Chapter Text
The dress I will wear for my wedding is almost ready: it is so extravagant that it almost glows in the candlelight, while the servants take my measurements and cut and sew. Nothing is too much for the only daughter of Lord Manfred Hightower, ruler and Defender of Oldtown, and the only niece of the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven.
It was my dear uncle who arranged my betrothal, two years ago. And what a betrothal it was! My future husband, prince Maegor Targaryen, is the second son of King Aegon I Targaryen, whom everyone now calls "the Conqueror".
Many only whisper it, but it is possible that Maegor may make me queen one day: his older brother, prince Aenys, was frail and sickly as a child, certainly not very fertile. From his wife, a lady of House Velaryon, he has had only one daughter, who certainly cannot succeed him as ruling queen. This makes Maegor second in line of succession.
Perhaps, one day, I will no longer be Lady Ceryse Hightower, but Queen Ceryse Hightower.
.
I was born the year after Aegon's Coronation, but the septas who raised and educated me always said it was a magnificent and unforgettable spectacle. They spoke of Aegon I and his queens bringing their dragons and treasures, and how dozens of lords and ladies attended the ceremony.
I want my wedding to be equally lavish and gorgeous. Fortunately, my house is ancient, prestigious, and wealthy, so I can marry in the Starry Church and have a fabulous banquet.
The wedding date is approaching, and my impatience is growing. I have lived in Oldtown for twenty-three years, but I can't truly say I know it. Oldtown's harbor is famous throughout the Known World, and hundreds of people stop here every year to trade. But to protect my reputation, my father always thought it best for me to stay within the Hightower, our seat, an immense tower that is also the tallest structure in the Seven Kingdoms (of course, I have been allowed to frequent the Starry Church as much as I want).
There have been moments when it was difficult, though I never admitted it to anyone. Seeing my cousins and childhood friends, daughters of allies or vassals, leave Oldtown to get married while I stayed here... For a while, I feared becoming an old spinster, a dusty jewel trapped in the Hightower.
I had always assumed that my father and uncle would arrange a marriage for me with some important lord: a Tyrell, a Lannister, or a Redwyne.
And yet, when I turned twenty-one, they announced that I would marry the prince and join the royal family.
I was right to trust them.
I can't wait to meet Prince Maegor. I know he is younger than me, but it doesn't really matter.
Although... Since our engagement, I've heard rumors, whispers from septas and handmaidens. They say that queen Visenya wanted to betroth Maegor to Rhaena, the young princess and daughter of prince Aenys, and strongly protested when king Aegon decided to betroth him to me. They say Visenya despises the Hightowers and the Faith of the Seven.
The idea bothers me. First of all, Maegor and young Rhaena are uncle and niece. They may have only an eleven-year age difference, but blood ties cannot be ignored. It is immoral and disgusting even to consider a relationship between them.
And then, the fact that King Aegon married both of his sisters... It makes Aenys and Maegor products of incest, abominations in the eyes of the gods.
When Maegor and I have children, I will arrange excellent marriages for them with members of the most illustrious and ancient houses in the realm: perhaps an Arryn, or some houses like the Brackens in the Riverlands or the Manderlys in the North.
I might tolerate the idea of my eldest son marrying Princess Rhaena... If I really had to. The Faith of the Seven allows cousin marriages, but even that is seen as a bit unusual, sometimes.
.
In a month, I will be getting married.
My dress is ready. I look at myself in the mirror as the seamstresses finish sewing the final Myrish lace. May the Father above forgive me for speaking with pride, but I am beautiful: I have big blue eyes, golden blonde hair, and fair skin. I am tall enough, with long legs and delicate hands skilled in sewing, and I have excellent posture.
Dressed in white, I could resemble the Maiden herself.
Immediately, I apologize to the gods for my arrogance and promise to light a candle at the Maiden's altar to seek forgiveness.
And one at the Mother's altar, of course! I want to give Maegor many strong children. I know it takes some women two or three years to conceive, but I know it won't happen to me.
I must admit I have a somewhat vague idea of how it works: when I was fourteen, the elderly Septa Alya explained in a cold and almost challenging tone to me and the other girls my age what happens between husband and wife. The wife lies with her legs open, and the husband positions himself on top of her. After they are done, if luck is on their side, the wife becomes pregnant.
At the time, I didn't have the courage to ask what they were doing; it would have seemed obscene. I hope Maegor knows more than I do.
Or at least, that he is kind and generous, just as a prince should be.
.
The royal family has finally arrived, along with numerous lords from all over the Reach.
Tonight, at the banquet, I will meet them and finally encounter my promised spouse.
I am excited and nervous: would I make a better impression by dressing modestly or extravagantly? If I were to wear red or black, the colors of House Targaryen, would I seem arrogant, as if I already considered myself a prince's wife? And I cannot wear green either: the beacon's flame on the Hightower becomes green when we call our banners to war, so it would appear aggressive. And yellow doesn't suit my complexion.
I opt for a lovely high-necked dress in blue and white, a necklace with the seven-pointed star, and silver earrings.
My elder brother Martyn will accompany me to the feast hall. I have already been instructed: I will curtsy to the king and queen, then to Prince Aenys and his consort, and finally Maegor will come to me, and we will finally meet. We will dine seated next to each other, getting to know one another. We will dance together, and in two days, we will be wed. It will be my uncle himself, the High Septon, who will join us in marriage before the gods and men.
Martyn and I were close as children, but over time, he has become almost a stranger, attending my father in ruling matters, while I prayed and sewed with the other young girls and septas who attended us.
I also have a younger brother, Morgan, but I know him even less. I know it is my father's intention to make him a septon or have him join the Noble and Puissant Order of the Warrior's Sons, noble knights fiercely loyal to the High Septon.
"You look beautiful, dear sister," Martyn says in a formal tone.
I smile at him. "Thank you. And you... You look every bit the future lord."
He nods, appearing nervous.
I have grown up in the Hightower, but I have never seen it so dazzling. Everything shines, the servants are dressed impeccably, and the banquet hall is filled with tables overflowing with food: chickens, ducks, peacocks, and pigs. There is even an ice sculpture depicting a playful stylized fight between a boar and a large stag.
Everyone applauds as we enter. I try to hold my head high, maintaining a gentle but distant smile. I am the daughter of Lord Hightower, I am splendid, I am a future royal bride.
My father sits next to my uncle, the High Septon. They smile radiantly, full of satisfaction: soon, thanks to me, our family and the Targaryens will be closely related.
The royal family stands out among the rest.
I have already met Valyrians, mostly merchants from the Free Cities who came to trade or pay homage to my father, but I don't know if I will ever get used to those purple eyes. They seem unnatural.
King Aegon is a tall, sturdy man, dressed simply. He has short, silver-blond hair and a serious expression.
Beside him sits a beautiful woman, around fifty-five years old: queen Visenya. She has a thin nose, icy and proud eyes, and strong arms. She wears a beautiful, form-fitting dark red dress, and a bodice made of gold and silver threads that resembles armor.
Next to them are Prince Aenys and his wife, and then...
I lock eyes with my future husband.
Seven Hells!
He's a child!
I freeze, and Martyn is almost forced to make me perform the final curtsy.
Maegor stands up. Yes, he is tall for his age, almost taller than my brother, with broad shoulders, but he still has the face of a child. How old can he be? No more than fourteen, for sure.
They told me he was younger than me, but this much?
I blush under the gaze of half the Reach, feeling ridiculous. Why didn't my father warn me? How did my uncle think that such a marriage would make me happy? I am twenty-three years old, and I am about to marry a boy.
I look at Prince Aenys and his wife. Lady Alyssa Velaryon is Valyrian to the bone: purple eyes and long silver hair. She is stunning, dressed in blue, and perhaps her dress is more beautiful than mine.
And she is clearly younger than me. She and Aenys must be around eighteen, holding hands, they are peers. They are in love.
As Maegor confidently walks towards Martyn and me, I try to hold back tears.
Is this all a cruel joke?
Why didn't I marry Aenys? We are closer in age. That Velaryon girl should have married the younger brother, and I the older one.
It doesn't make sense.
"Lady Ceryse," Prince Maegor says. He looks into my eyes. He could almost seem attractive if he didn't still have the chubby cheeks of a child. He doesn't even have a beard. In exchange, he carries a long Valyrian steel sword with a large ruby on the hilt. "I am pleased to meet you. I have heard much about you."
"Likewise, my prince," I reply. "I hope Oldtown meets your approval."
He nods, almost brusquely, and takes my hand. The hall erupts in heartfelt applause.
.
I am seated between my betrothed and my father, but neither of them is speaking to me. My lord father is engrossed in a discussion with Lord Redwyne's brother, while Maegor occasionally exchanges a few words with Aenys and Alyssa. He doesn't seem much of a talker.
I know it is my duty to try to connect with him during this dinner, but all the words, all the conversations that I thought we would have dissapeared from my mind. Is this normal?
I found out that he is thirteen years old, by the way. Ten years younger than me. It would be different if it were sixteen and twenty-six, or twenty and thirty. But like this it's grotesque.
I think back to myself when I was thirteen. What did I like? What were my interests? Ah, I listened to the songs of the bards. The other girls and I would speculate about whom we would be betrothed to. I remember the terror I felt when my friend, Walda Mullendore, was betrothed and married in less than a month to the old Lord Cuy. It seemed cruel, although surely her father had his good reasons for that union.
"That's truly a beautiful sword," I say to my future husband.
"It's called Dark Sister. My mother gave it to me months ago," Maegor replies, looking at me for the first time since the dinner began.
As if sensing that we are talking about her, queen Visenya slowly turns towards us. She gazes at me for a second with a distrustful and annoyed expression, then turns back to speak with her husband.
She doesn't like me, I think, disappointed.
Then, with a twinge of disgust, I remember that Aegon is not only her husband but also her brother!
"She was kind to have a sword commissioned for you. Do you know the name of the smith who made it?" I ask.
Maegor seems annoyed by my question. "This sword comes straight from Valyria. It has been in my family since before the Doom. And my mother wielded it during the Conquest. Only the gods know how many Dornishmen lost their lives on its blade."
So, Queen Visenya not only agreed to marry her own brother, committing an unforgivable offense in the eyes of the gods, but she also believes herself to be a warrior. Weird, you wouldn't guess that by looking at her in that dress.
"It is unacceptable," I mutter almost to myself.
"What, my lady?"
"That a woman should fight. It is unnatural."
"Think so?"
"Yes. If we have a daughter among the children I will bear you, she will be raised as a true lady, and be dignified and composed like me," I declare.
"If I have a daughter, I will name her Visenya," he replies. "And from you, my dear bride, I hope she inherits nothing but beauty."
.
In less than no time, it's my wedding day.
My last night as a maiden passes swiftly, as does the preparation. The servants wash, perfume, and dress me. I feel like a doll in their hands.
I haven't told anyone what I think of my future husband.
Now that I've had time to think about it, he's not so bad: yes, he's young, but in a few years, he'll be an adult, and we won't look funny together anymore. And besides, he's a Targaryen. They are an ancient family, almost as old as mine, coming from Valyria, riding dragons. They converted to the Faith of the Seven and ensure that the realm is at peace.
Sure, his brother has a dragon, and he doesn't, but sooner or later, he will claim one for himself, I'm sure of it.
I try to convince myself of these things, but in reality, I feel nauseous with fear as my father, Manfred Hightower, welcomes me in front of the Starry Church. I step down from the carriage, being careful not to step on my dress. It's a wonderful day, peaceful, with a warm sun kissing my cheeks.
We enter the gigantic, crowded church, and for a moment, I feel dizzy.
I take a deep breath and compose myself.
Prince Maegor is dressed entirely in black. He carries Dark Sister at his side, of course. Next to him are the king and the prince of Dragonstone.
Aenys is the only one of the royal family who gives me a warm, friendly smile. He's handsome, with a face softer than his father's and delicate, jewel-adorned hands.
For a moment, I pretend that I have to marry him, and everything seems easier.
.
It was a... Demanding first night of marriage.
At least my husband knew what he was doing, to the point that I wonder if they didn't take him to a brothel to prepare him.
In some moments, it was even enjoyable.