The Godswood, The Red Keep.
Inside the Red Keep's Godswood, the air was thick with the scent of pine needles and the salt spray of the distant Blackwater Bay.
The ancient Weirwood tree stood at the center of the grove, its trunk wide enough to require five men to circle it.
The "face" carved into its pale bark had been softened by time, yet the hollows of its eyes remained deep and haunting.
Beneath the afternoon sun, the blood-red leaves rustled like countless voices whispering in a lost tongue.
Viserys I sat in his specialized wheelchair designed by Aemond, pushed carefully before the heart tree by four attendants.
The King of the Seven Kingdoms was now a shadow, his magnificent robes hanging loosely over a skeletal frame.
Beneath his crown, his silver hair was sparse, and his once-sharp violet eyes were clouded and dim.
Queen Alicent stood beside him in a gown of deep Hightower green.
Her hands were clasped tightly, eyes swirling with complex emotions, the relief of her children's union, the terror of her husband's decline, and a buried guilt.
'I give him only medicine to soothe his spirit, she thought, so why does he wither so quickly?'
Nearby, Septon Ewen and Grand Maester Orwyle stood shoulder to shoulder.
Ewen, nearing sixty, wore white robes that billowed around his thin frame, the Seven-Pointed Star on his chest glinting.
His face, however, was as grim as a winter storm.
"Another internal union for House Targaryen," Ewen whispered, his voice dripping with undisguised sarcasm.
"Kinslaying, and now... this."
He left the thought of incest unfinished, though the weight of the "sin" in the eyes of the Faith hung heavy in the air.
Orwyle remained silent for a moment.
"Only Aegon is fit for the crown," he murmured, leaning closer to the Septon.
"Aemond, Daemon, Rhaenyra... none possess the temperament for rule. Unfortunately, these Targaryens have never cared for common virtue."
The Septon nodded, the muscles in his gaunt face twitching.
"The Faith, the Maesters, and the Great Houses... we all serve the Realm. We shall watch quietly. Let these dragons tear each other apart."
"The four realms have sent their demands," Ewen nudged Orwyle, his voice nearly lost to the wind.
"How is the King's health, truly?"
The Grand Maester allowed a faint, enigmatic smile to touch his lips.
"What do you think, Septon?"
The two shared a look of cold understanding. A confused, dragon-less Targaryen dynasty suited their interests perfectly.
They did not need a God-King who considered himself above the law.
Their gaze swept across the crowd, settling on Larys "Clubfoot" Strong, who raised a cup in a silent toast.
All three shared a mutual, unspoken understanding.
Footsteps broke the murmurs of the grove. All eyes turned to the path as Aemond and Helaena walked forward side by side.
Behind them marched a squad of guards in dragon-etched plate, their synchronized footsteps crunching through the fallen leaves.
Aemond wore a tailored black doublet, the three-headed dragon sigil embroidered in silver thread at his collar and cuffs.
As his gaze swept the crowd, many nobles instinctively lowered their heads.
Helaena held his arm, her silver-white gown trailing across the grass, the hem embroidered with hundreds of violets that seemed to dance with every step.
Her silver-gold hair hung loose, pinned only by a single amethyst clip at her temple.
She was flushed with a light rose tint, but her grip on Aemond's arm was steady.
As they passed the Septon and the Maester, Helaena offered a graceful nod.
They finally stopped before the heart tree, facing Viserys.
"Father," Aemond said, inclining his head.
Viserys struggled to lift his head, his clouded eyes moving slowly between his son and daughter.
His lips trembled, but he eventually gave a single, weak nod.
Alicent stepped forward, taking her husband's withered hand and whispering, "It is time."
Viserys took a deep breath, forcing his spine to straighten.
For a fleeting second, the shadow of the King who once sat upon the Iron Throne returned.
His voice, though raspy, was clear:
"Under the gaze of our ancestors, witnessed by the Seven and the Old Gods, I, Viserys Targaryen, First of My Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm... I preside over this union."
He turned to Aemond, speaking slowly.
"Aemond Targaryen, my son. Do you take Helaena Targaryen to be your wife? Do you vow to protect, respect, and be faithful to her until the end of your days?"
Aemond did not answer immediately. He turned to look at Helaena.
"I do."
His voice was heavy and rang through the silent Godswood.
Viserys turned to Helaena, his voice growing fainter.
"Helaena Targaryen, my daughter. Do you take Aemond Targaryen to be your husband?"
"To support, accompany, and be faithful to him in honor and in shame, until the end of your days?"
Helaena looked up. The light caught her face, making her violet eyes appear startlingly bright.
She did not look at her father, but directly into Aemond's eye, as if the world held only the two of them.
"I do," she said softly but without a trace of doubt.
Viserys nodded, his trembling hand picking up a dagger from his lap.
It was a relic of Valyrian steel, its hilt set with a pigeon-blood ruby.
"Then," the King proclaimed, "swear by Fire and Blood."
Aemond took the blade and, without hesitation, drew the edge across his left palm.
Blood welled and flowed, dripping into a silver chalice held by an attendant.
He handed the dagger to Helaena.
She took it and cut her own palm; her movements were slower than Aemond's, but no less firm.
Their blood mingled in the cup.
Aemond raised the chalice and drank the mixture in a single draught.
A few drops escaped the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin.
He then handed the cup to Helaena. She closed her eyes and drank.
The blood stained her lips, a stark contrast against her pale skin.
Finally, Aemond took Helaena's hand, pressing their bleeding palms together.
"Blood of my blood," Viserys declared with the last of his strength.
"Soul to my soul. From this day forth, you are one. One destiny, one life, one death. Let the ancestors of House Targaryen bear witness."
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