Chapter 37
- [90 AC]
It was the year 90 AC, and the air on Driftmark hummed with anticipation for the wedding of Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. The grand halls of High Tide were alive with the sound of laughter, music, and the rustle of fine silks. Lords and ladies from every corner of Westeros had gathered, their eyes often drawn, almost instinctively, to the Emperor Kaelen Silvanor and his son, Aerion. Kaelen, dressed in unadorned but exquisitely woven midnight-blue silks, moved through the crowds with an ancient, effortless grace. His gaze missed nothing, calmly taking in the customs, the alliances, and the undercurrents of the Westerosi court. Aerion remained steadily by his side, observant and radiating a quiet strength that mirrored his father's.
The feasting tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh fish, and sweet wines. During the celebratory dances, Kaelen found himself briefly observing the boisterous revelry. "They have a different sort of joy," he remarked to Aerion, his voice a low murmur, "less refined, perhaps, but potent in its own way."
Aerion nodded. "It is honest, Father. Simple pleasures, deeply felt." He watched Rhaenys, the 'Queen Who Never Was,' laughing as Corlys spun her around. "They are a powerful match, those two. Strong in their ambition and their love for the sea."
Kaelen's eyes lingered on them. "Indeed. Such unions hold promise, beyond mere bloodlines." He was thinking of Aerion and Viserra, and the complex tapestry they were weaving.
Later, as the gifts were presented, a hush fell over the great hall. Kaelen stepped forward, holding a long, elegantly crafted wooden box. He presented it to Corlys, his voice carrying clearly across the room. "Lord Corlys," Kaelen began, "may this blade serve House Velaryon as faithfully as your ships serve your realm, and may it ever be a symbol of the strength found in alliances."
Corlys, usually composed, opened the box with a rare eagerness. Inside lay a Valyrian steel sword, its dark, wavy patterns shimmering with an impossible light. The whispers started immediately, growing into exclamations of awe and disbelief. Valyrian steel was a lost art, its secrets buried with the Doom of Valyria. Forged in Kaelen's own hands, this sword was not merely a weapon; it was a piece of living history, a testament to power unknown in Westeros for centuries. Even the most jaded lords stared, mouths agape. Lord Velaryon, whose wealth was legendary, whose ships dwarfed most navies, gazed at the blade, then up at Kaelen, his awe palpable. "Your Imperial Majesty," Corlys finally managed, his voice thick with emotion, "this is… a gift beyond all measure. House Velaryon is humbled. Thank you." The gift cemented Kaelen's image in the minds of the Westerosi nobility – a ruler of immense power, capable of feats thought long impossible.
The days that followed saw the Silvanor delegation return to King's Landing. The city itself buzzed with a different kind of energy now. The news of the alliance, and the immense dowry, had spread like wildfire. Preparations for the unprecedented journey to the Silvanor Empire were in full swing. Ships were being painstakingly inspected and provisioned with enough supplies for a vast convoy. The entire Targaryen royal family, along with a significant entourage of key lords, ladies, maesters, and guards, would embark on this voyage to a land almost mythical to Westerosi ears.
The morning the royal party was set to depart for the docks, King Jaehaerys called a final, formal audience in the Throne Room. The great hall was crowded, not just with the departing nobles, but with many more who wished to witness the final farewells. The air was tense, thick with the smell of old stone and unburnt candles. Kaelen and Aerion stood with the Targaryen family near the foot of the Iron Throne, observing the proceedings.
Suddenly, a figure in pristine white robes pushed through the murmuring crowd. It was the High Septon, his face a mask of stern disapproval, his septons and silent sisters trailing behind him. He marched directly towards the Targaryen royal family, his golden septon's crystal staff tapping loudly on the marble floor.
"Your Grace!" the High Septon's voice boomed, echoing through the vast chamber, silencing all conversation. He raised his hand, pointing dramatically towards Princess Viserra. "This marriage cannot proceed! It is an unprecedented union, a blatant disregard for the sacred traditions of the Faith! It is an abomination in the eyes of the Seven-Who-Are-One!"
A collective gasp swept through the Throne Room. Lords and ladies exchanged shocked glances. Some of the more pious lords nodded grimly, murmuring their agreement. Others looked pale, sensing the immense political tightrope Jaehaerys was now forced to walk. This was no mere dockside outburst; this was a formal, public challenge to the King's authority and the very foundation of the alliance.
Jaehaerys, his face a carefully controlled mask, took a breath to respond, his hand subtly resting on the pommel of Blackfyre. The High Septon's words were a direct insult, not just to the Silvanor Empire, but to the crown itself.
Before the King could speak, Aerion Silvanor stepped forward. His movement was smooth, unhurried, yet it drew all eyes. He stood tall, his silver-gold hair a stark contrast to the High Septon's white. His expression was calm, almost serene, but his eyes held a steely, ancient glint.
"High Septon," Aerion's voice cut through the stunned silence, clear and resonating without being loud, "my Empire does not adhere to the tenets of the Faith of the Seven. We extend respect to all genuine faiths, and in turn, we expect the same courtesy for our own traditions." He paused, allowing his words to settle, his gaze firm but not aggressive. "The Silvanor people, in many ways, share a kinship with your own First Men. Like them, we hold a profound reverence for the ancient spirits of the natural world, recognizing the sacred interconnectedness of all life. While we do not worship your 'Old Gods,' we honor the forest spirits, the very lifeblood that sustains our lands and people. To denounce a union, consecrated by our sacred rites, as an 'abomination' is not merely an affront to my forthcoming marriage with Princess Viserra; it is a profound act of disrespect towards the fundamental spiritual traditions of my entire civilization."
Aerion's words, delivered with imperial composure, carried the immense weight of his lineage and the vast, different philosophical and spiritual foundations of his empire. He invoked the respected traditions of the First Men, a lineage many Westerosi still honored, subtly drawing a parallel that made the High Septon's condemnation seem less absolute. The High Septon, accustomed to an unquestioning deference within Westeros, visibly faltered. He had anticipated a lord's blustering anger, perhaps even a king's frustrated dismissal, but not an emperor's son's calm, articulate, and deeply reasoned rebuke that implicitly questioned the Septon's own narrow understanding of divinity and respect.
Jaehaerys watched the exchange, a subtle, almost imperceptible sense of approval in his eyes. Aerion had handled the challenge with unexpected grace and power, without drawing a sword or resorting to threats. He had shown the strength of his empire not through force, but through wisdom and the weight of his conviction. The alliance, it was clear, was not just a political agreement; it was a profound clash, and perhaps, a future blending, of two vastly different, yet equally proud, worlds.