Chapter Text
Allyria picked nervously at her dress. It was a beautiful thing, made especially for the day — not so flamboyant as her wedding gown had been, but no less fine for that. It had been fashioned from rich dark velvet, black in the main, with deep red accents at the collar and sleeves. Gold embroidery covered the bodice, small flowers and autumn leaves stitched about the middle to draw the eye to her waist. For the occasion, her hair had been swept back from her face, with ribbons of black and red silk woven through the braids.
She bit the inside of her cheek and tried not to think about the multitude of faces turned towards her. At her wedding, she had only needed to look down the aisle, towards her future. Here, she sat facing a great crowd with nothing to occupy her but the knowledge of their scrutiny. There must have been some secret art to enduring it gracefully. Daella and Rhae, seated beside Egg, had both managed to arrange their faces into expressions of serene contemplation. Allyria, for her part, wished only that she might lean across and speak to them. She had no doubt Egg, in particular, would have any number of observations to make about the men and women now filling the hall.
Doing her best to shift discreetly in her seat, Allyria bit back a small sound of discomfort. She had been placed in a narrow, high-backed wooden chair, utterly devoid of any cushioning. Lifting one foot a fraction from the floor, she slowly rolled her ankle, praying the movement was hidden beneath the fall of her full skirts.
They were still waiting for the last of the onlookers to gather. Everywhere she turned there was another curious face — not only the lords and ladies of Westeros, but members of the Faith as well, and every so often the blue beard of a man from Tyrosh, or the brilliant colours worn by some Braavosi attendant.
Down the centre of the hall, from the great doors to the foot of the throne, the royal household guard stood in two ordered lines, while the Kingsguard waited nearer the dais itself. Then, as though at some unspoken signal, the smaller doors flanking the main entrance were shut, marking the final arrival of the assembled dignitaries. At once the guards of the household and the Kingsguard alike drew their swords in salute, and the great doors swung open.
A quiet hush fell over the throne room as Aerion appeared, framed in the doorway. The light from the high windows struck him in such a way that Allyria was forcibly reminded of his unnatural beauty. And it seemed, for a moment, that the whole room had become aware of it with her. They stood almost spellbound, every eye fixed upon him, as though no one could quite look away.
His silver-blond hair caught the light beautifully, seeming all but to invite a crown. He had been dressed to emphasise the lean grace of his build; here stood a young man in the full strength of his years. Yet for all that, he had chosen sobriety for the occasion. His doublet was of finely woven silk in a muted grey, the only concession to colour coming from the narrow sash of red and black that crossed him, worked with the repeating pattern of the three-headed dragon.
As he began to walk down the narrow aisle between the lines of guards, their swords lowered to their sides the moment he passed. So it went all the way to the dais, until at last he came to stand before the High Septon. A low cushioned stool had been set upon the floor there. Aerion lifted his eyes once, slowly, towards Allyria, and offered her a small, reassuring smile. Then he lowered his chin, let his gaze fall to the ground, and knelt.
Allyria knew the rite had already been performed once at Summerhall, but both Aemon and Aerion’s uncle, Lord Dayne, had thought it wise that it be seen again here, before all the realm’s great eyes. The spectacle would lend fresh weight to the ceremony and send the necessary message, that this new reign stood not only upon blood and inheritance, but beneath the full blessing of the Faith.
Then the High Septon stepped forward, clad in a dark burgundy cassock with a tippet of resplendent yellow draped over his shoulders, the seven-pointed star hanging upon his chest. Taking a small golden bowl from one of his attendants, he dipped his thumb into the holy oil and pressed it to Aerion’s brow. There he began to trace the seven-pointed star, speaking as he did so.
“May the Warrior give him courage. May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need. May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom.”
When the words were finished, the High Septon stepped back and turned towards Lord Dayne. As Aerion’s closest living elder male kinsman, he had been chosen to place the crown upon his nephew’s head. Aerion had elected not to use his father’s crown, but rather the one forged for Aegon III, a plain, unadorned circlet of gold. It had been a deliberate choice, Allyria knew, to choose something so simple. He had been offered the crown worn by his grandfather and uncles instead — a splendid thing of red gold, worked with dragon heads whose eyes were set with jewels. But they had wished to send a different message. Aerion was no longer to be seen as the bright, reckless prince of his youth, but as a man sobered by duty and made wiser by the burden of rule. And so they had chosen the plainer of the two.
Then, Samwell Dayne stepped forward, bearing the simple circlet of gold. Lifting it with solemn care, he set it upon his nephew’s head and spoke aloud in a clear, ringing voice for all assembled to hear.
“Let the Seven bear witness, Aerion Targaryen, the true heir to the Iron Throne. All hail His Grace, Aerion, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Aerion the King!”
And then Aerion rose to the thunder of clapping hands and shouted acclamation, the voices of the gathered lords, ladies, septons, and courtiers swelling together beneath the vaulted ceiling.
“Aerion the King! Long live Aerion!”
After adding her own voice to the cry, Allyria looked out over the assembled and saw that every head was inclined towards the floor. Lords, ladies, and courtiers alike were all bowing before Aerion, either adopting low curtseys or bending at the waist. The realm lay before Aerion now, and at last he had been named king. Finally, he descended from the dais and made to leave the throne room by the same path as he had entered. As he passed, the lords and ladies rose again slowly, one by one, in his wake.
⚔︎
Allyria drifted through the hall, a cup of wine held loosely in her hand. She had been trapped in conversation with Lord Manderly for the better part of two courses, and had only just managed to free herself now that the company had turned, for a while at least, from eating to entertainment. Jugglers and acrobats were already tumbling through the room, much to the great enjoyment of the many lords already well into their cups. Soon the musicians, made up of drummers, fiddlers, and pipers, struck up a lively, unruly tune; the sound of it climbing high into the rafters and adding itself to the mounting noise of celebration.
Biting her lip, Allyria caught sight of one of the doors leading up to the upper gallery. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder to make certain no one was watching her too closely, she slipped towards it and made her escape. Once above, she crossed to the low wall and slowly sank down onto the stone floor, resting back against one of the arches. From there she could see most of the hall below; the lords and ladies gathered at their tables, in their bright fabrics, furs, and jewels.
For a moment she lost herself in studying the faces beneath her, wondering what stories lay hidden behind the too-loud laughter and carefully guarded smiles.
She was, she supposed, queen now.
The thought left a strange sensation in her chest. It was another title gathered up along the road she had travelled since meeting Aerion. No longer merely a lady, she was a wife, a mother, and now — perhaps most coveted of all — a queen. Yet the word did not sit easily with her. Not because she held any deep objection to monarchy itself, but because she had not been raised to think her blood sacred or set apart. The Targaryens, by contrast, seemed almost the very opposite of that. They moved through the world as though touched by something nearer divinity, as though the gods had marked them out by giving them dragons to command.
And had not her own son helped bring three such creatures back into the world?
She did not care to dwell too long on that day — the day she had felt a stranger within her own skin. The pull of old and half-forgotten magics, the sense of something ancient moving through her. It had seemed, for one terrible moment, as though the spirit of the Rhoynar flowed through her body and she herself had become no more than a vessel for some older power.
She did not regret it. She did not regret that primal pull she had felt, nor the way the water had seemed almost to whisper to her, teaching her the words that would draw Baelor back to the right side of the veil. How could she? How could she, when without that strange and fearsome power she might now have only a daughter?
And yet the question remained, small and insistent, at the back of her mind — to what end?
Was there some greater design in allowing her son to live, in allowing dragons to take flight once more? What pact had she made with the gods that night. Did she now have some debt marked against her soul for answering that call?
“Your Grace.”
The words still felt unfamiliar, but the voice did not. Allyria turned and smiled. There stood Egg, looking smarter than she had perhaps ever seen him, with a flat cap set jauntily upon his head.
“Prince Aegon,” Allyria returned, inclining her head slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“Oh,” Egg said, looking faintly put out. He folded both hands behind his back and drew himself almost to attention.
“What are you doing?” Allyria asked after a moment of baffled silence.
“You are queen now,” Egg said, with a stiffness that sat somewhat awkwardly on him. “You hold the same rank as my brother, and therefore outrank me. You must invite me to sit.”
“Egg,” Allyria exclaimed, half laughing. “We are friends before anything else. You may sit whenever you please.”
At once Egg let his hands fall from behind his back and dropped down beside her, a smile finally finding its way onto his face.
“I had thought,” he admitted, “that when you called me Prince Aegon, you meant to enforce protocol between us.”
“No,” Allyria said, shaking her head. “Perhaps in public, when we must all play the parts required of us. But not here. Not when it is only us.”
Egg smiled then and set his elbows upon his crossed knees, resting his chin in his hands.
“I think,” he whispered, his eyes bright with such childlike wonder that Allyria could not help but laugh softly, “that Seafyre may soon let me ride him.”
“And how do you know that?” Allyria asked, lowering her own voice to match his.
“Well, he has taken to me most of all,” Egg said with great confidence. Then, with a small frown, he added, “Aexion is practically pining after Aerion.”
“Ah,” Allyria said with solemn understanding. “And one must not ride another man’s dragon.”
“Exactly!” Egg exclaimed. “Unless, perhaps, they are already astride it and invite you up behind them.”
Allyria blinked, the teasing fading from her face. “What? And how, precisely, do you know that?”
“Well, I do not know it for certain,” Egg admitted, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “But it is said that Queen Visenya took King Ronnel Arryn up on Vhagar more than once.”
“I see,” Allyria said slowly. “I dreamt of flying.”
“If Aerion does not take you, I shall,” Egg vowed with sudden solemnity.
“That would be…” Allyria looked at him, her face touched all at once by too many feelings to easily sort. “Something,” she finished at last.
Egg snorted, then grew serious again. Closing his eyes, he stretched his arms out to either side as though already balanced upon some great pair of wings.
“It would be magical.”
Allyria closed her eyes as well and tried to imagine it; the feel of air against her face, the dizzying speed with which one might cross land and sea. The whole world reduced to an impression of colours beneath outstretched wings. But the vision was stolen from her almost at once by an awkward cough behind them.
“Your Grace,” said the young page, bowing first to her, then turning to do the same for Egg. “Prince Aegon.”
“How may I be of service?” Allyria asked, a tight, courteous smile settling over her face.
“The King asks that you join him for a dance,” the page said with a smile.
“But of course,” Allyria confirmed, as she pulled herself to her feet.
Following the page through the hall, with Egg close at her heels, Allyria felt the change come over her. It was as though she were shedding some softer, truer part of herself, leaving the girl from Dorne hidden away where no public eye could reach her — a private self reserved only for those she loved. In her place she put on the shape of a queen. A regal composure settled over her features, a face made smooth and lovely and unreadable, as though it were a mask made for the critical gaze of the court.