Matarys was his mother's son. He was proud and stubborn. All referred to him as a precocious child, bold, bright and handsome. At the age of four and ten he was proclaimed to be the finest bachelor in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Though Matarys could...
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The great hall was bathed in the warm glow of a hundred flickering candles, their light catching on the golden plates and polished silver goblets set before the gathered royals. The long table stretched between them like a battlefield, two families seated across from one another, forced into uneasy proximity by the will of a dying king.
Matarys stood near the entrance, his gloved hands clasped behind his back as his sharp gaze swept across the room. His attire had been chosen with careful deliberation—black and deep Arryn blue, the colors of his birth and his marriage, a subtle declaration of his loyalties. His doublet, embroidered with the faintest silver thread in swirling patterns reminiscent of dragon wings, clung to his broad shoulders, the high collar lending him a regal air. Aella stood beside him, equally composed, her gown a mirror of his own—a dress of flowing black silk, trimmed in blue, her hair cascading in carefully arranged curls that framed her face. She was lovely, radiant even, and though he did not love her, he took pride in the way she carried herself tonight.
The room was already thick with tension.
Alicent Hightower stood near the far end, her hands clasped before her in her usual display of piety, her green gown rich with golden embroidery. Her children flanked her—Aegon, lounging against the table with a goblet already in hand, his tunic a deep green with golden embellishments, his eyes lidded with boredom. Helaena, seated primly, wore soft lavender, a shade that made her seem even more ethereal than usual, her pale hands folded in her lap. Aemond stood at his mother's right, his posture rigid, his sapphire eye gleaming coldly beneath the candlelight. He was clad in black as always, but there was a silver embellishment to his tunic, sharp and striking, mirroring the cold steel of the sword always at his hip.
On the other side of the table, Rhaenyra was resplendent in her crimson gown, the Targaryen sigil embroidered in delicate thread across her chest. At her side, Daemon lounged in his usual manner, clad in black and blood red, his sharp gaze sweeping over the gathering with thinly veiled amusement. Jacaerys and Lucerys sat beside them, both dressed in dark blues and golds, colors that paid homage to both House Velaryon and their mother.
No one spoke.
Not until the doors opened.
All eyes turned as King Viserys was carried into the room upon his chair, his Kingsguard flanking him like silent sentinels. He was gaunt, his body frail beneath the heavy robes of state, but his good eye still burned with the fire of a man who would not be dismissed. His golden mask glinted under the candlelight, concealing the worst of his illness, but there was no mistaking the toll it had taken upon him.
He was dying.
And yet, he had come.
"My family," Viserys rasped, his voice thinner than it had once been but still commanding. "We are gathered here tonight... for more than just a meal."
The silence in the room was deafening.
"Let us celebrate," the king continued, lifting a trembling hand. "For there is much to rejoice in."
