In the godswood of the Red Keep, the air was thick with the scent of celebration, mingled with the sea breeze drifting from Blackwater Bay in the distance.
A weirwood tree that five men could not have encircled stood at the heart of the wood. The face carved into its pale bark had been weathered by years, but the hollows of its eyes remained deep. Blood-red leaves rustled in the daylight, like countless whispers.
Viserys I sat in a specially designed wheeled chair. Four attendants carefully pushed him toward the weirwood. The former king of the Seven Kingdoms was now so wasted that little remained but bones; his magnificent robes hung empty upon his frame. On his swollen and pallid face, those once-sharp violet eyes were now clouded. The crown pressed down upon his thinning silver hair, as if it might crush him at any moment.
Queen Alicent stood beside the wheeled chair, dressed in a dark green gown. Her hands were folded before her, and in her eyes flickered a complex mixture of emotions: relief at her son's wedding, fear at her husband's grave illness, and guilt buried deep within her heart. She wondered if Viserys's condition was her doing—yet all the medicines were meant to gently nourish the spirit, so why did Viserys's body waste away more and more?
Not far away stood the High Septon, accompanied by Grand Maester Orwyle.
The High Septon was near sixty years, thin and gaunt, his white robes hanging loosely on him. The crystal of the seven-pointed star on his breast glittered in the sun, but his face was so grim it might have dripped water. Grand Maester Orwyle stood beside him, his maester's chain heavy about his neck, his expression one of practiced calm.
"Targaryen incest..." The High Septon lowered his voice, the sarcasm in his words barely concealed. "They are too reckless. Kinslaying, and..."
He did not continue, but the meaning could not be plainer: these were grievous sins among grievous sins in the doctrine of the Seven.
Grand Maester Orwyle was silent a moment, then said slowly, "Only Aegon is fit to be king. This Aemond, and Daemon and Rhaenyra as well... Not one of them has the character for a king." He paused, his voice dropping further. "Pity these Targaryens have never cared for morality."
The High Septon nodded slightly, the muscles in his gaunt face twitching faintly. "The Faith, the Citadel, and House Hightower—we support Aegon as king. We shall simply watch quietly. Let these Targaryen madmen slaughter one another..."
"The representatives of the Four Kingdoms are nearly here," the High Septon said, glancing toward the weirwood where the old gods dwelt, then abruptly changing the subject, his voice almost inaudible. "How is His Grace at present?"
Grand Maester Orwyle's lips curled in a knowing smile. "You might venture a guess, Your Holiness?"
They exchanged glances.
The High Septon nodded slowly. "A compliant, unthreatening Targaryen king serves the realm's interests. We need no capricious god-king above us who might overrule all..."
Their conversation was so soft it was nearly lost to the wind.
Orwyle's gaze swept across the crowd and came to rest on a cripple leaning on a cane nearby. Larys Strong, Lord of Harrenhal and Master of Whisperers, raised his cup in salute. Orwyle and the High Septon both lifted their silver cups in return, toasting Larys. In unison, they shared a silent understanding.
At that moment, the sound of footsteps interrupted the whispers in the godswood.
All eyes turned toward the forest path. Aemond and Helaena walked side by side.
Behind them stood silent guards in armor bearing dragon motifs, their steps neat and even, rustling through the fallen leaves.
Aemond wore a well-tailored black doublet, embroidered with the intricate patterns of House Targaryen—silver thread at collar and cuffs glinting coldly in the sun. As his violet eye swept across the crowd, many nobles involuntarily lowered their heads.
Helaena walked arm in arm with him. Her long silver-gold hair fell loose, a single amethyst pin at her temple. On her skirt, hundreds of purple embroidered flowers trembled slightly with each step. She kept her head lowered, her cheeks faintly flushed, but she held firmly to Aemond's arm.
As they passed the High Septon and Grand Maester, Helaena nodded slightly, her bearing elegant and proper.
At last they stopped before the weirwood, standing before Viserys.
"Father." Aemond inclined his head.
Viserys struggled to lift his head, his clouded eyes moving slowly across the faces of his son and daughter. His lips trembled as if to speak, but in the end he only nodded.
Alicent stepped forward, took her husband's thin hand, and gently reminded him, "It is time to begin."
Viserys drew a deep breath and straightened his back with visible effort. For a moment, the shadow of the king who had once sat the Iron Throne briefly returned.
Though his voice was hoarse, it carried unusually clearly through the godswood:
"Before the eyes of the ancestors, in the witness of the Seven Gods and the Old Gods, I, Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, do now, in the name of my father and my kingship, solemnize this union."
He turned to Aemond, each word spoken slowly and heavily.
"Aemond Targaryen, my son, will you take Helaena Targaryen to wife? Will you protect her, honor her, and remain faithful to her all the days of your life?"
Aemond did not answer immediately.
He turned to Helaena.
"I so vow."
His voice was firm, clearly reaching every ear in the silent godswood.
Viserys turned to Helaena, his voice growing weaker still. "Helaena Targaryen, my daughter, will you take Aemond Targaryen to husband? Will you stand by him, support him, and remain faithful to him, in glory and in shame, all the days of his life?"
Helaena lifted her head. The morning light fell upon her face, and her violet eyes were remarkably bright. She did not look at her father, but straight at Aemond, as if in all the world there remained only the two of them.
"I so vow," she said softly, without hesitation.
Viserys nodded and, with trembling hands, lifted a dagger from the arm of his wheeled chair. It was an heirloom of Valyrian steel, its hilt set with pigeon's blood rubies that caught the light in strange, glinting ways.
"Then," the king's voice was unusually solemn in that moment, "by fire and blood, swear it."
Aemond took the dagger without the slightest hesitation. The blade sliced across the palm of his left hand, a clean stroke. Blood welled forth at once, streaming down his palm and dripping into a silver cup held by a servant beside him.
He offered the dagger to Helaena. She took it and likewise cut her own palm. She moved more slowly than Aemond, but with equal resolve. Her blood dripped into the same silver cup, the blood of both mingling together.
Aemond took the silver cup and raised it, drinking the mingled blood in one long draught. His throat worked as he swallowed, and a few drops escaped the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin.
Then he offered the cup to Helaena.
She took it, closed her eyes, and drank. The blood stained her lips red, dazzling against her fair, delicate face.
Then Aemond took Helaena's bleeding hand, and pressed their wounds together.
"Blood of my blood," Viserys declared with his last strength, "soul of my soul. From this day forth, you are one flesh, one heart, one fate. Live together, die together."
"Let the Fathers of House Targaryen bear witness."