The preparations for the weddings of Princess Rhaella Targaryen to Renley Baratheon was in full swing. Viserra had planned a feast for all and a tourney for the weddings which will last a week.
Daemon had ordered every last queen's guard and gold cloaks to guard the celebration. He even had Aenar in armor and himself and ordered more soldiers from the loyal houses.
House Stark has since arrived from their long journey, bringing some of their army for the celebration. Aeliae had decided to stay in Winterfell because of her second pregnancy and sent her siblings gifts with her husband, Cregan Stark.
Viserra looks over at her eldest daughter Rhaella as she was getting ready for her wedding. "You look beautiful," Viserra says. "You look like my mother." Rhaella looks over at her. "Thank you. The dress is made from Grandmother's wedding dress."
Viserra smiled, though her eyes shimmered with emotion. "She always said tradition holds power. Maybe that power will carry you forward, Rhaella."
A knock on the chamber door broke the moment. One of the handmaidens entered, her head bowed. "My lady, it is time. The procession is waiting."
Rhaella turned to the mirror one final time, adjusting the silver dragon pendant that lay across her chest. She nodded, her reflection calm, composed—but her heart thundered like a dragon's wings.
Side by side, mother and daughter walked through the crowd of people as they walked two the throne room of the Red keep, lit with candles and lined with Targaryen guards in crimson cloaks. The Great Hall had been transformed—banners of the stag and dragon hung high above, and the air was thick with the scent of roses, smoke, and something older... something ancient.
Renly Baratheon stood at the altar, straight-backed in his ceremonial armor, trimmed in gold and forest green. His eyes met Rhaella's the moment she stepped into the hall, and a smile bloomed across his face—genuine, gentle, steady.
As Rhaella walked past the gathered lords and ladies, she could feel the weight of her family's history pressing down on her. But with each step, she also felt something else—resolve.
She reached Renly, who bowed his head slightly in greeting. "You look like the dawn itself," he murmured.
"And you," she replied softly, "like the storm before it."
The Septon raised his hands, and the hall fell silent. The ceremony began, each word echoing in the vaulted chamber, binding fire and storm, blood and legacy.
When it was done—when the words were said, the kiss sealed, and the cheering erupted—Rhaella Targaryen was no longer just a daughter of House Targaryen.
And in the shadows of the hall, Daemon watched, eyes narrowed. The wedding was a celebration—but the war brewing beneath it had only just begun.
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The Great Hall of the Red Keep was awash in golden light. Hundreds of candles flickered from high chandeliers and massive sconces, casting a warm glow over silk-draped tables laden with golden trenchers and dishes of roasted boar, honeyed quail, and spiced Dornish peppers. Music floated through the air—harps, lutes, and pipes blending with the laughter of lords and the clinking of goblets.
