Chapter Text
It is an accepted convention among many scholars, most notably Maester Aubrey in his seminal work The Life and Death of King Jaehaerys III, to mark the commencement of the Century of the Seven Queens with the opulent and ill-fated celebrations of the third moon of 297 AC. This event, the Great Wedding of King Jaehaerys III Targaryen—a monarch history would come to remember as "the Unfortunate"—provides a dramatic and convenient curtain-raiser for the chaos that followed.
Yet, to accept this date is to mistake the eruption for the first spark. The true genesis of that turbulent century lies fourteen years earlier, in the aftermath of another war. Thus I will instead use the year 283 AC, specifically the fifth moon following the birth of the king himself. For it was then, with the infant Jaehaerys not yet two moons old, that Lords Jon Arryn, Tywin Lannister, and Mace Tyrell met in secret. It was in those clandestine negotiations, not amidst the later pageantry, that the marriage pact which would culminate in the Great Wedding was first forged. As Maester Herbert so astutely observes in his Historical Consideration on Weddings, "Politics rarely awaits for official ceremony." The seeds of the century's defining strife were sown not in the glare of the wedding feast, but in the quiet, calculated shadows of a political compact made over a cradle.
—Maester Randyll, The Defining Century: A Closer Look at the Years Between 283 AC and 401 AC
Three soft knocks, like a guilty heartbeat, reverberated through the silence of the royal chamber. Behind his closed eyelids, Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, let out a silent breath into the musty, incense-thick air. Parting his lips slightly, he feigned the deep, even rhythm of sleep—a deception he wasn't proud of, but one the circumstances demanded. Across the chamber, the heavy door groaned on its iron hinges as it swung inward.
“Your Grace?” The voice was a woman’s, hushed and frayed, its edges softened by a lowborn accent. A servant. Relief, cold and sharp, washed through him. Had it been his mother, the air itself would have tightened; there would have been no pretense, only the ruthless scrape of curtains being drawn.
Twelve muffled footsteps crossed the cold expanse of the stone floor. Then came the liquid rush of water pouring from bucket to basin, a sound like a roaring waterfall in the oppressive quiet. Jaehaerys kept his breathing steady, a measured counterpoint to the frantic flutter beneath his ribs, wondering how many hours of the new day had bled away already. The sun had clearly risen, its light a dull, pale pressure against his lids. True rest had eluded him; his hours had been a frayed tapestry of fitful dozes and anxious waking, his mind circling like a trapped bird, never sinking into the soft, merciful depths of genuine sleep.
The servant’s departure was swift and silent, the final, falling drips of water marking her exit like punctuation. Alone again in the brooding silence, Jaehaerys opened his eyes to the cold, carved stone of the ceiling. Today was his fourteenth name day—the day he had dreaded since childhood, when the shadow of its meaning first fell across his understanding. The day of his wedding or more specifically his weddings.
Most young men chafed at marriage, resenting the expectations, the long lectures from fathers demanding grandsons and heirs who would avoid scandal. Jaehaerys would have traded places with any of them in a heartbeat, would have gladly borne their mundane rebellions.
His father, Prince Rhaegar, had shattered the unity of the Seven Kingdoms when he stole his mother, Lyanna Stark. To mend such a fracture would have required more marriage pacts than House Targaryen could possibly broker in their diminished state. The solution, though crude, was brutally simple: once he came of age, the king would take seven brides, one from each great kingdom except the North. The Faith, after a suitably substantial donation to its coffers, had blessed the arrangement, its septons preaching the sacred necessity of unity to the masses in honeyed tones that curdled in Jaehaerys’s ears. Now, fourteen years later, the day of the ceremony had arrived, its weight pressing down on him like a tomb slab.
Perhaps some boys would have rejoiced at the prospect of legally wedding—and bedding—seven women. For Jaehaerys, it felt less like a king’s privilege and more like a sentence to be served in gilded chains. He could imagine nothing worse, not even the Stranger’s cold embrace.
It was not the institution of marriage he opposed, nor the duties it entailed. He was, after all, a boy of fourteen; he had felt that strange, fluttering heat in his gut—the one Lord Baratheon, his mother’s new husband and the current Regent, droned on about with such sodden gravity. He had felt its quick, innocent spark when a pretty maid smiled his way in a sunlit hall.
The true horror, the cold knot in his stomach that no dawn could loosen, lay in the seven women who were to be his queens.
First was Lady Cersei Lannister, nearly two decades his senior, whose terrifying father had made it excruciatingly clear he expected a grandson on the Iron Throne. She had smiled at Jaehaerys only once, a fleeting, perfunctory gesture that left him feeling dissected, unsure whether it was true or simple mockery.
Next was Lady Margaery Tyrell, whom he should have felt closest to. They had chased each other through sun-dappled gardens as children, their lives woven through shared years at court. Yet therein lay the quiet heart of his dread: she felt like a sister to him. And for all his family’s queer, fiery traditions, Jaehaerys had inherited the Stark sensibilities along with their long face and solemn grey eyes.
Lady Arianne Martell had been raised as heir to all of Dorne, a future ruler shaped by sun and sand, until it became clear that neither Prince Doran nor Prince Oberyn would produce another suitable daughter for a king. Most women would sacrifice much for a crown, but Arianne was not most women—she could have been the ruling Princess of Dorne. Hoping to find a kindred spirit in shared resentment, Jaehaerys had dared to speak with her once when she first arrived in the capital. She had promptly cursed him in a fluid, venomous whisper, her eyes dark with a fury, seizing the opportunity to remind him that it was his father’s folly that forced her to become only a queen, surrendering her birthright for this.
Lady Asha Greyjoy was, simply put, absolutely terrifying. When Maester Pycelle had given a rudimentary lecture about their marital duties Asha had leaned over and whispered to Jaehaerys that she would split his skull with an axe if he ever got her with child. Over time, her threats had only grown more… inventive. The sole, cold comfort was that the entire court seemed to share her aversion to a Greyjoy heir to the Iron Throne.
Ladies Myranda Royce and Alynne Connington—who had become inseparable over recent years—were perhaps the easiest to manage, provided one stayed out of their line of sight. They had bonded over a shared, voracious love of courtly gossip, brewing scandals with alarming consistency. Jaehaerys could scarcely fathom how he might one day command seven kingdoms when he could not begin to understand how two women could orchestrate so much silent chaos with nothing but a glance and a whispered rumour.
Last was Lady Sarya Whent, who was perhaps Jaehaerys’s favorite of his betrotheds, if only because she wished nothing to do with him. Quiet and timid as a ghost, she seemed a girl who would have been far happier in the silent, solemn halls of the Silent Sisters. Alas, she was the nearest female kin to Lord Tully, and so a queen she must be.
His thoughts were shattered by another series of knocks, not soft like before, but sharp and declarative, as if it were iron, not flesh, rapping against the heavy wood. Jaehaerys understood immediately. He swiftly turned onto his side, facing the outer wall, and screwed his eyes shut, a boy playing a game he had already lost.
The door was thrown inward as if struck by a storm, admitting not a person of flesh and blood, but a force of nature. Unlike the servant’s hushed reverence, his mother, Lyanna Stark—now Baratheon—did not bother with being quiet. The thick velvet curtains were ripped aside with alarming swiftness, the wooden rings screeching in protest, and the window right across his bed was thrown open to its limit, inviting in a warm, salt-tinged ocean breeze that felt less like an embrace and more like an invasion.
Jaehaerys knew his deception had been terminally futile from the moment her boot heel struck the threshold. Yet, stubbornly, childishly, he refused to surrender the pretense. He kept his breathing slow and deep, a fragile barricade against the dawn.
The mattress dipped decisively on his right side, the weight of her presence as palpable as her resolve. “We are not to be disturbed, Ser Arys,” his mother called from beside him, her voice leaving no room for question.
“Of course, my lady,” the muffled voice of the Kingsguard answered from the doorway, followed by the final, solid thud of the door closing, sealing them in.
A heavy silence settled, broken only by the distant cry of gulls riding the sea wind. “Now,” his mother began, her tone softening into a gentle, knowing probe. “What has happened to my son? For I know he is a diligent young boy and would never sleep this late into the morning, not on a day that sings so brightly.”
Her hands, calloused from years of hawking and riding yet infinitely gentle, framed his face. Jaehaerys fought to keep the smile from his lips, to maintain the charade of slumber, but the warmth of her touch was a tonic against his dread. He didn’t quite succeed; a traitorous twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“Come on now,” Lyanna whispered, her voice a soft murmur. Her fingers gave his cheeks a playful, pinching shake. “It’s time for you to wake up.”
Jaehaerys opened his eyes, the world coming into focus not on the cold stone ceiling, but on the familiar, loving face hovering above him. The morning light shone on her face which was starting to show the first signs of aging but her gentle smile remained the same. He took a small, steadying breath, drawing comfort from it. “It’s time, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice hoarse from the morning, already knowing the answer.
“Yes, my sweet boy,” she answered, her smile faltering for a heartbeat, a crack in her regal composure that revealed the mother beneath. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “It is time.”
His morning routine unfolded with a strange, ceremonial numbness, its steps familiar yet freighted with new, dreadful significance. He washed lightly at the basin first, the water cool and sharp, before sinking into a deep copper tub filled with rose-scented water. Silent, efficient servants scrubbed at his skin with soft brushes and pumice stones, scouring away any imperfection, as if preparing a sacrificial calf. Scented oils were worked into his limbs until he gleamed faintly in the dim light. His dark, unruly curly hair was combed with meticulous care until it fell in a perfect, silken curtain down to his shoulders.
After that it was time for the ceremonial clothes. His black moleskin trousers, sewn with two subtle lines of crimson silk like veins of fire, were drawn over his smallclothes. Next came the heavy tunic of black velvet, a field of night upon which a fortune in rubies had been sown. Over his chest, the gems snarled into the shape of two facing three-headed dragons, a frozen, glittering conflict. A simple leather belt, its buckle a knot of battling silver dragons, cinched the garment to his slender frame. Then, the silk jacket, black as a starless sky, slashed with six bold crimson stripes down its front, back, and sleeves, all woven through with a delicate lattice of black cord. A heavy red mantle was fixed upon his shoulders with a clasp of onyx and gold, it was cut into the shapes of two snarling dragon heads without their jaws.
Finally, the cloak. It was attached to the cords on his sleeves and to the mantle on his shoulders, a great sweep of black wool lined with blood-red silk. The master tailor had declared it would make him look like a dragon brought to life. His mother had taken one look during a fitting and privately laughed that he looked more like a very regal flying squirrel. Studying himself in the tall silvered mirror now, Jaehaerys had to concede she was not entirely wrong. Yet he found a coward’s comfort in the garment; the broad sweep of the cloak and the extra material of the mantle helped disguise his lanky, boyish frame, lending him a silhouette of substance he did not yet feel.
With practiced, wordless efficiency, the servants finished their adjustments, offered quick, shallow curtsies, and melted from the room, leaving him alone again. The silence they left in their wake was not peaceful, but expectant—a held breath before a plunge.
Jaehaerys’ gaze fell upon the final piece waiting on the velvet cushion, his crown. It was a band of sharp, black iron points that rose like jagged teeth. They reminded him less of regalia and more of the grim, defensive spikes that studded the moat between Maegor’s Holdfast and the rest of the keep. As a child, he’d always been wary of crossing that bridge, his small heart hammering with the irrational terror that he would trip and be impaled on those metal teeth. Even now, a young man of fourteen, he dared not walk anywhere but the exact, safe middle of the heavy wooden walkway.
He picked up the crown delicately, its weight cold and insistent in his palms. Staring into the polished gold band that connected the iron spikes, he saw his own grey eyes reflected back. It had been worn by Jaehaerys II and Maekar I before him, two near opposites in legacy. He felt no kinship to either. He was no relentless warrior like the Anvil had been, nor sickly and clever like his namesake. Instead, Jaehaerys was just… average.
It had been his mother who had chosen this crown. In her own words, she had selected it for its stark resemblance to the ancient crown of the Kings of Winter, a piece of the North she could secretly gift to her son. Jaehaerys would have preferred something simpler, perhaps a plain band of gold like the unadorned circlet he’d worn during his coronation when he had been but a swaddled babe, too young to feel its weight. Mayhaps he could have had that one resized as he grew, so that he might have a crown that was truly, solely his own, not an inheritance of sharp edges and borrowed history.
“Ser Arys,” Jaehaerys called to his loyal Kingsguard, his voice sounding strangely small in the opulent room. He placed the crown back on its cushion.
“Your Grace.” Arys answered with a shallow bow as soon as he’d stepped through the door, his white cloak still settling from his abrupt movement.
“I require your help,” Jaehaerys said, his eyes now once again fixed on the circlet of iron and gold.
He didn’t see Arys nod, only heard the soft scuff of his boots as the knight took a few quick, respectful steps forward. Now that he was close, Jaehaerys could view him in the standing mirror—a pillar of white steel and solemn duty. He watched as Arys’s gloved hands, so often wrapped around a sword hilt, delicately lifted the heavy crown. The knight raised it with a practiced reverence, holding it aloft for a moment before lowering it slowly onto Jaehaerys’s brow. A king could not crown himself, nor could a lowborn servant; it had to be a knight, a septon, or a lord. Jaehaerys found the whole tradition a hollow pantomime, another chain of expectation. Had it been his uncle guarding the door that morning, he might have simply skipped it, trusting in shared blood and silent understanding. Alas, it was Ser Arys, and for all his Kingsguard vows, Jaehaerys could not trust him—or any of them—fully. Even a single rumor that would paint him as anything but wholly legitimate was not a rumor he could afford.
A visceral shiver ran down his spine as the cold metal finally settled against his skin. Ser Arys removed his hands, the weight now solely Jaehaerys’s to bear.
“Your Grace,” the knight murmured, bowing his head once more, his duty fulfilled.
Jaehaerys took a deep, steadying breath in, the air tasting of incense and impending fate. He raised his chin ever so slightly in a futile gesture to look like he belonged and breathed out slowly. Then, with a resolve he did not fully feel, he turned on his heels and marched out of the chamber, the red and black cloak swirling behind him. Ser Arys fell into step, a silent white shadow close on his heels, following his king wherever he went.
The corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast were mercifully empty and still, a silent, stone-ribbed sanctuary in sharp contrast to the churning sea of humanity that filled the rest of the keep. Beyond the small keep, nobles and their households from all seven kingdoms jostled and murmured, a living tapestry of ambition and pageantry. Jaehaerys had never possessed a taste for such crowds; where his regent, Lord Baratheon, seemed to swell and roar amidst the throng, Jaehaerys felt himself shrink. He couldn’t charm a lord over a roast boar, or make ladies sigh with a well-turned phrase. His halls were filled with false courtesies and lickspitles. That was why they were all truly here, even the fathers whose daughters would wear crowns—not for him, but for the shadow of the throne he occupied.
Nonetheless, Jaehaerys could do very little about it besides suffer through, as he’d always done.
The door to the King’s Hall was a massive, forbidding thing fashioned from fine, dark wood carved with the images of kings he felt unequal to. Two guards in immaculate black cloaks stood sentinel on either side, their surcoats emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of his house. Their postures were rod-straight, chins lifted, eyes fixed ahead with an intensity that seemed to vibrate in the quiet hall. Surprisingly alert, Jaehaerys thought, though perhaps that sharpness was simply the effect a king’s approach had on common men. As he drew near, they moved as one, their gauntleted hands snapping to the great iron handles. With a synchronized heave, they began to pull the monumental doors inward, the sound a deep, groaning prelude to his fate.
Jaehaerys was taken aback to see his Hand, Lord Jon Arryn, already within the vast hall, bowing his head with a grave formality as the young king entered.
“You may be seated,” Jaehaerys said, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space as he moved to take his own imposing chair at the head of the long table. Ser Arys remained a white shadow in the corridor, the great doors groaning shut behind him, sealing the gathered in. “My Lord Hand,” he began, settling the heavy folds of his clothes, “I’m surprised to see you here. I had thought you would be with the other lords, preparing for the festivities.”
“I hope it is not an unwelcome surprise, Your Grace,” Jon Arryn said, his aged face softening with a small, paternal smile as he prepared to sit once more, his movements slow with the care of long years.
“Nonsense, Jon,” Lord Baratheon’s voice boomed, a thunderclap that seemed to rattle the very goblets on the table. He leaned back in his seat, his body straining the leather. “The boy should be grateful to have a steady hand like yours to guide him. Gods know he needs it.”
Jaehaerys gritted his teeth, the familiar heat of resentment flaring in his chest. His mother’s husband had never bothered to mask his disdain. Robert had hated Rhaegar with a fury that songs were made of, and that hatred, hot and enduring, had naturally extended to Rhaegar’s son. His Master of Coin’s son, Lancel, had once sneered that the only reason Jaehaerys hadn’t been tossed into Blackwater as a babe was because Robert was too eager to get into his mother’s bed. He’d bloodied Lancel’s nose for that though over the years, he’d learned to swallow such truths, letting them settle like stones in his gut.
From the corner of his eye, he saw his uncle Benjen, a stark figure in the Kingsguard white, hide a scowl behind a deep draft from his wine cup, his knuckles white around the stem.
“I am sure my son is very grateful for your counsel, Lord Hand,” his mother said, her voice clear and deliberate as she placed a calming hand over Robert’s massive fist on the table, “as we all are.”
Jon Arryn’s smile returned, a diplomat’s practiced art. He gave a slight, acknowledging nod to Lyanna. “The gratitude is mutual, my lady,” he said, turning his weary, wise eyes fully upon Jaehaerys, “it is an honor to serve such a fine young man,” he finished, lessening the tension in the air.
Food was brought to them with swift, silent efficiency, as if the kitchen staff in some distant alcove had been holding a collective breath, waiting for the precise moment their labor could serve as a truce. A hefty bowl of porridge, studded with chunks of bacon and sweet peas, was placed before Jaehaerys with a dull, final thud against the aged wood of the table.
The King’s Hall was not as vast as the Great Hall or even the Small Hall, but it held its own solemn grandeur. Three long tables were arranged in a broad triangle, each capable of seating thirty—a design from a more populous time. During the reign of Jaehaerys the First, it had become tradition for the sprawling royal family to break their fast here, the many solars of Maegor’s Holdfast having grown too cramped for their number. The tradition, like so many others, had clung on through triumph and tragedy, so that even now, when only a single Targaryen sat in King’s Landing, the tradition was still upheld.
Technically, Jaehaerys mused, stirring his porridge, he was not entirely alone. There was a great-great-granduncle on the Wall who’d sworn his vows before Jaehaerys’s own grandfather was born, and an aunt and uncle across the sea. Viserys and Daenerys had fled Dragonstone in the Rebellion’s final, frantic weeks, shadows scurrying from the light of Robert’s seeming ascendancy. Once Jaehaerys had been crowned no one at court had any wish for their return. A threat to your rule, Jon Arryn would counsel, his voice weary. Dragonspawn, Robert would snarl into his wine. The council’s solution had been simple, the Iron Throne supplied the last free Targaryens with enough gold to live in opulent irrelevance in the Free Cities, provided they never again cast their shadows on Westerosi shores.
“Eat, nephew,” his uncle Benjen’s voice cut through the reverie, low and edged with concern. He gestured with his own spoon. “Or your food’s going to grow cold.”
Jaehaerys only nodded, the simple instruction a small mercy. He bent his head and dug into the porridge, the warm, bland taste a grounding anchor against the tide of history and expectation that filled the empty hall.
“It would do good for you to preside over court today,” Jon Arryn said, after finishing his own portion. His tone was carefully neutral as finally revealed his true purpose for intercepting the morning meal.
Jaehaerys had sat the Iron Throne before, of course—dry, rehearsed sessions meant to prepare him for the end of his regency. But those had been over trivial matters: disputes between smallfolk about stray livestock, or minor Crownland lords squabbling over some rights. Today, the entire realm had gathered. Every lord with a grievance, every grasping knight with a petition, would be there, their eyes like hooks, waiting to see if the young king would bend to their will.
“The entire small council would, of course, stay by your side,” his mother rushed to add, her eyes catching the flicker of panic that must have shown on his face. “You need only listen to their counsel and decide what is best.”
“It would do wonders for the Lord Paramounts to see their young king ruling with his own voice,” his uncle Benjen added, though his tone suggested he understood the weight of the spectacle being arranged.
“And when has the court been called?” Jaehaerys asked, his heart beginning a swift, drumming rhythm against his ribs.
“By midday,” his Hand answered, his expression serene.
“But—but it is midday right now,” Jaehaerys managed to stutter, his gaze darting to the high, narrow window where a blade of punishingly bright sunlight sliced across the stone floor.
“Which is why we should leave for the throne room immediately,” Jon Arryn said, and for a fleeting moment, a mischievous twinkle flashed in his kind blue eyes.
Understanding dawned on Jaehaerys even before he saw the swift, conspiratorial glance pass between his Hand and his mother. This had been their design all along—to spring the duty upon him, leaving no time for the careful construction of an escape. Jaehaerys was not lazy, but he had become an artist of evasion when faced with the most cumbersome of his royal burdens. A sudden promise to go hawking with Margaery. An impromptu, exhaustive practice spar that would necessitate a long, restorative bath. An unfortunate, last-minute tumble down a stair that left him with a convincingly sprained ankle. He had thought his excuses, woven with adolescent ingenuity, were effective. He should have known his mother was always three steps ahead.
“Then let us hurry at once,” Jaehaerys said, pushing his nearly empty bowl away with a sense of solemn resignation. He rose, silently mourning the quiet, brooding hours he had anticipated—hours he could have spent steeling himself for the seven brides awaiting him at day’s end. Now, he would face one gauntlet only to immediately turn and face another.
“…for you’ll surely see, Your Grace, that my honourable brother was only defending himself from that brutish Connington boy and his baseless accusations…”
Jaehaerys was losing the thread. The young Lord Lester Morrigen’s voice had become a droning stream, weaving a tale of a tavern brawl that had somehow spiraled into a matter of state. Apparently, the youngest Morrigen had traded blows with Ser Ronnet Connington—cousin to Jaehaerys’s Master of Laws, and brother to one of his betrotheds—over some dusty land dispute supposedly settled in his grandfather’s reign. It seemed old enmities, like bad ale, always rose to the surface after enough drink.
“…I would ask that Your Grace show his famed mercy and release my brother, so he may partake in the wedding celebrations,” Lord Lester finally concluded, his plea hanging in the thick, expectant air of the throne room.
Jaehaerys’s mind, which had been wandering toward the oppressive weight of the metal crown on his brow and the sevenfold headache to come, snapped back unsteadily. “I would hear the counsel of my Master of Laws,” he declared, the words leaving his mouth before the connection fired in his brain. He realized his mistake only when he saw the flicker of dismay cross Lord Lester’s face.
“I am honoured by His Grace’s trust in me,” Jon Connington began, rising. Jaehaerys silently cursed his own inattention. The man’s voice was gravelly, strained with the effort of impartiality. “I will strive to remain unbiased in my counsel, though it was my own cousin who was afflicted in the altercation.” It was a valiant effort to cloak Jaehaerys’s blunder in the guise of royal confidence, but the court was not fooled. The unspoken truth hummed in the silence: the young king had not been listening. “The law is clear. A knight who strikes another must be held until he makes formal apology to the aggrieved party. Ser Guyard has refused, claiming lawful defense against a slander. Normally, a trial would determine the truth, but the royal wedding has forced a postponement of such proceedings. I would counsel Your Grace to heed longstanding tradition and defer the matter until after your nuptials.”
Jaehaerys felt the eyes of the court upon him, sharp as daggers. Agreeing with Connington would show blatant favoritism toward a house he was about to marry into. Yet, simply releasing the man would be an insult to the Conningtons and make a mockery of the crown’s justice. He was trapped between a rock and a hard place.
He took a measured breath, the cold metal of the throne’s arms biting into his palms. “I thank you for your loyal counsel, Lord Connington.” He leaned forward, the jagged edges of the throne pressing into his thighs and fixed his gaze on Lord Lester Morrigen. “I understand your trouble, my lord, and I share your desire for family unity. However, your brother has committed a crime not merely against another knight, but against the peace of the Crown itself, on the eve of a royal celebration. This cannot be simply brushed aside.” He paused, letting the gravity settle. “Therefore, Ser Guyard and Ser Ronnet will settle this matter in a trial, to be held after the royal wedding.”
A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall. It sounded as if he had followed Connington’s advice to the exact detail. He saw Lord Lester’s shoulders slump slightly in defeated acceptance.
“But,” Jaehaerys continued, his voice rising to cut through the whispers, “my wedding is to be a joyous affair for all the realm. It would be a pity for Ser Guyard to miss the celebrations entirely due to a simple misunderstanding. Thus, I decree he be released from the dungeons on these conditions: he must remain in the capital until his trial, and he is forbidden from entering the lists in the tourney to follow.”
The compromise was a delicate thing. It upheld the law and the Crown’s authority by demanding a trial, it showed no overt favor by punishing the knight with the tourney ban and it offered a gesture of goodwill with the temporary release. Lord Lester bowed, his voice tight but dutiful. “A most just and considerate proposal, Your Grace.” The annoyance was there, thinly veiled—no doubt he’d hoped for a tourney champion to bring glory to House Morrigen. But Jaehaerys found he did not care for Lord Morrigen’s disappointment. His gaze sought the side of the dais, where Jon Arryn sat. The old Hand gave a single, slow, almost imperceptible nod of approval. It was a small victory, hard-won in a battle of his own making, but for a moment, the relentless pressure in his chest eased by a fraction. Yet he could not savor it for long, the whole court had gathered and was now once more looking to him.
“Next!” Jaehaerys called, his voice echoing in the cavernous throne room as he leaned carefully back against the jagged, unforgiving iron of the throne.
“Lord Rodrik Ryswell, Lord of the Rills!” the announcer’s voice boomed, cutting through the murmur of the court. A man clad in a thick fur mantle, woefully out of place, stepped forward from the crowd. Jaehaerys winced inwardly as he saw the lord swipe a damp handkerchief across his florid face; the Northman was clearly suffering under King’s Landing’s muggy, oppressive heat, a world away from his windswept halls.
“What say you, my good lord?” Jaehaerys asked, forcing his tone into one of regal patience.
“Your Grace,” Lord Ryswell began, his voice a gravelly rumble, “I have come before you to ask for a reassessment of my owed taxes.” He paused, mercifully brief. “It has been a long summer, and as Your Grace knows, that means a long winter ahead. We must begin to collect winter supplies in larger surplus, and the gold for—”
The lord was interrupted by the dry, papery sound of Grand Maester Pycelle struggling to his feet. The old man’s chains clinked softly as he rose, a laborious undertaking. “The honourable Maesters of the Citadel,” he intoned, his voice grave, “have thus far found no true, scholarly correlation between the length of a summer and the length of a following winter. It is mere superstition.”
Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand, was quick to wave a dismissive hand, but Lord Rodrik was faster. “It is a smallfolk saying, aye,” he countered, his eyes sharpening as he aimed his words at the now-seated maester. “But they are right as often as they are wrong. They live the seasons, they don’t just write about ‘em in books.”
Maester Pycelle’s mouth opened, ready with a dusty rebuttal, but a single, sharp glance from Lord Arryn sealed his lips. The tension, however, had already been sown.
Jaehaerys felt the weight of every gaze in the hall. He sought a path through the thickening air. “This is a matter between a lord and his liege lord, Lord Ryswell,” he said, his gaze shifting to the gallery where his uncle, Eddard Stark, sat beside Jaehaerys’ mother, “I am sure my uncle, your Lord Paramount, will be most sympathetic to your pleas and will discuss them with you at length.”
“Of course, Your Grace. As you say,” Lord Ryswell replied, his tone flat. He gave a curt bow that was all tight-lipped courtesy before melting back into the crowd, his fur mantle a banner of discontent.
Jaehaerys watched him go, a cold knot forming in his gut. He had ended the audience, avoided a petty debate, and deferred to tradition. Yet, he felt the decision settle like a thin layer of ash. He had not led but simply passed a burden. The throne’s edges felt sharper than ever, and he could not pinpoint the exact moment he had failed, only the hollow certainty that he had.
“Next!” he called, the word beginning to feel like a stone in his mouth. Another petitioner, a minor knight from the Marches whose surcoat was faded from sun and travel, stepped into the hall’s vast center.
“I’ve come to ask Your Grace’s leave to bring to justice a—”
Jaehaerys stifled a sigh. He could already guess the tale: a boundary dispute, a stolen herd, a slight to honor. Now he would only need to suffer through the next few minutes as the man explained it in dreadful, self-important detail. His attention, like a moth drawn to a candle flame, flickered helplessly to the raised gallery where his betrotheds sat. All seven of them, along with their attendant ladies, cousins, and vassals' daughters, took up nearly the entire balcony, a mosaic of silks and jewels.
Lady Cersei was not even bothering with the pretense of attention. She leaned slightly towards an older woman with golden hair, a Lannister unmistakably, their whispered conversation a world apart from the knight's plea. Margaery, in contrast, was the perfect picture of an attentive future queen, her lovely face turned toward the throne, a gentle smile on her lips. Yet Jaehaerys was sure her focus was not on the knight but on the whispers of her grandmother, the Lady Olenna, who sat like a small, sharp-eyed spider just behind her. Neither Princess Arianne nor Lady Asha were speaking, each an island of simmering silence in the crowded gallery, having invited barely anyone to share their space. The Ladies Myranda and Alynne were in stark contrast, their heads bent together with a gaggle of other ladies, the air around them practically buzzing with shared conversation. And Lady Sarya was, as ever, in retreat; she seemed to be reading a small book hidden discreetly in her lap.
“Ahem.”
The sharp, pointed cough from below jerked Jaehaerys back to the present. The young knight stood in the center of the hall, his explanation finished, a flush of embarrassment or irritation rising on his neck. The court had noticed the king’s wandering gaze.
A wave of hot shame washed over Jaehaerys. “Very well,” he said, the words awkward in the sudden silence. He cleared his throat, glancing desperately toward his Small Council, seeking an anchor. “My Lord Hand,” he said, forcing his voice into a tone of deliberate consideration, “I would wish to hear your counsel on this matter.” He steeled himself, gripping the cold arms of the throne, willing his focus to remain in the here and now, in the duty he was already failing.
The court session finally ended after two dozen more petitions—fifty in all, a blur of grievances, flattery, and demands. Jaehaerys felt hollowed out by the sheer volume of them, and he knew with cold certainty that he could not recall a single one now, even under the point of a blade.
“You did mostly well,” his Hand, Jon Arryn, said as they walked the long, echoing corridor back through Maegor’s Holdfast. The older man’s pace was measured, fatherly. “A few moments of distraction, but you found your footing. These things come with time and practice.”
“I thank you, my lord,” Jaehaerys began, his own steps feeling heavy. “Though I suspect you’ve accompanied me for a bigger reason than to comment on my performance.”
“You’re as observant as ever,” Jon said with a faint, weary smile as they turned the corner toward the king’s private quarters. The air grew cooler, quieter. “You are to be wed in a few short hours. I wished to ask how you felt.”
Jaehaerys was almost taken aback by the directness. Lord Arryn had always been a steady, paternal presence, a pillar of the realm, but this inquiry felt more personal than the duties of his office required.
“I—” Jaehaerys began, the words catching in his throat. “I suppose I’m… nervous. It’s like there’s a stone in my stomach, and it’s been growing heavier every day since I understood the true nature of my duties.”
“I’d wager all men feel that stone, to some degree,” the Hand said, his voice softening. He placed a gentle, reassuring hand on Jaehaerys’s shoulder. “Believe it or not, I was nervous all three times I stood before a septon.”
“Truly?” Jaehaerys asked, looking into the old man’s kind, lined face, searching for the truth.
Jon only gave a slow, solemn nod as they stopped before the ornate doors to the king’s chambers. “You must not let that stone grow so heavy it paralyzes you,” he said, his smile returning, thin but kind. “You are the king. You have a duty to see through, for the realm’s sake. Remember, the man may falter but the king must remain strong.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jaehaerys said, feeling a faint, unexpected warmth seep through the cold dread, making him feel ever so slightly lighter.
“I am sure you will,” Jon replied, the weight of the realm visibly settling back onto his own slumped shoulders. “Now, I must go and meet with the rest of the Small Council. No doubt another hundred problems have sprouted like weeds during our little walk.”
Jaehaerys managed a genuine smile as the old falcon turned and left, his footsteps fading down the stone hall. He pushed the heavy door open. “See that I am not disturbed, Ser Arys,” he said to the white-cloaked knight standing vigil. The guard bowed his helm.
Once alone, the silence of the chamber enveloped him. He crossed to the great canopied bed and let himself fall back onto it, sinking deep into the feather mattress. He stared at the embroidered canopy above. He could do this. He would not be the distracted boy from the throne room. He would be the king. A determined smile tugged at his lips as he closed his eyes, clinging to Lord Arryn’s words. For a moment, in the quiet dark behind his eyelids, he allowed himself to believe it. Everything would work out just fine.
Everything was most definitely not alright.
Jaehaerys stood rigid before the High Septon, the weight of his robes feeling less like finery and more like a suit of lead. The Sept of Baelor was a sea of faces, a mosaic of expectations stretching from the marble floor to the vaulted ceiling, and beyond its walls, the entire, teeming city held its breath. The fragile confidence he'd clung to after his talk with Jon Arryn had evaporated the moment he’d mounted his horse for the procession. Now, the stone in his stomach was so heavy he wondered if his legs would obey when the time came to move.
"The man may falter, but the king must remain strong," he whispered under his breath, a desperate incantation against the tide of panic. The words felt hollow, swallowed by the vast, incense-heavy air.
Any moment now, the colossal doors would groan open, and his seven brides would begin their final walk toward him. Then would come the recitation—pages of vows and responses he’d memorized but now seemed a tangled blur. All the while, the eyes of their families would be dissecting his every breath. To steady himself, he let his gaze drift over the assembled nobility, a futile exercise in distraction.
To his left, the first row glinted with Lannister red and gold. They had been the most ardent advocates for this arrangement, and their reward was the place of highest honor. Behind them, the Dornish lords smoldered in their silks. Only Prince Quentyn represented House Martell in the hall, a boy looking solemn and out of his depth. Prince Doran, they said, was too ill to travel which meant it lay on Prince Oberyn to give away the princess. In the third row, the Conningtons sat stiffly beside the Baratheon brothers. Surprisingly it seemed it would be Lord Jon Connington, not the girl's brother, who would give Alynne away. Lastly came the principal riverlords. Elderly Lady Whent wore a serene, distant smile, as if already envisioning her timid daughter up among the other would be queens.
On his right sat his own family. His mother’s eyes were fixed solely on him while beside her, Lord Baratheon’s gaze roamed the crowd. Next came the Tyrells, a garden of satisfied smiles. Lord Mace, with his sprained ankle, beamed with a victor’s pride, a founding member of the triumvirate that had forged this plan for unity. Behind them, the Arryns and the various branches of the Royces formed a bloc of Vale stoicism. And in the last row, a splash of grim iron: the Harlaws, Lord Baelor Blacktyde, and Lord Balon Greyjoy's youngest son, Theon, beside them. His elder children were "preoccupied." Reaving, Jaehaerys thought with a chill. They are reaving, even on my wedding day.
HRAAAAAAAAAAAAHNNN—
The sudden, brazen blare of trumpets shattered the thick murmur of the crowd. Jaehaerys flinched, the sound a physical blow. His heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic bird. The massive doors began to swing inward, admitting a brilliant shaft of afternoon light. The ceremony, his fate, was beginning.