A Kingsguard stepped forward, standing beside the throne. In his hands were two long, narrow bundles, still wrapped, their contents hidden.
King Jaehaerys drew Blackfyre.
The great blade slid free with a soft, familiar whisper. He stepped down from the throne and approached Viserys first. The tap upon each shoulder was precise and measured.
"In the name of the Seven and by my authority as king," Jaehaerys said, "I charge you to be just, to be steadfast, and to uphold the peace of the realm."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Arise, Ser Viserys Targaryen."
Viserys rose smoothly, his breath steady, his eyes bright.
The king turned then to Daemon and repeated the ritual, the taps just as exact.
"In the name of the Seven and by my authority as king," he declared, "I charge you to be just, to be fearless in protection of the innocent, and to uphold the peace of the realm."
"Arise, Ser Daemon Targaryen."
Daemon rose, with a sharp grin, his eyes alight.
Applause spread through the hall, warm and sincere, rising to a respectful volume as the court celebrated the newly minted knights of the royal house. It was a proper, sustained acknowledgment of the moment.
It was only when the sound began to naturally taper that the herald stepped forward once more, raising a hand not to silence a crowd, but to command its renewed attention. The message was clear: the ceremony was yet to conclude.
King Jaehaerys, who had been accepting the acclaim with a solemn nod, returned Blackfyre to its scabbard with a soft, final click. The sound seemed loud in the new quiet.
He did not resume his seat. Instead, he turned back to the Kingsguard who stood vigil beside the throne, the two velvet-wrapped bundles still in his hands.
With a silent motion, a second Kingsguard stepped forward. He took one end of the first bundle. Together, the two white-cloaked knights unfurled the dark velvet, letting it fall away to reveal the sword within. They repeated the gesture with the second.
A hush fell, deeper than before. Every eye followed the king's movement as the knights stepped back, leaving the bare swords presented.
He reached for the first sword, with a pale ash white hilt.
He drew it.
A breath passed through the hall.
The blade was sharp, its surface alive with faint ripples that caught the light. Its hilt was carved like bone, smooth and elegant, severe in its simplicity. There was no mistaking it.
Valyrian steel.
"This sword is named Last Mercy," King Jaehaerys announced. "Forged by Prince Aegon Targaryen, Valyrian pyromancer of House Targaryen."
The crowd stirred, heads turning as one toward Aegon. He stood quietly beside Gael, his expression composed, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.
"This sword stands for firmness," the king continued, effortlessly pulling all eyes back to him. "For finality. For the mercy that comes at the end of mortal suffering. Its nature suits a man of patience, conscience, and restraint."
He turned and offered the sword hilt-first.
"To you, Ser Viserys."
Viserys accepted it carefully, reverently. The weight of the blade settled into his hands, and he bowed his head slightly in respect.
Murmurs rippled through the hall.
Then the king turned again.
The second sword was drawn free.
Its hilt was dark red, like old wine, deep and rich. The blade itself was Valyrian steel, but of a different character than the pale Last Mercy; it seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it, its ripples like shadows moving in deep water.
"This sword… The Red Tempest," King Jaehaerys said. "Forged by the same hand."
Daemon's eyes fixed on it, unblinking.
"It is wrath made steel," the king continued. "A sword that seeks action. That thrives in contest. That will see blood spilled in the defense of the realm."
He extended it.
"To you, Ser Daemon."
Daemon took the sword with both hands, his grin sharp and unrestrained.
For a moment, the hall was silent.
Then applause broke out, loud and full. Lords clapped while exchanging looks heavy with thought. Ladies whispered behind raised hands. Some faces held wonder. Others held calculation.
All of them understood.
The lost art of Valyrian forging had returned to the world.
Above the din, King Jaehaerys looked across the hall once more. His gaze found Aegon.
He gave a single, slow nod.
Aegon returned it, slight and respectful.
Around them, nobles glanced again and again, from the twin Valyrian blades gleaming in Viserys's and Daemon's hands, back to the quiet prince beside the golden-gowned princess.
The meaning was clear.
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