The Red Keep stinks of fear. Ambition. Shit.
Candle smoke. Burnt wax. Metal. Blood. I taste it on my tongue as the sept doors groan open and the crowd rises. Should have brought a flask.
Or mayhaps a coke zero. Aye, definitely that.
The High Septon drones on. Something about the Seven. Blessings. Unions. All that. I let it wash over me. My golden eyes, which people say glow like a cat's in the dark, scan the assembled crowd. Lords and ladies in their finest silks, faces half-familiar, all of them pretending they aren't here to watch the "cursed prince" snap. Daemon's smirking, wants a show. Viserys is pretending to be a wise and kind King as ever. Otto Hightower's smile is too wide, like he's just sold a lemon to a king and himself.
My bride stands next to me. Stiff as a statue. Alicent Hightower. Green dress, hair neat, lips pressed tight. Doubt she wants this any more than I do. Can't blame her. Judging by her eyes, she's already counted every way this could go wrong.
I could tell her a few more.
Septon finishes his speech. Merciful. Time for vows.
Her hand fits in mine. Cold. Shaky, but she hides it well. Better than most. She smells of roses, expensive soap, and nerves under it. My senses are sharp, too sharp. I catalog the scents: boredom, lust, fear, ambition, all swirling together in this gilded prison.
We speak together, voices flat, steady:
"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,"
"I am hers, and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days."
Words echo. Superstition makes them heavy. Court breathes out, a sound like wind through dead leaves. I can almost hear the collective sigh of relief from the audience: he said the right words, he didn't bite her, mayhaps he really is human after all.
The septon binds our hands in white silk. Feels like a shackle. I watch the nobles, some look disappointed. No blood, no fire. Sorry to disappoint.
Cloak next. Black and red. House Targaryen. Heavy, stitched with gold. My burden. My curse.
I swing it over her shoulders. She almost disappears beneath it. Tiny compared to my size. Then she straightens. Chin up. Eyes green as wildfire. More steel in her than half the knights here. Reminds me of someone who'd survive a massacre just to spite the world.
The septon steps back, giving me the nod. Now come the words that make the old men in the front row shift uneasily, the words of my house, my blood.
I clear my throat. Voice comes out rough, never could get the Valyrian right. Daemon teases me, says I sound like I'm gargling gravel. My voice is deep and nothing like the smooth, cultured tones of my brothers. But then again, nothing about me is like my brothers. Suits me fine.
"Iksan zȳhos, iā ēdruta. Aōha issa ñuha, hen tubis naejot tubis." (I am yours, and you are mine. Yours is mine, from this day to this day.)
Alicent holds my gaze. Her Valyrian's softer, but her eyes are hard as emerald. Her appearance is everything like the actress. Except, younger and her eyes are not dark brown.
"Iksā ñuha, iā ēdruta. Ñuha issa aōha, hen tubis naejot tubis."
We stand there. Bound by old words, old blood, old ghosts. I feel Draxtar in the back of my mind. Dragonfire in my veins, restless, hungry.
"By the laws of the Crown, the Faith, and the blood of Old Valyrian, I now pronounce you man and wife!"
Polite applause. Sounds like rain on a coffin.
She looks at me. Expecting something. Mayhaps a smile. Mayhaps fire. Or a monster.
I grunt. "Could be worse."
She blinks. Not sure if I'm japing.
I glance at the crowd, then back at her. "Could be better, too."
She shoots me a nervous, fake smile. "I suspect most root canals are shorter."
I snort. Points for wit.
We stand there. Awkward. Stiff. Staring. The court's watching, waiting for something to go wrong.
I take her hand, lead her from the altar. "Let's get this over with."
She keeps pace, steps careful, measured. A dutiful, obedient wife any man would want.
We make it to the doors. I risk a glance at her. Auburn hair, skin like porcelain, eyes sharp and tired. She's beautiful. But I know she's dangerous, too.
"How the fuck did I get here?" I mutter crudely. Not really expecting an answer.
She hears me anyway. Says, quiet and soft, "I've wondered the same, husband."
Husband. Hmm. Now that's something I don't hear everyday.
In another life, I'd have run. In this one, I stand. Because that's what you do when you're out of options.
The doors close behind us.
Hell of a start.