Chapter 3: A King's Decree
The air in the Great Hall was sepulchral cold, a damp that seeped through the fine wool of Alysanne’s gown and settled in her bones. It smelled of cold stone, stale incense, and a fainter, metallic tang she tried not to identify as the iron of the throne itself. The distance from the great doors to the dais felt leagues long, every click of her heels on the veined marble echoing into the vast, shadowy vault above.
King Rhaegar sat not upon the Iron Throne’s deadly apex, but in a heavy chair of state placed before it. The throne loomed behind him anyway, a monstrous silhouette of a thousand twisted blades, its jagged edges catching what little light filtered through the high windows in dull, wicked gleams. It was a statement. He did not need its discomfort to project his power; its very presence at his back did that for him.
Her father, Lord Luthor Tyrell, was a splash of green and gold in the grey hall, his voice earnest and wavering as it bounced off the distant walls. “…an understanding, Your Grace. A period of courtship, to allow old animosities to soften. To let the Spring bloom, as it were, before…”
“The Spring is for flowers, Lord Tyrell,” Rhaegar’s voice cut across him, not loud, but pure and cold as a silver bell. It silenced all other sound. “I require a fortress. Now.”
He shifted in his seat, the rubies on his doublet winking. His violet eyes, famed in song, held no poetry now. Only a flat, impatient calculation. “For six months your daughter has been in this city. For six months, Lord Baratheon’s heir has sulked in his quarters or brawled in my alleys. This is not courtship. This is insolence.” His gaze flicked over Alysanne, a dismissive inventory. “The pact was clear. The union is necessary to bind the Stormlands and the Reach to the crown. Your personal… preferences… are grains of sand in the tide of history.”
A muscle in her father’s cheek twitched. “My daughter’s comfort, her transition into such a—”
“Comfort?” The King’s hand, which had been resting lightly on the arm of his chair, slammed down. The crack was shockingly loud, a gunshot in the quiet. Alysanne flinched. “We are not speaking of feather beds and sweet wines, my lord. We are speaking of the peace of Seven Kingdoms. Or do the rosy fields of the Reach make you forget the taste of war?”
The insult hung in the air. Her father’s face flushed a deep, mortified red. He opened his mouth to form a rebuttal, but no sound came. He looked, for the first time in Alysanne’s memory, small.
A different kind of cold, one of pure fury, washed through her. It was the same feeling she’d had in the Rusty Tankard, looking at Garon’s shattered cup. This was all a transaction, and they were the currency being found wanting. She stepped forward, just half a pace, but it was enough. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice clear. “If the concern is merely the appearance of unity, perhaps a formal betrothal would suffice. A public ceremony later in the year would allow for the ‘fortress’ to be built without forcing the… foundational stones… together prematurely.”
She kept her eyes lowered, the picture of respectful suggestion. It was a good move. Diplomatic. Reasonable.
It was the wrong thing to say.
Rhaegar’s gaze settled on her fully, and the temperature in the hall seemed to drop another ten degrees. “You instruct me on appearances, girl?” The quiet question was more terrifying than a shout. He didn’t wait for an answer. A slight nod, almost imperceptible.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the pale shadow at the king’s right hand, moved.
He was a blur of white enamel and silver cloak. There was no dramatic flourish, no warning. His arm, sheathed in brilliant plate, simply swung back and then across in a short, brutal arc.
The back of his gauntlet connected with her mouth.
The world fragmented into blinding white pain and a metallic burst of blood on her tongue. The force wasn’t just a slap; it was a demolition. Her head snapped to the side, her neck screaming in protest. The ground rushed up to meet her. She hit the stone hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs in a ragged gasp. For a second, there was nothing but the cold of the floor against her cheek, the ringing in her ears, and the coppery heat filling her mouth.
A choked cry came from her father. The sound of boots on stone, hesitant.
“She stays where she is.”
The King’s voice again.No anger. Just absolute authority.
Alysanne pushed herself up onto her elbows, her head swimming. Blood dripped from her split lip onto the pale marble, each drop a vivid, shocking red. She saw the scuffed toes of Ser Arthur’s white boots, immobile, an inch from her vision.
“Lord Baratheon. Step forward.”
Through a haze of pain and humiliation, Alysanne turned her head. From her position on the floor, the perspective was skewed, like looking up from a pit. Lord Ormund Baratheon, a bull of a man with a beard like a thicket of grey wire, strode forward, his face a thunderhead. And behind him, Garon.
He looked different than in the tavern. Cleaned up, shaven, wearing a dark leather jerkin over a grey tunic. But his eyes were the same storm. They took in the scene in one lightning-fast assessment: the king’s cold fury, her father’s impotence, her on the floor, bleeding. His gaze locked on her bloody mouth for a fraction of a second too long. Something in his face shifted, hardened into something even more dangerous than anger.
“Your son,” Rhaegar said, addressing Ormund but looking at Garon, “treats my decree as a tavern dare. He insults the Lady Alysanne publicly, then skulks. He shows contempt for this alliance, and therefore, contempt for the crown.”
Ormund bowed his head, a rough, jerky motion. “Your Grace, my son is…”
“Your son is a problem,” Rhaegar finished. “One I will solve.Here. Now.” He leaned forward slightly. “Garon Baratheon. You will look at me.”
Garon’s eyes, which had been fixed on Alysanne, dragged up to meet the king’s. The tension between them was a live wire, humming.
“In two days,” Rhaegar said, his words precise and glacial, “the sept at the foot of Aegon’s High Hill will be prepared. You will stand before its altar with this woman.” He gestured vaguely toward Alysanne. “You will speak the words. You will bind your houses. You will do your duty.”
Garon said nothing. His throat worked.
“If you do not,” the king continued, as if discussing the weather, “I will construe it as an act of treason. Not youthful rebellion. Not stubbornness.Treason. The Stormlands can weather many things. A royal fleet bearing down on Shipbreaker Bay, with the Reach cutting off its grain and flanking its armies? I think not.”
The threat was vast, simple, and utter. It wasn’t just about him. It was about storms and fields and every person who owed allegiance to the stag.
Lord Ormund’s hand clamped onto his son’s shoulder, a warning grip of iron. Garon didn’t shake it off. He stood rigid, every muscle corded. Alysanne, still on the cold stone, watched the struggle play out on his face—the raw, wild desire to roar his refusal, and the crushing weight of the reality just spelled out. The fortress he despised was now his only shelter. To refuse was to burn his whole world down.
His stormy eyes flicked back to her. There was no tenderness in that look. It was a kind of savage recognition. They were both in the pit now. Together.
“Two days,” Rhaegar repeated, settling back into his chair. The audience was over. “Ser Arthur, assist the lady to her feet. Ensure she is prepared. The realm requires a wedding.”
The white knight bent, his expression unreadable behind his helm. He offered a hand, not to help, but to compel. Alysanne ignored it, pushing herself up on trembling arms. She got her feet under her, stood, her head high despite the throbbing in her face and the warmth of the blood tracing a line down her chin. She looked at Garon one last time.
He was already being turned away by his father’s insistent hand, but his shoulders were set like stone. The echo of the king’s decree seemed to vibrate in the silence between them, a chain forged in cold iron and royal whim. Two days. The Rusty Tankard, his cracked cup, her flippant words about Dothraki horselords—it all seemed like a dream from a drowned age. This was the waking world. And it demanded everything.