Chapter 48: Chapter 48: The Welcome Feast
I learned the ceremony was not that night, shortly before the feast began.
Vaeron told me with the air of a man correcting an error he believed should never have survived this long. He stood in my chamber with a folded schedule in one hand, dark purple formal attire already laid across the chair behind him, and the faintest suggestion of satisfaction hidden behind his usual severity. Not joy. Vaeron did not waste joy on another man’s confusion. But satisfaction, certainly.
"The vows are on the seventh day," he said.
I stared at him. "The seventh day."
"Yes."
"As in not tonight."
"That is usually what the seventh day means when one is currently on the second."
I took the parchment from him and read it properly for the first time. The arrivals of the great houses and honoured guests had concluded yesterday, which explained the flood of banners, horses, ships, retainers, wagons, heralds, and noble tempers that had poured through King’s Landing until the city seemed ready to burst.
Today was the Welcome Feast, the official beginning of the celebrations. The next three days belonged to the tourney, with jousting, melee, and archery set to entertain lords, ladies, and common folk alike. The sixth day would bring the feast’s conclusion, a final night of drinking, dancing, and toasts to the champions and the royal couple. The seventh day, at the very end of the week, carried the wedding ceremony.
Below it, in smaller writing, was the bedding ceremony. I read the schedule twice. Then once more, because denial deserved proper burial.
"I thought tonight was the feast before the vows," I said.
"It is a feast before the vows."
"Vaeron."
"You assumed it was immediately before the vows. That was your error."
"My error was trusting the Red Keep to make one event out of one event."
"That was foolish of you."
I lowered the parchment and looked at him. "Five more days after tonight."
"That is what has been prepared."
"Five days of nobles, wine, tourneys, dances, insults, gifts, seating disputes, and Otto Hightower breathing."
Vaeron folded his hands behind his back. "At least one of those may be reduced if we are fortunate."
"Which one?"
"Your patience."
I closed my eyes.
A quick wedding would have been dangerous enough. One night beneath the Iron Throne, vows spoken before the great houses, and the matter sealed before half the realm could sharpen suspicion into something organised.
But a week of festivities gave every doubt room to grow teeth. Every lord would have time to look, speak, drink, judge, bargain, whisper, and decide what Rhaenyra’s choice meant for his own future. The wedding had not been arranged as an event. It had been arranged as a campaign.
Jasper responded to the news by swearing long enough that Rollis eventually told him to save some language for the tourney. Emeric asked whether officers were expected to attend all seven days and looked pained when Vaeron confirmed it.
Landrey brightened at the mention of three days of tourney competition, then tried to hide his interest behind criticism of King’s Landing horses. Rollis merely sighed and said old men had survived worse things than feasts, though usually with cleaner exits.
By late afternoon, we were dressed.
The dark purple had looked rich when folded. On my officers, it became something else. Black trim sharpened the colour. The white sword within its crescent wreath had been worked over each breast, pale thread against deep cloth, martial enough to honour the Dread Legion and formal enough to pass beneath royal scrutiny. The garments were too fine for soldiers and too severe for courtiers, which meant they suited us better than anyone wished to admit.
Jasper looked like a formal threat. Rollis looked like judgement given a cane. Emeric looked as if he had decided the clothing was a uniform and could therefore be endured. Landrey looked irritatingly handsome and deeply aware of it. Vaeron looked like a young lord who had been born knowing the exact cost of every candle in the room and whether the wax had been stolen.
"You all look respectable," I said.
Jasper frowned. "I dislike how often people keep saying that."
"Because it is suspicious?" Rollis asked.
"Because they sound surprised."
"They are," Landrey said. "I certainly am."
Jasper turned toward him. "Your sleeves are too tight."
"They are fitted."
"They look like they are strangling your vanity."
"My vanity thrives under pressure."
Vaeron adjusted one of his cuffs, expression grim. "Try not to bleed on anything before the feast ends. The laundering charges in this castle are offensive."
I looked at him. "You checked?"
"Obviously."
The throne room had been made ready for the Welcome Feast, but no amount of tables, candles, flowers, polished silver, rich cloth, or servants moving with practised urgency could make men forget what stood above them.
The Iron Throne rose at the far end of the hall, black and jagged beneath torchlight, watching the celebration like a wound made holy by time. Before its base, a long royal table had been placed for Viserys, Rhaenyra, and those closest to the marriage, close enough that anyone seated there would feel the throne’s shadow fall across their shoulders.
Long tables ran down either side of the hall, leaving a broad space through the centre for dancing, formal entrances, and whatever theatre the court wished to pretend was natural. Gold plates, silver cups, roasted meats, spiced fish, fruit, bread, pale flowers, sugared almonds, and Arbor wine filled the tables in careful abundance. It was not a feast for the whole realm. It was too controlled for that, too selective, too heavy with names that mattered.
This was the first true gathering of the week. The opening move. I stood outside the great doors with my officers at my back and wondered how many people inside would use the next five days trying to prevent the seventh.
"Do not look so grim," Landrey murmured. "People will think you are the one being married."
"I am the one being married."
"Not tonight."
I looked at him. He smiled. "Too soon?"
"Five days too soon."
Before Jasper could threaten him on my behalf, the doors opened.
Sound rolled out first: music, conversation, laughter, the clatter of cups, and the warm, dangerous hum of nobles pretending that food made them less watchful. Then the herald’s staff struck the stone, and the noise thinned.
It did not vanish. Rooms like that never fell truly silent unless blood had been spilt or a king had risen. But attention moved toward us in a wave, and I felt it strike before I stepped through the doors.
"Captain Othorion Galeris," the herald called, "Commander of the Dread Legion, honoured bridegroom to Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen." There was a pause, brief but enough for the hall to breathe around the name. "Vaeron Galeris. Jasper, Rollis, Emeric, and Landrey, officers of the Dread Legion."
We entered. The hall looked first at me, then at the men behind me, and for a moment the Welcome Feast forgot how to continue.
I had expected curiosity. I had expected judgement, resentment, calculation, and whispers dressed as compliments. I had not expected the sheer force of the visual we made beneath the torchlight.
Dark purple moved through a throne room crowded with red, black, green, gold, silver, storm-dark blue, bronze, and wine-rich burgundy, and somehow the colour seized the eye because it belonged to no great Westerosi house seated there.
It was foreign but not gaudy, severe but rich, and every coat bore the white sword within its crescent wreath like a declaration that the men wearing it had not come to be swallowed by royal spectacle.
My officers were uncomfortable enough to make the effect better.
Jasper walked like a man enduring honour under protest, which somehow made him look more formidable. Rollis carried his cane with quiet dignity, old eyes moving across the hall with the patience of a veteran who knew every feast was a battlefield with better lighting.
Emeric remained controlled, his discomfort hidden beneath discipline. Landrey, despite all complaints, wore courtly attention as if he had been born insulting it. Vaeron looked neither impressed nor intimidated, which made half the watching lords seem less certain of their own importance.
They stole the room without trying. That was the remarkable part.
The noble guests had expected sellswords dressed above their station, perhaps foreign officers made awkward by silk and silver. Instead, they saw commanders made formal without losing the shape of war.
The cloth was too fine for a camp and too severe for a court, and because of that it suited us better than anything softer could have. We did not look like Westerosi lords. We looked like men who had brought our own banner into the hall and made it acceptable by refusing to apologise for it.
At the royal table, Rhaenyra watched us approach.
She wore red and black, her hair arranged in pale gold and silver braids that caught the candlelight, a circlet resting against them with enough restraint to remind everyone she did not need a crown to be the heir.
Her expression remained composed, but I saw the flicker of amusement in her eyes when she noticed Jasper’s stiffness and Landrey’s poorly concealed satisfaction. Beside her sat Viserys, smiling warmly, though his eyes moved too often toward the empty place where his queen should have been.
Alicent was not there.
In a room full of banners, jewels, noble blood, old grudges, and armed courtesy, the absence drew attention like a knife laid quietly beside a plate. No one spoke of it as we crossed the hall. That only made it louder. The queen’s chair stood prepared and untouched, the place setting perfect enough to prove the absence had not been an oversight.
Otto Hightower sat with his kin at one of the side tables, green and grey dignity arranged around him like a quiet fortress. His face revealed nothing when I looked his way, though his eyes lingered on the dark purple coats and the crescent wreath over each breast.
House Hightower had come even if Alicent had not. That was a message, though not a simple one. Support, disapproval, illness, protest, pressure, or all of them braided together until no one could pull one strand free without cutting the others.
The rest of the room waited to be read.
House Lannister occupied a prominent place on the right, all gold and crimson confidence, bright hair, brighter jewels, and smiles polished smooth enough to reflect candlelight. They looked at my officers as men might look at a mine discovered on another lord’s land, calculating worth before deciding whether to praise or resent it. Their silks shone, their cups were never empty, and not one of them appeared to believe magnificence was possible without gold.
House Baratheon sat heavy and proud beneath black stag banners, storm-dark colours giving their table a weight the Lannisters lacked. They seemed less polished, more immediate, men and women broad in voice and gesture, their laughter loud enough to be either genuine or warning. One of the Baratheon men watched Jasper with interest, as if deciding whether the two of them might one day become friends by trying to break each other.
House Tyrell of Highgarden brought Reach elegance with them, green and gold arranged in graceful layers, smiles soft, hands gentle, voices warm. They looked harmless in the way gardens looked harmless before one remembered thorns, poison, and roots splitting stone over time. Their lord’s representative inclined his head when my gaze passed, courtesy perfect enough to conceal the thought beneath it.
House Velaryon did not conceal as much. Sea-green and silver marked their place, rich and old, with Corlys Velaryon seated like a man carved from pride and salt. Rhaenys sat near him, composed, silver hair falling over dark fabric, her gaze keener than half the swords in the room. Laena was there as well, young and poised, though grief still lingered around that family like mist that sunlight had not fully burned away. Laenor’s absence had weight. My presence made it heavier.
Corlys looked at me once. Only once. It was enough to remind me that some wounds did not close because politics required them covered.
House Redwyne had brought Arbor colour and wealth, deep burgundy, grapevine embroidery, and a table that seemed surrounded by better wine than anyone else’s. Their smiles were easy, their eyes not. Naval power liked to pretend it was hospitality when carried in goblets instead of ships. They watched the Velaryons as much as they watched me, which told me where their instincts lay.
House Celtigar sat smaller in number but not in pride, old Valyrian blood wrapped in crabbed caution and silver-trimmed finery. Their eyes lingered on my hair, my face, my sword, my officers, the Galeris colours, and then Rhaenyra. I could almost hear the question moving among them. Was I kin of a kind, rival, opportunity, insult, or warning from across the sea?
House Royce brought bronze dignity from the Vale.
Their table was quieter than the others, their clothing darker, their ornaments older, and their pride less eager to shine because it had never needed permission from candlelight. Bronze runes and ancient patterns marked their attire, and their silence felt like stone under snow. I noticed them watching the doors almost as often as the royal table, though I did not yet understand why. Perhaps old grievances had better hearing than new alliances.
House Blackwood stood out even among greater banners.
Ravens, dead white trees, black and red severity, and the old wildness of the Riverlands clung to them despite the polish of court. They looked less impressed by splendour than by nerve. One young Blackwood at the table grinned when Jasper passed, not mockingly, but with open appreciation for a man who looked ready to fight the furniture if provoked. His elder gave him a sharp glance that did not entirely remove the grin.
Every house had come with eyes.
Some came with curiosity. Some with suspicion. Some with grief, hunger, pride, or the desire to witness disaster from a good seat. They watched me walk toward the royal table, and I knew that before the vows were spoken five days from now, they were already judging what sort of husband Rhaenyra had chosen and what sort of future that choice might drag behind it.
I bowed to Viserys first. "Your Grace."
"Othorion," he said, smile broadening. "You and your officers honour us."
"We are honoured to be received."
His eyes moved over the dark purple attire, and his smile became more genuine. "You look splendid. All of you."
Jasper endured this as if struck by an arrow. Rhaenyra noticed and finally allowed herself the smallest visible smile.
"Princess," I said, turning to her.
"Captain," she replied, though the title held more warmth than formality could hide. "You have made quite the entrance."
"I blame the tailors."
"Poor men. First Jasper, now blame."
Jasper muttered something behind me that sounded like surrender.
Viserys gestured toward the places assigned for us at the royal table and nearby honour seats. Vaeron took in the arrangement with one glance, likely comparing it against the list he had approved and searching for traps hidden in chair placement. Rollis lowered himself carefully, Emeric sat like a man prepared to stand at any moment, and Landrey managed to sit with the air of someone allowing the chair a rare privilege.
I took the seat near Rhaenyra. For a moment, amid all the watching eyes, the distance between us narrowed to something almost private.
"You wore the purple," she said softly.
"You suggested my officers look intentional."
"I did."
"They exceeded instruction."
Her eyes moved over them, then returned to me. "They look like yours."
That landed deeper than I expected.
Not because of possession. Not exactly. Because she understood that they were not merely guests beside me. They were the men who had carried me here, who would stand behind my vows not as ornaments but as proof of the road I brought into her life. In dark purple and black, with the white sword in its crescent wreath, they looked like my past made respectable enough to sit beneath the Iron Throne.
"You did not tell me the vows were five days away," I said quietly.
Her mouth curved. "Did Vaeron?"
"With great cruelty."
"I thought he might."
"I believed I was surviving one night of feasting before the ceremony."
"You are surviving one week."
"That is not comfort."
"No," she said, eyes bright with restrained amusement. "But it is honest."
Music resumed after we were seated, though the room did not fully recover at once. Servants moved quickly with wine and first courses. Conversation rose again, brighter than before and less natural.
The houses began their careful work. Lannisters laughed toward Baratheons. Tyrells leaned toward Redwynes. Celtigars watched Velaryons watching me. Hightowers watched everyone while pretending to discuss nothing more dangerous than the quality of the fish.
The central space remained open for dancing later.
For now, it was a lane of polished stone between two lines of power, leading directly from the doors to the royal table and the throne beyond it. I had walked that path once already. In five days, Rhaenyra and I would stand in that same space and speak vows while every house measured the shape of our voices.
Viserys raised his cup.
The hall quieted more naturally for him than it had for me, though not more eagerly. Kings drew silence by right, bridegrooms by curiosity, and executioners by habit. Viserys looked happier than he had in days, perhaps because the first feast allowed him to believe, briefly, that splendour could hold the realm in place.
"My lords, my ladies, honoured friends of the crown," he said. "Tonight, we begin a week of celebration for my daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, and Captain Othorion Galeris."
Cups lifted across the hall.
Viserys continued, voice warm and carrying. "The arrivals have concluded, and the realm’s great houses now sit beneath my roof as honoured guests. Tonight we welcome you properly. Tomorrow, the tourney begins, and for three days the realm shall have sport worthy of its finest knights, archers, and champions."
A cheer rose from the younger men in the hall, especially those who had not yet been hit hard enough to understand what tourneys truly cost.
Viserys smiled and pressed on. "On the sixth night, we shall honour the champions and celebrate the couple once more. On the seventh day, before gods, crown, and realm, my daughter and Captain Galeris will speak their vows. Until then, let this hall remember that celebration is no lesser thing than ceremony. Eat, drink, dance when the music calls, and honour the peace of my house."
That last phrase carried more command than cheer. The room drank to it. So did I, though the wine tasted like five more days of danger.
The first courses passed in a blur of rich flavours and careful conversation. Viserys spoke warmly with Rhaenyra, then with me, then across the table to a Lannister lord who praised the decoration of the hall with the confidence of a man who believed compliments should sound like investments. Rhaenyra answered several greetings with perfect poise, accepting praise from those who had doubted her and courtesy from those who likely still did.
Alicent’s chair remained empty.
The longer it stayed that way, the more I felt it pressing on Viserys. His smiles continued, but each time the doors opened for servants, his eyes moved before he could stop them. Rhaenyra saw it too. She did not mention it. That restraint cost her something, though whether pride, hurt, or old affection, I could not tell.
Otto did not look toward the empty chair at all. That made me trust it less. Near the middle of the second course, Lord Corlys rose from the Velaryon table with a cup in hand.
Conversation softened around him, not because he asked for quiet, but because men had learned that the Sea Snake did not stand without purpose. He looked first to Viserys, then to Rhaenyra. Only after that did his gaze settle on me. I felt the weight of Laenor’s ghost between us, sharpened by every candle in the hall.
"To Princess Rhaenyra," Corlys said, voice carrying with practised strength. "The realm’s delight, heir to the Iron Throne, blood of Old Valyria."
Cups lifted. His eyes did not leave mine. "And to Captain Galeris, whose deeds in the Stepstones are known to many in this hall. May he honour the blood he joins, the vows he will speak, and the peace this marriage is meant to serve."
It was not warm. It was not insult. It was a blade left sheathed but placed clearly on the table.
I stood, cup in hand. "Lord Corlys honours me by remembering the Stepstones."
A few faces turned more sharply at that. "I will endeavour to honour Princess Rhaenyra," I continued, "not only in words spoken at the week’s end, but in the peace those words must help defend."
Corlys inclined his head by the smallest degree. Rhaenys watched me with unreadable eyes. Laena looked between us, perhaps seeing more than either man wished displayed. The hall drank.
The feast moved on.
Dancing began after the third course, though at first it belonged to younger cousins, ambitious lordlings, and ladies whose mothers had decided visibility was more important than comfort.
The centre of the hall filled with colour, movement, and music, all beneath the Iron Throne’s ugly silhouette. It was strange to watch joy arranged under swords. Stranger still to know that this was only the first true night. Five more days of tourney blood, meals, dances, gifts, greetings, and careful accidents would follow before the vows were finally spoken.
Landrey was the first of my officers asked to dance.
He accepted with the expression of a man sacrificing himself for diplomacy and then performed well enough to betray prior experience. Jasper looked personally offended by this revelation.
Rollis laughed into his wine. Emeric refused two invitations with such polite severity that no one tried a third. Vaeron spent the entire sequence speaking with a Redwyne steward about supply shipping, which I suspected was his version of dancing.
Rhaenyra leaned toward me. "Your cavalry officer is enjoying himself."
"He will deny it under oath."
"Should I ask him?"
"Only if you wish to see a man lie badly in expensive sleeves."
Her smile warmed me more than the wine.
For a while, the feast almost became what Viserys wanted it to be. Music filled the hall. Servants carried sweet dishes and spiced wine. Lannisters displayed wealth, Tyrells displayed grace, Baratheons displayed volume, Redwynes displayed better drink, Blackwoods displayed restrained amusement, and Hightowers displayed control. The Velaryons remained composed, though grief and calculation sat with them like additional guests.
The empty queen’s chair remained untouched. Then, as the music shifted toward a brighter tune and the dancers cleared space for another set, the great doors opened again.
At first, I thought it was another late lordling eager to be seen arriving after the hall had noticed his absence. The timing was too deliberate for accident, and court bred men who mistook lateness for importance. Several heads turned with mild irritation. A steward moved toward the entrance, ready to manage embarrassment into ceremony.
Then the guards stepped aside too quickly. The music faltered before the players knew why.
The room changed with astonishing speed. Lannister smiles paused. Baratheon laughter died mid-breath. The Tyrell table grew still in a way only polished people managed. At the Velaryon table, Corlys’s head turned sharply, Rhaenys went very quiet, and Laena’s expression shifted before she could hide it. The Royces stiffened like bronze given life.
Otto Hightower looked toward the doors. For the first time that evening, surprise touched his face.
A man in black and red entered beneath the torchlight, silver hair wind-tangled, travel cloak dark from weather, a smile sharp enough to make half the hall remember old grievances at once.
He looked as though he had ridden war, sea wind, and dragonfire straight into the Welcome Feast and found the interruption amusing. No herald had announced him. No servant had prepared the room for him. No one needed his name.
Daemon Targaryen had returned.
And judging by the look on Otto Hightower’s face, no one had told him.
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