Chapter Text
“All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does, and that is his.” - Oscar Wilde
“It is, therefore, my desire to see Viserra wed by the end of the year to Theomore Manderly. The wedding will be held in White Harbour, and I can send a letter to lord Manderly by nightfall. I am sure he will be most kind and accepting of our offer.”
The silence fell on them before being broken by the faint sobs of the girl in question – a Princess of five-and-ten, a fair maiden dressed in rich purple silks. What did she not have? The youth, the beauty, the wits all were with her – yet she did not have the power to overturn the decision made by her mother, nor did she have the Queen’s love.
Theomore Manderly was a good man; no one could probably disagree. Yet he was an old man, four times a widower, and, while being the Queen’s good friend, did not stand to offer much to the Crown – nothing in White Harbour was worthy enough of the jewel that Viserra was.
A vain girl, many called her, but she did have reasons for her airs and arrogance. A great beauty she was, the fairest of all the King’s daughters, an epitome of Valyrian beauty – yet she had to bear the anger her parents could not pour on their other children. The girl never tried to kiss or lay with a man, unlike her elder sister and was not scared of marriage like her other sister was. No, Viserra was guilty of being majestic and temperamental but not of any particular crime that would warrant her mother’s fury.
Yet her mother’s voice was stern, and there was no mercy in her eyes.
“She will not marry him,” the male voice made the sobs stop abruptly and sparked everyone’s attention.
Two years had passed since Prince Baelon lost his dear sister-wife, Princess Alyssa. His children still wept for their mother, and even though the Prince would make a fine husband to any maiden in the realm, he was steadfastly against remarrying – something Queen Alysanne was supporting wholeheartedly, still dwelling on the ghost of her darling daughter.
“Son,” the King interfered, “your mother has brokered many a great match over the years, and Theomore Manderly is –”
“An old man who has one leg in a grave. I have no idea what has gotten into our mother, but there must be other, more suitable candidates for Viserra.”
The King turned to his wife then. Many men would kill for Viserra’s hand in marriage, for her looks alone if not for the name that came with her. The girl was not a dragon rider, but her lineage was impeccable, and her children would likely be of great beauty as well – not to mention the blood of dragon riders that would flow through her descendants’ veins.
The Queen straightened her back. “I have spent moons looking for a perfect match for Viserra. She will marry Theomore, and, as your father was trying to say, he is a good man who will treat your sister with kindness.”
Kindness was not what the Queen’s voice was filled with.
“Viserra will not marry him,” Baelon repeated, drumming his fingers on the table. “If there are truly no other candidates, as Mother is claiming, she will marry me.”
Everyone gasped then. Everyone knew Baelon loved his Alyssa – even after her death, he still held onto the passionate love they had had before the Princess was taken from him too soon. To imagine Baelon would want to remarry was unthinkable, and yet here he was – offering his hand in marriage to his younger sister.
The Princess in question grew quiet, but no one paid attention to her slim figure standing in front of the table. No, everyone’s gazes were directed at Baelon.
“You cannot be serious,” his brother, Prince Aemon, then spoke. “Not after Alyssa –”
“Alyssa,” the Spring Prince replied sternly, struggling to conceal the pain, “is dead. So is Daenerys, so is Daella. Saera is as good as dead to us all, and if there are only three sisters left in this world with us, one of which is shipped to Oldtown, is it not our duty to protect them, brother?”
Aemon was at a loss for words then – and so was everyone else.
Baelon cared for his family – his brother was his dearest friend, and his other siblings treated him with respect, which he returned in kind. Yet he was not known for a particular fondness of Viserra – of anyone, really, as of late, for all his love and devotion was focused on his sons by Alyssa. He did love his sisters; no one would be able to deny it, but to marry one of them?
The Queen stared at him in disbelief. “You are making a mistake, son.”
“A mistake?” Baelon snarled. “A mistake was to sell Daella to that man whose children were older than her and hope he would not make her share his bed. He told you he had loved her already – she was a kid, albeit in the body of a maiden of six-and-ten! What kind of man would lust after a child like her? A mistake was to trust Saera and let her perform all her cruel antics under our roof and then send her away, hoping she would subdue. A mistake is to try to punish your own daughter by sending her to the fucking walking corpse – will you impatiently wait for a black raven announcing her demise, Mother?”
The Queen’s lips trembled then – the loss of her daughters hurt her immensely, and while some could take Alysanne’s side, Baelon’s point of view could also be understood. Viserra and Gael were the only sisters remaining in the Keep, safe from the dangers of the men for now but not forever. Outsiders had hurt their women enough, and it was probably not entirely unforeseen that the Prince did not want to lose another sister to a man who would not let her thrive.
The King looked perplexed. He was good with roads and unruly, arrogant lords, but his daughters were a hardship he did not know how to overcome. Having trusted them into Alysanne’s hands, he had hoped to free himself from the obligation of making difficult choices, but his son put him in an awkward position where he had to choose between his wife’s judgment and the better offer for his daughter.
For, objectively, there was not a better suitor for Viserra than Baelon. No one could compete with the dragon-riding Prince who would likely serve as the Hand of the King upon his brother’s accession. Theomore Manderly was a good lord, that much was true, but he was a bizarre match for a young Princess. The Queen must have had her reasons, but he did not appear particularly prominent or important to the Crown.
“Do you not all see it?!” Alysanne asked, her cheeks turning red in indignation. “She wants for nothing more than to marry Baelon – all her smiles and glances are for him, for she aims to be the Queen, no less.”
At that, Aemon frowned. “I seem to still be alive and married, Mother.”
No one looked at Viserra then, whose face was a mask of surprise, yet her eyes betrayed the truth. Alysanne was not wrong, not at all – the young girl did dream of a match that would elevate her, yet she had hardly believed it was possible. Now, with her elder brother being so vocal in her support, her vain heart was beating faster – she was smart enough not to intervene, letting her parents and her brother fight each other, but the diamond tears were drying quickly on her perfect face.
The Queen stared at her husband then – her last pillar, her last support. Baelon was adamant on the issue, and Aemon did not seem too angry with his brother – but surely, Jaehaerys would not allow this.
“If Baelon is willing to take her to wife, then I see no point in discussing this further. They will marry next year in a ceremony here in the capital.”
He rose and left the room swiftly – the King had never had the patience for discussions of nuptials and romances. To him, the matter was settled – Viserra would surely not complain, and no lord would get power beyond his station.
Once the King left, the young Princess finally moved, hot tears streaming down her face as if she could command them to flow.
“Thank you, brother. I will be whatever you want me to be, I will be like Alyssa to you,” she whispered, falling to her knees in front of Baelon. Aemon looked away, but Baelon gestured her to rise.
“You will never say it again. You are not Alyssa and will never be her, but you are still my sister.”
The girl then shook her head obediently, wiping the tears that suited her so much, but her mother looked at her with poorly veiled disgust.
“What have you both done?” Alysanne whispered. “Nothing good will come out of this union, of that I am sure. The gods seem to be punishing us for something, for never could I have imagined I had given birth to a serpent.”
With that, the Queen left the chambers as well – she felt humiliated, but above everything, she felt terrified for her son.
The betrothal was long enough to ensure no rumours followed them, and the wedding was arranged – the Queen, who used to delight in planning such ceremonies, took no part in it, although her husband did make her attend it. The groom was not the happiest man in the world, performing his duty and keeping his word but not finding any pleasure in having a second wedding. The bride shone brightly on the day she took her vows – the vows that would win her the Crown of a consort, although the girl of six-and-ten had no way of knowing it. Or, maybe she had – maybe she had been wiser than everyone in the throne room, already knowing what this marriage would bring her.
During the wedding, few cheered – but the angriest was not the Queen herself but two boys, ten and six of age respectively, glaring at their new stepmother and hugged protectively by Alysanne herself.