Larra Belaerys ~ The Silver Bride

The throne room of the Red Keep was different than she had imagined.

Larra had heard tales of Aegon's conquest, of the fortress built by the dragonlords who had crossed the Narrow Sea, and in her mind she had constructed something rivaling the palaces within the Black Walls of Volantis. But this was a different kind of power—darker, more cramped, the air thick with the scent of smoke from a hundred torches despite the hour. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end, a monstrous construction of melted swords that made her stomach tighten with something between awe and revulsion. Such a strange way to display dominion.

Her father's hand rested lightly at the small of her back, guiding her forward across the stone floor. Maegon Belaerys had not spoken to her since they had dressed that morning—had not offered counsel or comfort, only a curt nod when she had emerged in her purple silks, the embroidery at her cuffs and collar subtle enough to please without ostentation. He was looking at the throne now, and she recognized the calculation in his pale eyes, the same look he wore when negotiating trade agreements with the tiger-cloaked triarchs. This was transactional. She had always known that.

Lord Steffon Baratheon stood before the throne, broad-shouldered and calm, his voice carrying easily through the chamber as he presented them. "Your Grace, I present Maegon of House Belaerys, of the Black Walls of Volantis, and his daughter Larra, come to our shores as was agreed." His gaze moved between the king and the prince, measured and diplomatic. "The Belaerys family traces its line to the forty dragonlord families of old Valyria—unbroken descent, pure of blood."

Aerys II Targaryen did not look at her. His lilac eyes—so like and yet unlike her own—darted between her father and Lord Baratheon, never resting long. He was thinner than she had expected, his hair a wild tangle of silver-gold that fell past his shoulders, and something fevered lived in his expression. He leaned forward on the throne, his long fingers drumming against the twisted metal of an armrest. "Pure of blood," he repeated, and a thin smile stretched his lips. "Yes. Yes, that is what matters, isn't it? The blood of the dragon must remain pure. My son—" His gaze snapped to his left, and Larra's followed.

The prince stood beside the throne. Larra's breath caught softly in her throat. She had heard descriptions, of course—Steffon Baratheon had spoken of the Targaryen heir with careful praise—but words had not prepared her for the reality of standing before him. She found herself studying him, searching for something familiar, some sign of the shared heritage their families boasted. He is Valyrian, she thought, and something in that recognition settled quietly in her chest. He looks like he could have walked the streets of Volantis. She kept her expression composed, but her gaze lingered a moment too long before she remembered herself and lowered it demurely.

"Maegon Belaerys," her father spoke, his High Valyrian accent thick but his Common Tongue serviceable. He inclined his head—not a bow, never a bow from one of the Old Blood to a king they had never sworn to serve. "It is an honor to stand before the heir of Aegon the Conqueror. My family has kept the old ways, the old blood, as you have. I offer my daughter in the spirit of that shared heritage."

Aerys made a sound that might have been approval, his fingers still drumming. "The blood of Valyria, joined again. Fitting. Long overdue." His gaze shifted to Larra, and something in his expression sharpened. "Girl. You understand what is being offered here? You will give my son sons of pure blood, strong blood. That is your purpose."

Larra's spine stiffened almost imperceptibly, but she kept her voice soft, melodic, carrying just the faintest trace of her Essosi origins. "I understand, Your Grace. It is my duty, and I will perform it faithfully." Duty, she thought. But perhaps also something more. Her eyes lifted again, almost against her will, seeking out the prince once more. "Though I hope I might also bring joy to my lord husband, as is fitting for a marriage between our houses."

Aerys laughed—a sharp, brittle sound. "Joy. Yes, the boy will have his joy, I suppose." He waved a dismissive hand. "Steffon, see them settled. The wedding will be before the month's turn. I will not wait."

Lord Steffon bowed his head. "As you command, Your Grace." He stepped forward, gesturing toward the far end of the hall where servants waited. "Lord Maegon, Lady Larra—if you would allow me to escort you to your chambers, you may refresh yourselves from your journey. I am sure the prince would wish to speak with his betrothed before the evening meal."

It was a polite suggestion, but Larra heard the question beneath it—a careful opening, an opportunity. Her father was already moving, eager to be away from the throne and the king's stare, but Larra hesitated. Her heart beat faster as she looked toward the prince, her fingers clasped tightly before her to hide their faint trembling.

"I... would be pleased to speak with the prince, if it pleases him," she said quietly, her lilac eyes meeting his at last with quiet, tentative hope.

The Sept of Baelor rose above King's Landing like a wound against the sky—pale marble and crystal, its seven towers reaching toward heavens that belonged to gods she did not know. Larra had stared at it from her chamber window for three days now, each morning finding it no less alien, no less oppressive. In Volantis, the temples of the Lord of Light blazed with eternal fire, and even the forgotten altars to the old gods of Valyria held a certain dark comfort. But this place was cold stone and colder doctrine, and today she would stand before its altar and bind herself to a stranger under the eyes of Seven she could not name.

Her hands trembled as her eldest sister Valaena laced the back of her gown. The silk was ivory and pale purple—concession to both the white of the Seven and Belaerys violet—but it felt like a costume. Something worn for a role she had not auditioned for.

"You are quiet," Valaena murmured in High Valyrian, her fingers steady against Larra's spine. "That is not like you."

"What is there to say?" Larra's voice came out smaller than she intended. "I am to wed a man I have spoken to precisely twice. In a sept. Before seven gods I do not worship." She caught her sister's gaze in the looking glass. "Father did not even ask if I wished for a priest of our own faith to be present."

Valaena's expression flickered—something between sympathy and resignation. "Father sees what he wishes to see. You know this."

"I know." Larra smoothed her hands over the silk at her hips. "I only hoped..."

That there would be something of home in this. That the prince might have spoken for her, asked that their shared blood be honored in the rites. That she would not stand entirely alone beneath these strange spires.

She did not finish the sentence.

The sept was crowded with faces she did not recognize—lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms, all come to witness the joining of Valyrian bloodlines. The air smelled of incense and candle smoke, and somewhere a choir sang a hymn to the Mother whose meaning escaped her entirely. Larra walked the long aisle with her chin lifted and her hands folded, her father's arm stiff beneath her fingers. Maegon Belaerys did not look at her. He looked at the crowd, the king in his gallery, the political theater of it all, and she understood with sudden clarity that she could have been any daughter, any vessel of pure blood, and he would have walked this same path with the same indifferent pride.

Two of her brothers stood near the front, Matarys and Daelor, their faces carefully neutral. They had not offered her words of comfort either, though Matarys had pressed her shoulder briefly as she passed. That small gesture had made her throat tight.

The high septon waited at the altar in his crystal crown, and beside him—

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The prince. Her prince, now, whether she wished it or not. She had not seen him since their brief walk in the gardens four days past, and something in her chest twisted at the sight of him standing there, waiting. Do I wish it? She did not know. She could not know. She knew only that her heart was hammering and her palms were damp and the seven-pointed star above the altar seemed to watch her with judgment she did not understand.

Her father released her arm and stepped back, and she stood alone before the prince, before the septon, before the Seven and the strangers and the weight of duty that pressed against her ribs.

"We are gathered here," the high septon began, his voice resonant and sonorous, "in the sight of the Seven, to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony—"

Larra's fingers curled at her sides. Holy to them, she thought. Not to me. She stared at the altar, at the carved faces of gods whose names she had tried to learn and could not remember, and felt the sudden, fierce rise of something stubborn in her chest. I will not forget my own gods. I will not pretend these Seven are mine. I will do my duty, but I will not surrender who I am.

She lifted her gaze from the altar and looked at the prince—really looked at him, searching his face for something she could not name. A sign. A promise. Anything to anchor her in this sea of strangeness.

"I..." Her voice escaped before she could stop it, barely a whisper, meant only for him. "I do not know these gods. I am sorry. I will stand where I am bidden, but I cannot pray to them."

The confession hung between them, small and trembling and terribly honest. The septon continued his liturgy, oblivious, but Larra's eyes remained fixed on the prince, waiting—hoping—for him to speak.

The great hall of the Red Keep blazed with light and noise and color—so much of it that Larra's head ached with the assault.

Trestle tables stretched the length of the room, laden with dishes she could not name. Roasted peacock with its feathers stitched back in place. Great wheels of cheese from the Westerlands. Pastries shaped like dragons, their scales picked out in gilt. The fragrance of spiced wine and roasting meat and fresh-baked bread should have been tempting, but her stomach turned with every course that arrived. She had managed a few bites of bread and half a cup of sweet Arbor gold, and her cup remained half-full still, her fingers wrapped around its stem like an anchor.

She sat at the high table beside the prince, close enough that their elbows nearly touched, and yet the distance between them felt insurmountable. The hall roared with celebration around them—laughter and song and the clatter of cups, lords and ladies calling out toasts to the health of the couple, to the union of Valyrian blood, to the Seven's blessing upon their match. Every invocation of the Seven made her flinch internally, though she kept her smile fixed and her chin lifted and her hands from trembling only through considerable effort.

The king had proposed the first toast, rising from his seat with a cup in hand and that fevered brightness in his eyes that made her skin crawl. "To my son," he had declared, "and his bride of pure blood! The dragon's line continues! The blood remains strong!" And the hall had erupted in cheers that echoed off the vaulted ceiling, and Larra had smiled and raised her cup and felt utterly, completely alone.

Her family sat further down the table—Valaena elegant and watchful, Daelor drinking steadily, her father engaged in quiet conversation with a lord whose name she had already forgotten. They had not approached her since the feast began. They were guests here, not family. Not anymore.

A minstrel began a song in the gallery, something about Jenny of Oldstones, and Larra found her gaze drifting to the dancers in the center of the hall. The steps were unfamiliar—nothing like the flowing, languid dances of Volantis, where the heat made every movement slow and deliberate. These Westerosi moved with strange formality, hands clasped and bodies apart, and she could not imagine herself among them.

"Are you not hungry?"

She startled slightly, turning to find her sister Valaena beside her, having slipped from her seat further down. Valaena's eyes moved over her plate with the same knowing look she had worn that morning, lacing Larra into her gown.

"I am," Larra lied, then sighed at her sister's raised brow. "No. I cannot eat. Everything tastes strange."

"Everything is strange." Valaena followed her gaze to the dancers. "They do things differently here. You will learn."

"Will I?" Larra's voice dropped, barely audible beneath the music. "Or will I simply pretend long enough that I forget there was anything else to learn?"

Valaena was quiet for a moment. Then she reached over and squeezed Larra's hand—brief, firm, the most comfort their family knew how to offer.

"You are a Belaerys," she said simply. "That does not change because you wear Targaryen colors."

She released her hand and slipped back to her seat, and Larra was left alone again with her cup and her aching head and the prince beside her.

The feast continued around them—course after course, toast after toast, songs she did not know and laughter she could not share. She watched the Westerosi lords and ladies with their complicated toasts and their strange customs, the way they kissed their cups before drinking, the way the women fanned themselves and the men threw bones to the dogs beneath the tables. In Volantis, the Old Blood dined with quiet ceremony, each course served by slaves who moved like shadows, and conversation flowed like the canals—slow and deep and unhurried. Here everything seemed loud and bright and relentless.

A serving girl appeared at her elbow, refilling her cup with more golden wine, and Larra murmured her thanks in the Common Tongue. The girl's eyes widened slightly at her accent, and she scurried away quickly, and Larra felt the familiar sting of being marked as foreign. The Volantene bride. She wondered how they spoke of her in the corners of the hall, what whispers followed her like a trailing hem.

She turned slightly toward the prince, emboldened by the wine or by desperation or by something else entirely she could not name. The hall was too loud for anyone to hear them, the music swelling as the dancers changed partners, and for a moment the world narrowed to just the two of them at the high table, surrounded by celebration and yet somehow apart from it.

"I do not know any of these songs," she confessed softly, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "In Volantis, we have different music. Slower. The dances are..." She gestured vaguely, her cheeks warming. "Different. I feel as though I have stepped into a play where everyone knows their lines except me."

She hesitated, her fingers tightening around her cup.

"Is it always like this? These feasts?" A pause, and then quieter still, with something raw beneath the words: "Does it ever feel less strange?"

The door closed with a sound like a held breath releasing.

Larra stood in the center of the chamber, her back to the heavy oak, and listened to the retreating footsteps of the servants who had escorted them. The wedding guests had shouted ribald suggestions as they'd climbed the stairs, and someone had made a crude joke about the prince bedding his Valyrian bride properly, and she had kept her eyes down and her cheeks burning and her hand steady in his grip. Now the noise was fading, replaced by the crackle of the hearth and the distant sounds of the feast continuing without them.

She was alone with him. Truly alone, for the first time all day.

The chamber was beautiful—she could acknowledge that even through her nervousness. Great tapestries depicting the conquest hung on the walls, and the bed was vast and canopied in Targaryen crimson, and a fire burned low in the grate to ward off the autumn chill. Someone had scattered rose petals across the sheets, a Westerosi tradition she did not understand but found oddly touching. The room smelled of woodsmoke and dried flowers and something else she could not identify, something warm and distinctly him.

Her hands went to the laces at the side of her gown without conscious thought, fingers working at the knots Valaena had tied that morning. They felt impossibly tight now, the silk stubborn against her trembling hands, and she made a soft sound of frustration as the first lace refused to give.

"I cannot—" She broke off, laughing nervously at herself, at the absurdity of being undone by a gown. "My sister tied these. She has a sailor's knots, I think."

The second lace loosened, then the third, and the gown sagged against her shoulders. She hesitated, her fingers stilling on the fabric.

In Volantis, the bedding was not a public spectacle. A bride was prepared by her women, anointed with oils, and left in her husband's chambers to await him in darkness. There was privacy in the ritual, a kind of sacred intimacy that the howling crowds outside the sept had violated. She felt exposed in ways that had nothing to do with the gown slipping down her arms—laid bare by the stares, the jokes, the king's fevered gaze as he'd bid them goodnight with a smile that made her stomach clench.

But this was Westeros. These were their customs. And she would adapt, because that was what she did, what she had always done.

She let the gown fall.

The silk pooled at her feet like ivory water, leaving her in only her smallclothes—a thin shift of pale linen that covered her from shoulder to mid-thigh. She could feel the warmth of the fire on her skin, the coolness of the air where her back remained turned to him. Her hands hung at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling with nerves.

Slowly, she turned to face him.

The firelight caught the fine fabric of her shift, rendering it nearly translucent where it stretched across her small breasts, the shadow of her nipples visible beneath. She knew she was not the lush, curving beauty that some Westerosi lords seemed to favor—her hips were slim, her frame slight, everything about her built on a smaller scale than some of the women she had seen at the feast. But she was Valyrian, pure and unbroken, and her body was what it was.

She reached for the hem of her shift with both hands.

"Will you—" Her voice came out breathy, barely above a whisper. She swallowed and tried again, her cheeks flushed and her pulse visible at the hollow of her throat. "Will you tell me if I... if there is something you wish me to do? I have never—" She could not finish the sentence, could not speak the words ‘I am a virgin’ aloud when they were both already so painfully aware. "I want to please you. I only do not know how."

The shift rose slowly, revealing the smooth skin of her thighs, the gentle curve of her hips, the faint shadows between her legs. She lifted it over her head and let it drop, standing bare before him in the firelight.

Her body was pale and slight, her breasts small and firm with rosy nipples already peaked from the cool air—or perhaps from something else. Her stomach was flat and soft, her hips narrow, the silver-white hair between her legs a shade darker than that which fell in loose waves past her shoulders. She resisted the urge to cover herself, to cross her arms over her chest or press her thighs together, though every instinct screamed at her to hide.

Instead, she lifted her chin the way her mother had taught her—You are a Belaerys; you do not cower—and met his eyes.

Her heart beat so hard she was certain he could see it, the rapid flutter visible beneath the thin skin of her chest. Her breath came shallow and quick, and when she spoke again, her voice trembled despite her best efforts.

"I am yours, my prince. If you will have me."

...