Chapter 5: A Union of Steel and Thorn
The light in the sept was the color of drowned things. It fell through the high, arched windows in sickly green and bloody purple, painting the marble floor in pools of distorted saints and twisted symbols. The air tasted of cloying incense and something older, something like dust and dried tears.
Garon stood before the shimmering monstrosity of the High Altar, his new doublet of black velvet and gold thread itching like a hair shirt. It was too fine, too delicate; he could feel the ghost of his mail coat beneath it, a phantom limb. The blade he’d sharpened in the garden—the one he’d thrown into the dirt—was a cold, familiar pressure against his forearm, secured inside his sleeve. A promise. A secret. The only real thing in this gilded dream.
He could feel the weight of a thousand eyes. The whole court was a murmur of silk and judgment behind him. He didn’t turn. He kept his gaze fixed on the High Septon, an old man drowning in layers of cloth-of-gold, his voice a wavering chant that echoed in the cavernous space.
Then she was there.
A rustle of cloth, a subtle shift in the light. Alysanne appeared at his side, led by her father, Lord Tyrell, whose smile was as fixed and lifeless as the stone faces of the Seven. She was a vision in Myrish lace over green silk, her brown hair braided with vines of tiny, delicate golden roses. She looked like a song. She smelled like a summer garden.
And her face, visible beneath the sheer veil, was a mask of perfect, serene composure. Only her eyes, those green captures, gave her away. They were sharp, calculating, moving over the crowd, the Septon, him. They held no warmth, only a cold, clear assessment.
The Septon droned on about the Seven’s blessings, about union and fertility and the binding of two great houses. Garon’s jaw ached from clenching. He heard the shuffling of boots, a muffled cough, the distant cry of a gull from the bay. He focused on those sounds, anchoring himself against the tide of meaningless words.
Then it was his turn.
“In the sight of the Seven,” the Septon’s voice rose, a note of theatrical grace entering his tone, “I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one spirit for eternity.” He held out a ribbon of white silk. “Garon of House Baratheon, do you take Alysanne of House Tyrell to be your wedded wife?”
The silence was absolute. Garon could feel his father’s stare burning into the back of his skull. He could see the faint, pulsing vein in the King’s temple from the corner of his eye. Rhaegar sat on a raised dais, watching with the cool interest of a man observing a particularly clever move in a cyvasse game.
Garon’s fingers twitched toward the hidden dagger. He forced his hand to relax. He looked at Alysanne, not at the Septon.
“I take this woman,” he said, his voice gravelly and too loud in the hushed sept. He didn’t smile.
The Septon blinked, momentarily thrown by the truncated, unadorned vow. He recovered quickly, turning to Alysanne. “And do you, Alysanne of House Tyrell, take Garon of House Baratheon to be your wedded lord husband?”
Alysanne’s perfect lips parted. Her eyes locked with Garon’s, and for a fleeting second, he saw it—not just cold assessment, but a flash of the same trapped, furious desperation he felt. It was there and gone, buried beneath layers of Tyrell poise.
“I take this man,” she said, her voice clear as crystal, carrying to the highest balcony. Her smile never reached her eyes. It was a beautiful, frozen thing.
The Septon wound the silk ribbon around their joined hands. Garon’s skin was calloused and warm; hers was cool and smooth. He felt her pulse, a rapid flutter against his palm, betraying her calm façade. The silk tightened, a symbolic bond that felt as heavy as chain.
“Look upon each other and say the words,” the Septon instructed.
Garon turned fully to face her. Up close, he could see the delicate tracing of gold leaf around the neckline of her gown, the faint dust of kohl at the corners of her eyes. He could smell the subtle rosewater on her skin, undercut by something sharper, like fear-sweat.
“Father. Smith. Warrior,” he began, the titles falling from his lips like stones. He recited the rest, his tone flat. “Maiden. Mother. Crone. Stranger.”
She followed, her voice a soft, steady counterpoint to his. “I am hers, and she is mine.” The lie tasted like ash. “From this day, until the end of my days.”
“With this kiss,” the Septon announced with final flourish, “pledge your love.”
Love. The word hung in the incense-thick air, absurd and obscene. Garon leaned in. The court held its breath. He saw Alysanne’s eyes widen a fraction, a momentary crack in the mask. He moved past her cheek, past the formal chaste brush of lips. His mouth found hers, not with passion, but with a firm, decisive pressure. It was a claim, not a caress. A stamp, not a seal.
Her lips were soft, but utterly still. She did not pull away. She did not respond. It lasted three heartbeats. He pulled back, the ghost of her rosewater taste lingering.
The sept erupted into applause, a thunderous, deafening wave of sound that felt like a physical assault. Bells rang somewhere high above. Garon didn’t hear them. He was looking at the King. Rhaegar was smiling, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips as he joined the applause, his violet eyes gleaming in the multicolored light. He had won.
Garon turned from the altar, Alysanne’s hand still bound to his. Her fingers had gone stiff in his grasp. As they walked back down the long marble aisle, the cheers pounding in his ears, he leaned his head toward hers, his voice lost in the din.
“Survive,” he muttered, the word meant only for her.
He felt, rather than saw, her slight nod. Her chin lifted a degree higher. Together, bound by silk and deceit, they walked into the roaring mouth of the feast. The blade on his arm was a cold comfort. The war had not ended with the vows. It had simply changed its dress.