King Viserys had yielded more than once for Rhaenyra's sake. Now he found himself forced to yield again, this time to Baelon, all for the future of his daughter.
He had bent farther than any king ought.
To wed off his own child, Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne, as though she were some pawn in a lord's bargain. What lord in all the Seven Kingdoms could claim to have shown greater generosity toward his crown than Viserys? If even this concession were rejected, would he not become a laughingstock in his own court?
He was the king. Yet for Rhaenyra and the preservation of House Targaryen, he had humbled himself to arrange her marriage in haste.
Did they truly believe she could not find a husband?
Rhaenyra was Princess of Dragonstone, rider of Syrax, blood of Old Valyria made flesh. Her rank eclipsed that of any noble maiden in the realm.
And in truth, had Rhaenyra not refused outright to be named heir, Viserys would never have contemplated naming another.
Baelon was formidable. Of that the king had never harbored doubt. His nephew possessed ambition in full measure, and the strength to pursue it.
Baelon had made one matter plain. He desired the Iron Throne.
By rights, Viserys should have removed every impediment from Rhaenyra's path. Even Baelon himself.
Yet he could not.
The prince had been raised beneath his roof since childhood. Viserys had watched him grow from a solemn boy into a man feared across the narrow sea. How could he raise his hand against his own blood? The thought alone turned his stomach.
At last Baelon understood.
He studied the king in silence, then gave a faint, incredulous huff.
"You would have me follow the path of Aegon the Conqueror and take two wives?"
In the long history of House Targaryen, only two kings had dared such a thing.
Aegon the Conqueror had wed both his sisters, Queen Visenya and Queen Rhaenys, uniting dragon with dragon to forge a realm.
The second had been Maegor the First.
Maegor had taken six wives in all: Ceryse Hightower, Alys Harroway, Tyanna of the Tower, Elinor Costayne, Jeyne Westerling, and Rhaena Targaryen. His reign, though steeped in blood, had never been embraced by the realm as just.
Thus Baelon invoked only Aegon's name.
His mouth curved slightly.
"Or do you expect me to emulate Maegor and gather half a dozen brides before the year is out?"
Viserys regarded him carefully. He heard the jest beneath the words, but also the warning.
"No, Two would suffice."
He folded his hands behind his back, pacing a step across the chamber. His voice remained calm, but his eyes were distant.
"I have no appetite for a household at war with itself. Too many wives breed too many factions. I would sooner take Tyraxes to battle than spend my days quelling quarrels in my own hall."
He stopped and glanced back at the king.
"Two is burden enough."
There was no levity in his tone now.
Viserys exhaled slowly and gave a small nod, as though reassured.
"You need not trouble yourself with the lords' opinions. I will manage them. No man in this realm will dare press you while I still wear the crown."
Baelon watched him closely.
"The Faith objects," he said quietly. "The High Septon refuses to bless such a union."
Viserys pressed his fingers to his temples, fatigue plain upon his face.
"The High Septon fears you may prove another Maegor," he admitted. "The Faith has not forgotten how dragonflame once scorched its septs."
Baelon's expression hardened, though he did not speak.
"Leave the Faith to me," Viserys continued. "I will go to the Starry Sept myself if need be. I will show them that House Targaryen seeks harmony, not tyranny."
Baelon held the king's gaze for a long moment.
At last he gave a single, measured nod.
"As you command, Your Grace."
*
Had King Viserys not spoken of it, Prince Baelon might have overlooked the matter entirely.
Beyond the factions of black and green, beyond rival claimants and whispering lords, there remained another power that demanded caution.
The Faith of the Seven.
If he meant to confront it, he must first understand it.
Know yourself and know your enemy, and you need not fear a hundred battles.
The histories of the realm spoke only in fragments of the Faith's beginnings, yet Baelon had pieced together what truths he could.
The worship of the Seven had not been born in Westeros at all. It began among the Andals in the hills of Andalos, across the Narrow Sea in Essos. Legend claimed that there, the Seven had once walked in mortal form, revealing themselves to their chosen people.
Many in Westeros preferred to forget that Andalos lay beyond their shores.
Thousands of years past, the Andals had crossed the Narrow Sea in their longships, steel in hand and the Seven upon their banners. They carved their way through the kingdoms of the First Men, and wherever their swords prevailed, septs rose and weirwoods burned.
In time, the Faith of the Seven supplanted the worship of the Old Gods across most of the continent.
In truth, only the North still clung openly to its ancient gods. There, beneath the pale faces carved in weirwood, the old prayers endured.
By any strict reckoning, the Seven were foreign to Westeros.
Yet centuries had a way of turning conquest into tradition. After millennia, belief in the Seven had sunk roots deep into the soil of the realm.
And the Faith's strength was no illusion.
During the reigns of Aenys the First and Maegor the First, the Faith had risen in open defiance of House Targaryen. The Faith Militant, the Poor Fellows, the Warrior's Sons, all had taken up arms. Tens of thousands perished in the wars that followed. Septons burned. Dragons roared. The realm bled.
The struggle dragged on into the early years of Jaehaerys the First.
Where Maegor had ruled through terror, Jaehaerys chose conciliation. He forged peace with the Faith, pledging that House Targaryen would defend the Seven as protectors of the realm. In return, the Faith Militant laid down their swords.
Jaehaerys even named Septon Barth as his Hand, binding crown and sept in common cause.
From that hour, open rebellion ceased.
Baelon did not fear them.
An Septon in crystal robes and a crystal crown?
How many dragons did he command?
How many legions would answer his call?
The Poor Fellows were long dissolved. The Warrior's Sons stripped of their former might. The Faith possessed influence, yes. But just words, bells and prayers.
Not armies.
If the High Septon could summon the Seven themselves to descend in judgment, perhaps Baelon would grant him pause. He might even consider crossing blades with a god, if only to test the truth of it.
His lips twitched faintly.
But could the High Septon do such a thing?
Absurd.
Better first prove that the Seven walked the world in flesh and blood. Without proof, threats were nothing more than incense and smoke.
Yet Baelon knew well enough that faith, even unproven, could move men to madness. Mishandled, it could plunge the realm into chaos.
Consequences would not fall upon the High Septon alone.
"Very well," King Viserys said at last, drawing Baelon from his thoughts.
The king straightened in his chair, relief already softening the lines about his eyes.
"If you can win the Faith's blessing, I shall begin preparations at once for your marriage to Laena and Rhaenyra."
He spoke with the earnest hope of a father who wished only to see his house secured.
Baelon inclined his head with measured grace.
"As you command, Your Grace."