King Aegon V Targaryen stood at the head of the Great Hall in the Red Keep, his silver hair catching the light from a hundred torches and chandeliers as he addressed the assembled lords and ladies. The hall was packed, long tables laden with silver platters and goblets, banners of the great houses hanging from the rafter fluttering slightly in the draft from the high windows. The air was filled with the scent of roasting meats and spiced wine, but silence held as the king spoke, his simple crown of gold leaves resting on his brow, his black tunic embroidered with the three-headed dragon of his house.
"My lords and ladies," Aegon began as his violet eyes sweeping the room. "It has been many years since I took the Iron Throne, and those years have not been without their trials. When I began my rule, I sought to mend what was broken in this realm, to give the smallfolk rights they had long been denied, to curb the excesses of the powerful, to build roads and granaries that would feed the hungry and connect the divided. But many of you here did not welcome those changes. You saw them as threats to your ancient privileges, and I do not blame you for it. The old ways die hard. Yet time has proven us forward. The roads I built carry your trade, the laws I passed have brought peace to your lands, and the reforms you once resisted have strengthened the Seven Kingdoms. We stand now in an era of peace not seen since the days of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, when the realm prospered under wise rule."
He paused, lifting a goblet of wine. "I honor you all for coming around, for seeing that a strong kingdom lifts every house. To the lords who once opposed me but now stand as allies, to your wisdom and your loyalty. And to your sons, who will carry on your legacies, I look forward to seeing them distinguish themselves in the tournament ahead. May the Warrior grant them strength, the Smith steady their hands, and the Father judge them fairly. Let us feast!"
The hall erupted in applause, lords and ladies rising to their feet, goblets raised in toast, the sound echoing off the stone walls like rolling thunder. Aegon nodded graciously, a small smile on his lips as he sat beside his wife, Queen Betha Blackwood, her dark hair braided with gold threads, her hand slipping into his under the table. "Well spoken, my love," she said softly.
The king leaned close. "They needed to hear it. Peace is always a fragile thing, better to remind them of its value."
Musicians struck up a lively tune from the gallery above, while servants rushed in from the side doors, their liveries crisp in black and red, trays balanced high. Platters of roast swan stuffed with mushrooms and leeks were set down first, the skin crisp and golden, juices pooling beneath. Whole boars followed, apples in their mouths, flanks carved to reveal tender meat glazed with honey and cloves. Venison pies steamed as they were sliced, their crusts flaky and filled with gravy thick with onions and carrots. Bowls of creamed spinach, turnips mashed with butter, and loaves of fresh bread dotted with poppy seeds circulated, while ewers of Arbor gold and Dornish red flowed freely, filling goblets to the brim.
The feast began in earnest, lords digging in with silver forks and knives, laughter rising as the wine loosened tongues. At a table near the doors, far from the high dais but close enough to feel the grandeur, sat Willem and Mira. She wore a gown of deep sapphire velvet, the bodice laced tight to accentuate her massive breasts, the skirt flowing in layers that shifted with each movement, embroidered with silver threads that caught the torchlight like stars. Her blonde hair had been styled into waves that curled softly around her face and down her back, pinned with pearl combs that shimmered, giving her an ethereal glow amid the hall's opulence. Lords and knights glanced her way repeatedly, their eyes lingering on her curves, whispers passing between them as they admired her beauty, some with open lust, others with envious nods toward Willem.
Willem leaned close to her, his salt-and-pepper beard brushing her ear as he pointed out the guests. "See that one there, the fat lion with the golden mane? That's Tytos Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock. They say he shits gold, and it's no lie, the man's got mines that spit out wealth like a whore spits out bastards. But he's weak, Mira, soft as butter left in the sun. Gives loans to every sniveling lord who asks and never collects, lets his bannermen walk all over him. His son's Tywin, the young one with the cold eyes and expression like someone's just taken a shit in his wine, mark my words, that boy's got steel in him, he's heir to it all. Then there's Kevan, his brother, solid but in Tywin's shadow, and the little ones, Tygett and Gerion, still boys running about like pups, I also think Gemma is around here somewhere, Tytos recently betrothed her to a fucking Frey of all people. Lannisters think they're above us all, but Tytos'll ruin them."
Mira nodded politely, her eyes scanning the hall, like a play she watched from afar. Willem continued, his finger jabbing toward another table. "Over there, the oaf with the rose on his doublet, Luthor Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, second richest house after the lions. Dull-witted as a post, that one; couldn't scheme his way out of a sack if his life depended on it. He's nothing without his wife, Olenna. She runs the house while he smiles and nods. Their son's Mace, a strapping lad but green as grass, and the daughter's Mina, pretty enough but overshadowed by her mother."
He paused to sip his wine, his eyes gleaming as he gestured to a stormy banner. "Ah, the Baratheons—Ormund, Lord of Storm's End, with his wife, Princess Rhaelle, the king's own daughter. Ormund's a solid man but with that stormlander temper—quick to rage, slow to forget, he even rose up in rebellion against the crown one time. Their boy's Steffon, maybe ten, already got that black hair and blue eyes, looks like he'll be a fighter. Baratheons are proud, Mira, but fair in their way."
Willem's voice dropped lower as he pointed out more. "That one's Lord Hightower, Gerold I think, from Oldtown. Old as dirt, but his house controls the Citadel and the maesters, so he's got knowledge worth more than gold. Sits there like he owns the room, but he's frail now, leaves the ruling to his sons. Then the Redwynes, Runceford, Lord of the Arbor, fat and jolly, but don't let the smile fool you; his fleets control the wine trade, and he'll sink your ships if you undercut him. His boy's Paxter, red-haired like his kin, already captaining his own vessel. Redwynes are merchants at heart, like me, but with titles to hide the greed."
Willem lingered on the royal family last, his tone turning dry. "Then there's the dragons up in their stone nest," he said. "King Aegon, they call him the peasant king. Seems fitting enough. Tries to fix the realm, but every lord with coin and title hates him for it. Thinks he's wiser than the rest of us, though I'd wager he's just another fool. His queen, Betha Blackwood, she's got the sharper head between them and he relies on her council greatly I'm told."
He snorted and pointed next to the king. "Over there isPrince Duncan, he gave up the crown for a girl with no name. Jenny of Oldstones. Folk make songs about it, call it love. I call it foolishness. He had a throne and traded it for a woman who offered him nothing."
"Prince Jaehaerys sits as heir now. Quiet sort, always buried in books. Married his own sister, Shaera. Like the Targaryens of old against their father's wishes."
Mira listened, her fingers drummed lightly on the goblet as she scanned the high dais, her gaze lingering on the two figures seated near the king, a young woman with silver-gold hair cascading in waves, her crimson gown clinging to a lithe, elegant frame, and a man beside her, his features sharp and handsome, his violet eyes distant as he toyed with a fork. She leaned closer to Willem. "Who are those two, my lord? The ones by the king, they look like Targaryens."
Willem followed her glance, his eyes narrowing slightly as he sipped his wine, the goblet glinting in the torchlight. "Ah, the king's grandchildren, Prince Aerys and Princess Rhaella. Aerys is the elder, Jaehaerys's son, sharp as a Valyrian blade but with a temper that could burn a fleet. He's got that Targaryen fire in him, always scheming, always pushing for more. Rhaella's the quiet one, beautiful as sin but soft-spoken, keeps to her books and her ladies. They say she's kind, but in this den of vipers, kindness is a weakness."
Mira nodded, her curiosity piqued, the princess's grace reminding her of tales she'd heard as a girl in Harrowfield. "They look close?"
Willem chuckled, a low, knowing sound that carried a hint of scorn, his beard brushing the rim of his goblet as he leaned in. "Oh, they're close, alright. Their father, Prince Jaehaerys, pushes hard for marriage—wants them wed to keep the blood pure,. But the king? Aegon won't have it. Says sibling marriages breed madness. He's all for his reforms, marrying outside the family, like he did with Betha Blackwood, to strengthen ties with the lords. Jaehaerys argues it's tradition, that the blood must stay strong, but Aegon holds firm. Some say that the prince will ignore his father and force the marriage anyway."
Mira glanced back at the dais, where Rhaella leaned toward Aerys, whispering something that made him smile faintly, their silver heads close. "It must be hard for them," she said softly. "Trapped between duty and family."
Willem shrugged, his eyes lingering on Rhaella's form, the way her gown hugged her slender curves. "Hard? They're dragons, they fly above it all of us, they live lives we could only dream of. But enough of royals. Eat, Mira the swan is exquisite, stuffed with leeks and mushrooms from the Reach. You need your strength if you're to charm these lords tonight."
She forced a smile and took a bite, the meat tender and savory, though it sat heavy in her stomach. The feast continued around them, servants weaving through the tables with trays of delicacies; roast capon glazed with honey, pigeon pies flaky and steaming, bowls of creamed spinach flecked with garlic, and ewers of wine that never seemed to empty. Musicians in the gallery struck up a new tune, a lively jig that had a few lords tapping their feet, while others called for more stories or toasts.
Willem drained his goblet and set it down with a clunk, his eyes alight as he spotted a cluster of men near the minstrels' gallery. "Stay here, my dear, I'll make some introductions. This is my chance to make some connections." He patted her hand, his touch lingering a second too long, and rose, weaving through the tables with purposeful strides, his velvet doublet catching the light as he approached a group of Dornish traders, his voice booming in greeting. "Lord Fossoway! A word on that Arbor shipment, your cellars must be bursting!"
Mira watched him go, her fingers twisting the stem of her goblet, the hall's clamor pressing in around her like a living thing. Alone at the table, she felt exposed, the crimson gown hugging her massive breasts too tightly, the golden embroidery drawing eyes like moths to flame. Lords and knights glanced her way more openly now, their gazes dipping to her cleavage before meeting her eyes, smiles curling with interest that made her skin crawl. She kept her chin up, her expression polite, but her heart pounded, discomfort twisting in her gut like a knot.
A young knight approached first, his tunic emblazoned with a falcon sigil, his hair oiled and his mustache trimmed to a point. "My lady," he said, bowing slightly, his eyes fixed on her breasts before flicking up. "You grace this hall like a rose in a thorn bush. May I have the honor of your name?"
"Mira, ser," she replied kindly, her nature refusing rudeness. "And yours?"
"Ser Harlan Arryn," he said, his voice smooth. "From the Eyrie. You seem out of place here, surely a woman of your... charms belongs at a higher table."
Mira smiled faintly. "I'm no lady, ser. Just a guest."
His expression shifted, the romantic gleam fading to something baser, his eyes lingering on her curves again. "A guest? Then perhaps you'd join me for a walk in the gardens later? The night air is refreshing, and I'd hate for such beauty to go unappreciated."
She demurred politely. "Thank you, but I'm with someone."
He nodded, undeterred. "If you change your mind, find me by the minstrels. The evening's young." He bowed and left, his gaze trailing back.
Before she could exhale, an older lord with a stag banner approached, his face ruddy from wine, his belly straining against his doublet. "Fair maiden," he slurred, his eyes dropping to her cleavage. "You outshine the queen herself. Care for a dance? After perhaps a walk, my chambers overlook the Blackwater, afine view for... conversation."
Mira kept her tone light. "You're kind, my lord, but I'm not much for dancing."
"Connington," he said, puffing his chest. "Lord Armond. And you? A serving girl with that figure? Waste of talent."
"No ser, just a companion," she said, her smile straining.
His interest cooled to a leer, his hand brushing her arm. "Companion, eh? If your night's free later, my door's open. A stag for an hour, more if you're as sweet as you look."
She shook her head. "I'm spoken for, ser." She said more sternly.
He shrugged. "Pity. Offer stands." He wandered off, grabbing a goblet from a passing servant.
A Tyrell knight followed, his rose sigil gleaming, his smile charming but his eyes fixed below her neck. "My lady, your beauty rivals the gardens of Highgarden. May I know your house?"
"Mira, ser. No house... just a guest."
His charm faded to appraisal. "A guest? With that form? You'd make a fine bedwarmer. My rooms near the hall, join me after the feast? A golden dragon for the night."
She declined kindly. "Thank you, but no."
More came, a reach lordling, fat and flushed, offering wine and "private tasting" in his solar for a stag; a Swyft knight, quick with compliments but quicker to suggest a "quiet corner" for half that. Each started courtly, but once they learned she was peasant stock, the tone shifted; it was less romance, more transaction, their eyes devouring her massive breasts and curves like meat on a spit. Mira replied kindly, but discomfort coiled in her stomach like a snake, her hands twisting in her lap, her smile growing thinner with each approach.
Willem returned eventually, his face flushed with success and the numerous drinks he'd had, but the damage was done. Mira felt awful, she felt like prey in a den of wolves, the lords' stares lingering even as the feast continued.
Willem leaned in closer, his voice buzzing with excitement as he gestured wildly with his goblet. "I made quite the impression on Lord Fossoway, Mira—told him about that vintage from the Arbor I sourced last season, the one with the honey notes. He was hooked, said he'd speak to his steward about a contract. This could open doors to the Reach, think of the coin flowing in! Fossoway apples in exchange for my wines, it's a match made in the heavens!"
Mira nodded absently, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup, the feast's clamor a distant hum in her ears. She wasn't listening. The lords' stares burned into her like hot irons, their eyes raking over her body as if she were a prize hog at market, not a woman with a heart and a name. They saw her massive breasts straining the gown, her wide hips swaying when she moved, and thought only of bedding her, of buying a night with coin tossed like scraps to a dog. She hated it, the way they approached with honeyed words, offering stags for her time, as if she were no better than the whores in the Street of Silk. And Arthur... gods, she missed him so much it ached, a constant void in her chest. He would never let them look at her like this. He would protect her, love her, not parade her like Willem did.
The thoughts swirled becoming dark and consuming, her eyes fixed on the high dais where the Targaryens sat, their silver hair gleaming like stars. If only Arthur were here, holding her hand making her feel better.
Willem's voice sharpened, cutting through her thoughts like a knife. "Mira! Are you even hearing me? I've been speaking for five minutes, and you sit there like a statue."
She blinked, turning to him with a forced smile, her cheeks flushing slightly under his annoyed gaze. "I'm sorry, my lord. My mind wandered."
He huffed, setting his goblet down with a clunk that sloshed wine onto the tablecloth. "Wandered? This is our future I'm building! Pay attention it's for your benefit too."
She lowered her eyes, murmuring, "Of course. Forgive me."
Willem's expression softened, though a flicker of irritation lingered. "No matter. But listen now, I've arranged something special. A dance with Lord Fossoway's son, Ser Harlan. He's taken with you, and it's a fine opportunity."
Mira's head snapped up, indignation flashing in her eyes, her full lips pressing into a thin line. "You arranged a dance? Without asking me? My lord, that's not... I'm not some trinket to be passed around!"
Willem's jaw tightened, his hand clenching around the stem of his goblet. "Watch your tone, girl. This is an honor, a Fossoway, kin to the Reach's finest. You'd do well to show gratitude. I could have left you in the gutters, but I gave you a home, clothes, food. Is this how you repay me?"
Mira's cheeks burned, her hands twisting in her lap, but she held his gaze, her voice steady despite the tremor. "I am grateful, my lord. But I am a woman, not a bargaining chip. You had no right to promise me to anyone."
Willem leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper, his breath hot on her ear. "Perhaps not. But think of Arthur stuck in those black cells. Ser Harlan has influence at court. A good impression could sway things, open doors for bribes, for favors. Do this for him, Mira. For your husband."
The mention of Arthur pierced her like a blade, her indignation crumbling under the weight of desperation. She nodded slowly, her eyes dropping to her lap. "For Arthur... I'll do it."
Willem's smile returned, triumphant. "Wise choice. He'll be along shortly. Smile, my dear... you look ravishing."
Mira forced a smile as Ser Harlan approached, his Fossoway apple sigil gleaming on his doublet, his eyes lighting up as he bowed. "My lady Mira, may I have this dance?" She accepted his hand, her skin crawling slightly as he led her to the floor, the musicians striking up a lively galliard. The lords watched, their gazes hungry, but she moved through the steps with grace, her mind fixed on Arthur, praying this would bring him closer to freedom.
Ser Harlan Fossoway took Mira's hand with a flourish, his palm clammy against hers, and led her to the dance floor where the musicians struck up a galliard, the lutes and harps weaving a lively rhythm that filled the Great Hall. Lords and ladies paired off, their gowns swirling in a kaleidoscope of silks and velvets, but Mira's focus narrowed to the man before her, his apple sigil gleaming on his doublet, his eyes dipping immediately to her massive breasts, barely contained by the sapphire gown's bodice. As they began the steps, Harlan's voice boomed over the music. "You dance like you've been at court all your life, my lady. Graceful as a swan. But tell me, how does a beauty like you end up on the arm of a mere trader? You deserve a knight's company."
Mira forced a smile, her feet moving through the turns with an ease that surprised her, she'd never danced like this before, only simple reels in Harrowfield's festivals, yet her body flowed with the rhythm, each step instinctive, as if the music guided her. 'When would this end?' She thought, her skin crawling under his gaze, which remained fixed on her cleavage, not once meeting her eyes.
Harlan had kept talking as they danced though she hadn't listened much. "I'm no stranger to the lists—won the melee at Cider Hall last year, took down three knights with my mace alone. Fossoways have blood as old as the Reach, you know. My father's cellars hold ciders that make the Arbor's best taste like vinegar. You'd love Highgarden, the gardens bloom year-round, and the beds are soft as clouds. A woman like you would fit right in."
Mira nodded politely, her agitation growing with each word, his eyes locked on her breasts like a starving man at a feast. The dance dragged on, his hand sliding lower on her waist, his breath hot on her neck as he leaned in. "I've lands of my own now, apple orchards that stretch for miles. A knight needs a fair maiden to warm his hall. What say you come back with me after the feast? I'd make you lady of my keep, dress you in silks finer than this." She felt bile rise in her throat, his words a veneer over lust, his gaze never lifting from her chest. When would this torment end? The music swelled, and as they turned in a close embrace, his hand dipped lower, cupping her behind with a bold squeeze, his fingers digging into the soft flesh through her gown.
Mira's eyes widened, indignation surging like fire in her veins. She pushed him away hard, her palms slamming into his chest, sending him stumbling back a step. The nearby dancers paused, whispers rippling through the hall like wind through leaves, eyes turning to the scene. Harlan chuckled, steadying himself with a hand on a nearby table, his face flushing but his smile smug. "Feisty one, aren't you? I like that. Tell you what—come back to my chambers tonight, and I'll make it worth your while. A gold dragon for the seven kingdoms finest apple."
Mira's cheeks burned with humiliation, her hands trembling at her sides as the lords' stares shifted from admiration to knowing smirks, their whispers turning crude. She turned on her heel, her gown swirling, and stormed from the hall, pushing through the double doors into the cool night air of the gardens. The Red Keep's grounds stretched before her, manicured hedges and blooming roses lit by torches, the scent of night-blooming jasmine heavy in the air. She walked quickly, her breath coming in short bursts, tears pricking her eyes as she found a secluded bench beneath a weirwood tree, its red leaves rustling like whispers of judgment.
How dare he? Treating her like a common whore, offering coin for her body as if she were for sale. And Willem! leaving her alone to be ogled, then arranging dances without her consent. The feast's glamour felt like a lie now, the lords no better than beasts in fine clothes, their eyes stripping her bare with every glance. She missed Arthur fiercely, his protective arm, his gentle touch that asked nothing in return. Here, she was a prize to be won or bought, her beauty a curse that drew wolves in velvet.
Mira paced the garden path under the weirwood tree, the cool night air brushing her skin like a soft caress. Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her. "I won't go back in there," she said firmly, her voice trembling with the pent-up rage and humiliation. "Those men... their stares, their hands. They look at me like I'm meat on a spit, something to devour and discard. I hate it, all of it. The lords in their fine silks are no better than beasts, leering at my breasts as if I'm a tavern wench for sale. I just want to leave this place, go back to... to Arthur."
The voice that answered was not Willem's, but a woman's, soft and laced with amusement. "I don't blame you. I've had quite enough of the feast myself." Mira turned in shock, her eyes widening as she took in the figure before her.
Princess Rhaella Targaryen.
(AN: Damn what a cliff hanger, tbh it isn't much of one, but hey after 28 chapters we are finally here boys, we are so back. Anyway as I'm sure you can tell Rhaella will be an important character going forward as will a few others. Won't spoil anything but I hope you all are excited for the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Enjoy)
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