twin flames | daemon targaryen

thirty-six

The wedding of Prince Baelon and Lady Rhaena was set to be the event of the year. For over a fortnight, the lords and ladies of Westeros streamed into the capital, all eager to take part in the celebration of the eldest and beloved grandchild of King Viserys getting married.

Aegon had told Baelon one day that there were more people in attendance and more celebrations for Baelon and Rhaena's union than that of Aegon and Helaena's, and the younger prince found himself agreeing.

Everywhere he went within the Red Keep, he would find visiting lords and ladies fawning over the tapestries, the feasts, the tourneys, the wealth, and the frivolousness on display. They whispered that this was the first time that all the lords and ladies had been gathered since Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor's wedding two decades previous, though all believed that the match between Baelon and Rhaena would amount to more than that of the Heir and the Sea Snake's son.

Baelon had heard all their whispering and fawning and expectations. As Baelon stared at his reflection in the mirror the morning of his wedding, it was all he could focus on.

"Do not be nervous, brother," Rhaegar said from where he was sprawled out on one of the chaises in Baelon's chambers.

"It is hard not to be," Baelon murmured, fidgeting with the black vest he wore over his red doublet. His clothes were the color of his house, a perfect representation of his heritage, his family, his duty. They were made from the finest fabrics and silks, another demonstration of the wealth his house wielded.

"You are marrying Rhaena," Rhaegar continued with a flippant shrug, watching as Baelon studied himself in the mirror and fidgeted with his clothes. "What is there to be worried about? You two have practically been betrothed since we were all children."

"That is not what I am nervous about," Baelon said, closing his eyes briefly, wishing to be rid of the remainder of the black, red, and gold of his house that was held within his clothing.

He was not worried about marrying Rhaena. It had been over a year since they had gone before his parents and her grandparents and requested the betrothal be set between them, and every day since had been better than the last. He could only imagine how good the rest of his life would be with his Rhaena at his side.

What he was really worried about was something that he could not articulate to his younger brother, not in the common tongue or in High Valyrian.

Baelon was the eldest child and son of the Peaceful Princess and the Rogue Prince, and the beloved eldest grandchild and grandson of King Viserys. He had long since grown familiar with the responsibilities those titles held, yet on this day, the day he was going to marry, he felt their weight more than ever.

These days of celebration needed to be perfect. Baelon had to live up to the expectations placed upon him, and he had to be the benevolent prince those of the Seven Kingdoms had deemed him. He had to be worthy of the throne he had heard his mother whisper he would one day sit on.

It was clear to those within the inner circle and the family that Baelon and Rhaena's wedding celebrations were Viserys's final celebrations to host. It was the monarch's last attempt to put on a grand show for the realm, to demonstrate one final time the strength, power, and wealth of House Targaryen as he slowly succumbed to his illness.

The extravagant feasts, the jousting and melees, the endless meetings and teas were all one gallant attempt to prove that House Targaryen was strong despite the rumors of the fractured family. The realm whispered of the Blacks, the Greens, and the Reds. They whispered of the three matriarchs of House Targaryen pitted against each other, dragon fighting dragon fighting dragon.