30 Chapter 30: Arrangements - 112 AC
A/N: It takes too long to write this shit bro, I'm splitting it into two parts.
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The morning bustled with activity as wisps of clouds dotted the sky, much to the chagrin of the lord of the isle as he prepared for the evening's feast. Amidst the flurry of servants, Lord Corlys found himself by a window, cradling a cup of wine, while his wife occupied a nearby chair. Standing at a distance was Laenor, appearing disheveled and weary from the revelries of the previous night.
"What?" exclaimed the heir of Driftmark.
"You're soon to be wed," remarked Rhaenys.
"To whom, mother?" Laenor inquired further.
"To the princess. Your cousin," she elaborated. "You two ought to be familiar, having grown up together."
"And you've not deemed it fit to seek my opinion?" Laenor interjected, turning his gaze to Corlys. "Father, I—"
"You will wed her, it is your duty as heir." Corlys interjected, finally addressing his son directly. "To wed the princess is a great honor for our house. When she ascends the throne, you shall be king consort. My son, surely you are aware of this. You treat it as if it were a curse. Rhaenyra is the Realm's Delight; all across the seven kingdoms, men vie for her hand in marriage."
"I am aware, father," Laenor responded calmly. "But you know of my true nature."
"And pray tell, what is your 'true nature'? Is it in correlation with this arrangement?" Corlys questioned, his gaze unwavering, as if issuing a veiled warning, while he sipped his wine.
Laenor faltered, his eyes seeking solace from his mother, who could only offer a resigned sigh, before returning to his father, swallowing his words.
"Very well," Laenor conceded, clenching his fist. "Rhaenyra is but five and ten; I presume we are to be betrothed first?"
"Indeed," Corlys affirmed, turning back to the window, dismissing his son.
"You should spend time with her," Rhaenys suggested. "Take her for a stroll, discuss this arrangement with her."
Corlys regarded Rhaenys with a smile. "A splendid notion. Go ahead, Laenor."
The man merely nods, before leaving his sires without giving another word, walking through the corridors of the castle rather absentmindedly.
The walk was laden with solemnity, each step of Laenor's feeling as though it were guided by an unseen force. Servants scurried about, their rhythm briefly interrupted as they halted to bow their heads upon seeing him, yet Laenor's mind was too preoccupied to register such gestures.
Midway along his path, an encounter he'd rather avoid presented itself: Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, known as the knight of kisses, leaned casually against the chilly stone wall, a smirk playing on his lips. Despite his reluctance, Laenor halted directly before him, his expression sour.
"What transpired in your conversation?" inquired the knight with curiosity. "You appear greatly troubled."
Laenor remained silent for a moment, before steeling his countenance, fixing his gaze unwaveringly upon his counterpart. "My duty beckons," he responded.
Confusion clouded the knight's features. "Pardon?"
Without further explanation, Laenor continued past the knight, brushing his shoulder with just enough force to elicit a frown from Ser Joffrey.
Pressing onward for a few more minutes, Laenor eventually arrived at his destination. A guard stood sentry near the door, casting an uneasy silence over the vicinity, prompting Laenor to draw a deep breath.
In the wake of the uneasy silence, he looked at the guard's face. Positioned just beside the entrance, a Kingsguard, none other than ser Criston Cole, maintained a stoic vigil, his gaze fixed upon the young heir with a visage devoid of emotion. Laenor endeavored to disregard the imposing figure, his fists tightly clenched as he positioned himself squarely before the door, delivering a soft yet deliberate knock.
"Enter," a feminine voice resonated from within, prompting the young man to cautiously push open the door, swiftly closing it behind him as he crossed the threshold. As Laenor turned, he beheld the princess standing before a mirror, adorning herself with jewelry to commence the day. Upon catching sight of Laenor's entrance, the princess displayed a semblance of surprise, swiftly completing her task before assuming a composed posture.
"Cousin," she addressed him, "I must admit, your early visit is unexpected."
"I thought perhaps you might fancy a stroll," Laenor suggested, his gaze drifting towards the window. "The sky grows darker, and outdoor activities will be limited as the hour progresses."
"I... I see," the princess hesitated, her words faltering. "I wouldn't object to accompanying you, though I find it curious that you'd propose such a venture. Is there a particular reason?"
"I seek to discuss a matter that I believe you are aware of," Laenor explained, his tone lowered. "Regarding our arrangement."
"Ah," the princess acknowledged with a deep sigh. "Very well, then. Lead the way."
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As the early morning progressed into another hour, Laenor and Rhaenyra strolled through the courtyard of the castle. The breeze wafted from the east, carrying a refreshing chill through the corridors of Crab's Return, causing the banners of the castle's houses to flutter vigorously. Although the courtyard bustled with activity, it was not teeming with servants; instead, it was filled with men-at-arms, predominantly young and enthusiastic boys, sparring under the watchful eye of a household knight of House Celtigar.
The stroll was rather awkward, to say the least. Since leaving the inner quarters of the castle, Laenor and Rhaenyra had not exchanged a word, and unless one of them broke the silence, it seemed unlikely that the situation would change.
It was then that Rhaenyra glanced skyward and noticed a figure standing at one of the windows of the side tower, holding a cup of wine and observing them intently. It was none other than Prince Daemon Targaryen, his gaze sharp and unwavering. Rhaenyra couldn't help but smile to herself and shake her head, before finally addressing her soon-to-be husband.
"I daresay you're not entirely pleased with this arrangement, cousin," she remarked quietly, mindful of the presence of soldiers training in the courtyard. "Your demeanor upon entering my chambers spoke volumes."
"It's not that I find you lacking in beauty," Laenor countered. "It's just that..."
"I am aware of your... inclinations," Rhaenyra interjected softly. "They mirror my own, as I understand it."
"I've made efforts," Laenor sighed, casting his gaze downward to the muddy ground.
Suddenly, Rhaenyra halted, causing Laenor to stop as well. They found themselves conveniently positioned in a blind spot where the soldiers couldn't observe them, shielded by empty barrels forming a makeshift wall in a corner of the courtyard. However, it seemed that Daemon, from his vantage point above, could still see them. Rhaenyra glanced up briefly to confirm this before turning back to Laenor, pushing him gently against the barrels, her hand trailing to his crotch, caressing it seductively.
Laenor appeared surprised and somewhat apprehensive. "What are you doing?" he whispered.
"Verifying the truth of your words," Rhaenyra replied, her hands continuing their gentle caress, but to no avail. Observing his lack of response, Rhaenyra sighed and withdrew her hand. "Forgive me, cousin," she murmured.
Laenor let out a deep sigh. "No matter. You've experienced it firsthand now. I won't breathe a word of this to anyone."
Once again, Rhaenyra glanced up at the tower where Daemon had been standing, only to find the window empty. A slight smirk of satisfaction crossed her lips as she turned back to Laenor, noting the anxiety evident on his face.
"There's no shame in it, cousin. We all have our preferences," Rhaenyra reassured him.
Laenor shook his head. "It will interfere with our obligations."
"I may have a solution to that," the princess suggested, her expression stoic. "A proposition, if you will."
Perplexed, Laenor raised an eyebrow. "What do you have in mind?"
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In the distant wing of the castle, Clement is diligently composing correspondence in response to the apologetic missives sent by lords unable to attend the forthcoming tourney. The maester, initially tasked with this duty, stands nearby, patiently awaiting Clement's completion. Meanwhile, within the chamber, Bartimos is surrounded by a retinue of servants presenting an array of dishes for his tasting pleasure in anticipation of the upcoming feast. Laena attentively oversees her children, while Aemon and Gaemon frolic with the servants upon the stone floor below.
Amidst Bartimos' gustatory explorations, he suddenly addresses his son, as if recalling an important matter. "The king has entrusted me with a letter of introduction for the occasion of selecting an egg for Rhaena. It currently resides in my study, but should you set sail for King's Landing tomorrow, I shall furnish it to you this evening."
Pausing in his writing, Clement's gaze drifts towards his two sons, evoking a deep sigh. "I shall not be the one to venture to the dragon pit."
Bartimos wears a perplexed expression, while Laena interjects on the matter. "Then who shall undertake this task? Time is of the essence, my husband. Rhaena approaches her first nameday, and if the egg hatches thereafter, she may struggle to forge a proper bond with it."
Clement simply nods. "I am aware. Hence, I turn to you, Laena."
Laena appears taken aback. "Me?"
"Yes, you. Bring along Aemon and Gaemon with you. Let them make the choice if they desire. Tomorrow, before the tourney commences, you shall take them on Vhagar, the flight should only last an hour—"
"You want me to bring our sons atop Vhagar?" Laena looked half infuriated. "Are you mad? They'll fall."
"I've heard tales that the king's mother once took him on a flight atop Meleys," Bartimos interjected.
"Meleys was but a young dragon then, much smaller than Vhagar. And the king was but a babe; she held onto him. He did not sit on the dragon himself and make him hold onto her. Our sons, your grandsons, are three years old," Laena countered.
Clement merely hummed. "Then what is your suggestion?"
"Must we truly let Aemon and Gaemon choose?" Laena questioned softly.
Clement's gaze darted to his sons, who seemed oblivious to the discussions their parents were having, engrossed in flipping through illustrated books. "Did you choose Laenor's egg?" he asked.
"No, but mother told me that the Good Queen gave Laenor his egg during her quarrel with the old king," Laena shook her head. "I was but two then."
"Were you envious of him?" Clement inquired again.
Laena remained silent, her gaze piercing her husband.
Clement chuckled at her response. "I wonder if our sons would be envious too?"
"We haven't even secured the egg," Laena stated. "Yet you speak as if its hatching is assured."
"Yes," Clement sighed. "Perhaps I have placed too much hope."
"You need not concern yourself with the future yet, my son," Bartimos said softly. "The crucial matter is to choose an egg first, and let the gods determine our fates."
Clement hummed. "The gods can be cruel."
"The gods can also show kindness," Bartimos chuckled. "If not, you would be entombed in the crypts countless times over."
Clement shook his head in amusement, recalling his early days in this world and all the recklessness that had brought him to this juncture. "Very well, father."
"Then I shall set sail tomorrow, with our sons," Laena smiled softly. "The business should not take more than two days. If I heard that you asked another maiden for her favor, I would tell Vhagar to burn you alive when I am back from the capital."
"I am not planning to, my dear." Clement chuckled, amused.
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As twilight descended upon the day, a tempest brewed outside, the wind hurling itself against the windows accompanied by the relentless patter of rain upon the fortress's stone walls. Thunder rumbled and lightning streaked across the sky, momentarily illuminating the grandeur of Crab's Return's main hall, where a feast was soon to commence. Yet, these tumultuous elements mattered little to the revelers within, for the tantalizing aroma of food and the rich scent of wine enveloped them, banishing all cares.
Amidst the chatter of lords and ladies, draped in the colors of their noble houses, the hall stood adorned to the lord's discerning taste. Tapestries depicting crustaceans and scenes of epic battles decorated the walls, but most captivating of all was the seat of House Celtigar, flanked by portraits, now including that of Lady Laena Velaryon, the Lady of Claw Isle, filling a once vacant space on the wall.
Tables of equal height stretched across the hall, save for one elevated platform reserved for the orchestrator of the evening's festivities and those deserving of honor. Positioned before the seat of House Celtigar, this table welcomed the Valyrian houses of the Blackwater Bay: The Targaryens, the Velaryons, and the Celtigars. Lord Lyonel Strong also sat at the corner of the table, for he was the Hand of the King.
Lords and ladies queued respectfully before this table, presenting gifts in homage to various occasions—Clement's marriage to Laena that has yet to be celebrated, the birth of their progeny, the acquisition of new titles, or the triumph at the Stepstones.
Then, after the last of the lords finished giving their greetings to the table, the host of the feast itself rose to his feet, and when he did so, Bartimos silenced the assembled lords with his presence.
"Be welcomed, my lords and ladies," he intoned, his voice resonating with authority uncommon to his usual demeanor. He turned, paying respect to the king and queen with a deferential nod. "My king, my queen."
In acknowledgment, Viserys and Alicent nodded, and Bartimos once more addressed the lords and ladies before him, his posture straight. "I express my gratitude to all who have gathered here, on this auspicious occasion... a celebration of many things. Tonight, and in the weeks to come, we offer our thanks to the gods for our triumph in the Stepstones, where the valor of my house, House Velaryon, and the courage of Prince Daemon vanquished the pirates and later the triarchy. We give thanks for the union of my house and House Velaryon, forged many years ago, and for the offspring of this union who now grace our once empty halls."
Bartimos then lifted his goblet of wine, cradling it against his chest. "Truth be told, I am not inclined toward lengthy speeches, and I am sure you are all quite famished already." His words elicited quiet laughter throughout the chamber. Chuckling himself, Bartimos raised his cup, prompting the others to do the same. "Let us therefore raise our cups to this celebration and the days ahead, to the prosperous realm that my lords and ladies have upheld, and to the realm rightfully governed by our king."
With Bartimos's conclusion, the lords all drank, some even thumping their fists upon the table in exuberance. Thereafter, they commenced feasting upon the sumptuous dishes laid before them, while Bartimos sat down, and joined in the merriment.
The cacophony crescendoed, enhanced further by the bards' melodies wafting from the corner. Despite the tempest raging outside, its fury faded into insignificance amid the jubilant atmosphere that prevailed. Ser Clement, positioned at the table's edge, observed as conversations blossomed around him. His father basked in the king's praise for his decorative prowess, while Laena, seated nearby, engaged in a lively exchange with Rhaenyra, swapping gossip about the assembled nobles and speculating on betrothals and knighthoods preceding the forthcoming tourney. Such animated scenes marked a stark departure from the castle's usual hushed solitude, a most welcome change indeed.
Suddenly, Daemon interjected with a resounding voice that carried beyond his immediate surroundings. "I have heard the news, Princess. You are to be wed soon, to Laenor, is it not? Congratulations."
Until that moment, the information had been confined to a select few.
"Thank you, Uncle," Rhaenyra responded, her smile thinly veiled.
"Daemon," Viserys interjected, his tone attempting to convey a quiet yet palpable threat, though he failed spectacularly.
Daemon merely chuckled, evading his brother's gaze as he leisurely sipped from his wine goblet. His eyes then alighted upon Clement, prompting him to speak once more. "I must extend my congratulations to you as well, Lord Bartimos. It is rare for a house beyond the Targaryen lineage—"
"Would you care for more wine, my prince? Your Grace?" Clement interjected smoothly. "We have recently acquired some Dornish Reds, if that's to your liking. It's among the first imports to grace the Grey Gallows through our trade with the Martells."
Upon hearing Clement's intervention, the king heaved a small sigh of relief before turning to him with a smile. "Why didn't you mention it earlier, Ser? I would indeed appreciate the sour taste of it."
Clement nodded graciously. "Then my servants shall see to it, Your Majesty."
With that, Clement signaled to a servant nearby, gesturing towards the door. The servant promptly bowed and hurried off, weaving through the throng of lords and ladies poised to dance to the bard's melodies.
Once again, the king turned to Daemon. "I will see you in my chamber tonight."
"Yes, your grace." Daemon hummed noncommittally. But then, he simply stood up from his seat, walking away from the table and towards the door. The king merely stared at his brother's back, shaking his head in annoyance and rage.
"Gods be good," he murmured softly. Feeling a touch upon his shoulder, he turned to find his queen, Alicent, seeking to pacify him, for it ill-suited a king to display wrath amidst such revelry. He offered a fleeting smile, composing himself under her gentle influence. The eyes of the assembled lords and ladies bore witness to this exchange, a realization that dawned upon the king belatedly. Addressing Lord Bartimos, he spoke, "Forgive my outburst, Lord Bartimos. My brother has proven... vexing of late."
"I'm certain the prince bears burdens of his own," Bartimos acknowledged with a nod.
"Doubtful," the king shook his head before turning to the Sea Snake, who observed the scene with keen interest. "Let us cease this distraction. Lord Corlys, it has come to my attention that the Stepstones, save for Grey Gallows, lie unclaimed. Considering your ventures alongside the Celtigars and my brother, why have you not staked a claim?"
"I've founded my share of settlements, your grace. Establishing and maintaining them exacts a toll, as evidenced by my endeavors in Hull and Spicetown," he replied with composure. "For House Velaryon, securing our trade routes suffices. However, I seek your permission to erect outposts on these isles, should pirates resurface. With Grey Gallows' aid, their maintenance would prove more feasible. Perhaps these outposts may burgeon into towns or castles under my descendants' stewardship."
"A prudent proposal," the king mused, turning to Lyonel, who had thus far remained silent. "And your thoughts, Lord Lyonel?"
"An astute plan, your grace. Our foothold in the Stepstones would be fortified, and unlanded knights of merit could be rewarded with the rest of the territories in time," Lyonel nodded.
"And you, Lord Bartimos?" inquired the king. "As the sole lord with holdings in the region presently, would you object to the Velaryons claiming parcels of land on the neighboring isles for their fleets?"
"Indeed not, your grace. The Velaryons and Celtigars stand as allies. Together we conquered, and together we shall govern," Bartimos affirmed, directing his gaze to Corlys. "If anything, Lord Corlys, I find it surprising that you, of all people, would eschew such opportunities for new lands and titles."
"I am aware of my strengths, Lord Bartimos. Cultivating barren terrain does not rank among them. To attempt such would only squander resources, besides, you are doing the very same thing you're advising me to do," he turned to Clement. "...overseen by a more capable administrator, no less. Such a venture for me would lead only to ruin."
Clement offered a humble smile. "Your praise is generous, goodfather."
"Indeed, it is settled then," the king mused. "Lord Corlys, I await your proposal regarding the locations of your soon-to-be outposts."
"As you wish, your grace," Corlys replied with a deferential nod.
"Ah, on that note," the king addressed Lyonel, "I recall you wished to discuss the matter of Grey Gallows, Lyonel."
"Yes, your grace," the Hand replied, drawing the attention of Bartimos and Clement. "While the decision ultimately rests with your house, Lord Bartimos, I suggest reconsidering the name of the isle. 'Grey Gallows' carries a certain... unsuitability, given its association with past pirate activity. This is purely my humble opinion. The crown intends to rename other islands for similar reasons."
Bartimos glanced at Clement before turning back to Lyonel. "I understand. Your counsel is wise, Lord Lyonel. I shall think of it further."
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The following morning found the lords and ladies returning to their chambers, most still in the haze of revelry, and some nursing hangovers. However, Clement and his family were an exception, quietly making their way towards the port at Brackyore. There, a nimble vessel awaited, crewed by household guards tasked with escorting Lady Laena off the isle and toward the capital. By her side were the weary three-year-olds Aemon and Gaemon, roused from sleep far earlier than usual, seeking solace at their mother's side.
"Everything is in order," declared Clement, retrieving a scroll from a knight nearby and passing it to Laena. "Here, the king's decree. Father told me that you are to present it to the dragonkeepers at the pit; they will understand its import upon inspection."
Laena accepted the scroll, noting its still-sealed state. "I am well-versed in dealing with them, husband. We have some at Driftmark. Expect them to join us on the morrow. Their duty is to safeguard dragons wherever they may dwell."
Clement merely murmured, his gaze drifting toward the gathering dragons in the distance. "I thought we already had guards assigned to Vhagar."
"Vhagar is one matter. A hatchling is another," Laena replied. "Assuming the egg ever hatches."
"Ah, I see," Clement said, drawing nearer to Laena and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Take care."
Laena nodded. "And may fortune favor you this day, my love."
He then knelt before his two sons, who leaned against their mother, their eyes drooping with sleep. Clement shook his head with a fond smile before tousling their hair, stirring them awake with his chill touch. "Behave yourselves, my sons. You journey for your sister; muster some excitement will you?"
Aemon let out a feeble yawn, while Gaemon began to doze once more. "Yes, father..."
Clement chuckled softly and rose to his feet. The trio were led aboard the ship by one of the knights, and soon the oars were set in motion, carrying them away from the port with the Celtigar banner fluttering gently atop the mast. Only Clement remained behind, accompanied by his guards. He stood there, watching the ships vanish into the horizon as the sun dawned from the east.
