Chapter 32: The Royal Wedding - Part 2
POV: Corwyn Darke
The wedding day arrived with deceptive beauty.
Clear skies, warm sun, the Sept of Baelor decorated in silver and gold. I stood among the assembled nobles, watching Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor exchange vows while the realm held its breath. The ceremony was properly solemn, the High Septon's words echoing through vaulted chambers.
But beneath the surface, tension coiled like a serpent waiting to strike.
[ ⚔️ EVENT: ROYAL WEDDING ]
[ ATMOSPHERE: TENSE ]
[ THREAT ASSESSMENT: ELEVATED ]
[ VIOLENCE PROBABILITY: HIGH ]
[ RECOMMENDED: MAINTAIN DISTANCE FROM CONFLICT POINTS ]
I'd positioned myself at a middle-tier table for the feast—close enough to the high lords to be visible, far enough from the head table to avoid being caught in whatever was coming. The System's warnings had been persistent for hours, flagging rising tensions without specific details.
Something would happen. I didn't know what, but I intended to survive it.
The feast hall blazed with candles and conversation. Queen Alicent's green gown drew whispers—a deliberate statement of Hightower faction identity on a day meant to celebrate Targaryen-Velaryon union. Rhaenyra's jaw tightened when she noticed, her wedding smile becoming fixed.
"You look uncomfortable," Ser Gareth murmured from his position behind my chair.
"I'm watching a realm slowly tear itself apart." I lifted my cup but didn't drink. "The Queen just declared war with a dress."
"Should we leave?"
"Not yet. Leaving early would be noticed, might offend. We stay, we survive whatever happens, we depart at the first acceptable opportunity."
POV: Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen
The feast was a nightmare wearing celebration's mask.
Rhaenyra forced smiles, accepted congratulations, played the role of happy bride while her stepmother's green gown screamed defiance from the high table. Alicent had chosen this day—this celebration of Rhaenyra's future—to publicly declare faction allegiance.
"She wants war. They all want war."
Laenor sat beside her, equally uncomfortable, his eyes finding Joffrey Lonmouth across the hall more often than they found her. Their marriage was political necessity, not love—they both knew it, had agreed to make the best of an impossible situation.
But Ser Criston Cole watched from his Kingsguard position with something in his eyes that made Rhaenyra's skin crawl. She'd rejected him once, what seemed like lifetimes ago. He'd never forgiven her.
"Your Grace." A serving girl approached with more wine.
"Thank you." Rhaenyra took the cup without drinking, her stomach too knotted for alcohol. "How much longer must this last?"
"The dancing will begin soon," Laenor murmured. "Then we can escape."
"Not soon enough."
POV: Corwyn Darke
The violence, when it came, was sudden and absolute.
One moment, Ser Criston Cole stood at the edge of the dance floor in his white cloak. The next, he was beating Ser Joffrey Lonmouth to death with gauntleted fists, the sounds of impact carrying through the suddenly silent hall.
[ ⚠️ VIOLENCE DETECTED ]
[ AGGRESSOR: SER CRISTON COLE (KINGSGUARD) ]
[ VICTIM: SER JOFFREY LONMOUTH ]
[ STATUS: FATAL ]
[ RECOMMENDED ACTION: PROTECT POSITION, ASSIST NEARBY CIVILIANS ]
Screaming erupted. Guests fled in panic, knocking over tables, trampling slower runners. The careful order of the feast collapsed into chaos within seconds.
I moved.
Not toward the violence—away from it, but with purpose. Three noble ladies had fallen near my table, their elaborate gowns tangling as the crowd pushed past. I hauled them upright, shielding them with my body while directing them toward the nearest exit.
"This way! Stay together!"
Ser Gareth appeared at my side, his sword drawn, clearing a path through the panicked mob. Two of my soldiers materialized from somewhere—they'd been stationed at the hall's edges—and formed a protective wedge around our small group.
"Lord Darke—" one of the ladies gasped.
"Keep moving. Don't look back."
We reached a side door, emerging into a corridor that was mercifully clear. I ushered the ladies toward the safety of the inner keep, where servants and guards could see to their care.
"Thank you, my lord," the eldest managed, her face pale with shock. "We might have been trampled."
"Anyone would have done the same." I bowed briefly. "Find your families. Stay away from the feast hall."
They departed, escorted by servants who'd emerged to investigate the commotion. I leaned against the wall, catching my breath, processing what I'd just witnessed.
"Ser Criston Cole murdered a man at the royal wedding. In front of the King. While wearing the white cloak."
The realm had just shifted. Darknesses were aligning that would take years to fully manifest. And I'd been standing in the room when it started.
POV: Lord Corlys Velaryon
The aftermath was chaos wrapped in protocol.
Corlys found Lord Darke in the outer courtyard an hour after the violence, speaking calmly with a group of shaken minor lords. The young lord's composure was remarkable—where others panicked or raged, he'd immediately turned to practical assistance.
"Lord Darke." Corlys approached, dismissing the others with a glance. "You handled yourself well."
"I helped some people avoid being trampled. Nothing heroic."
"Composure in crisis is rarer than you'd think. Most men freeze or flee. You acted." Corlys studied his partner's expression, finding nothing but careful control. "What did you see?"
"A Kingsguard murdered a man while the King watched. The realm saw it too." Lord Darke's voice was quiet. "This won't end well for anyone."
"No. It won't." Corlys looked toward the keep, where lights still blazed despite the hour. "The wedding concluded in a hurry. My son and the Princess are... married. What follows is anyone's guess."
"I'll be departing tomorrow, my lord. Business in Duskhollow that requires attention."
"Wise. Distance from King's Landing will serve you well in coming months." Corlys extended his hand. "Our partnership continues. Visit Driftmark when you can—there's much to discuss about expansion plans."
"I will, my lord. And... my condolences. This wasn't the wedding your family deserved."
"No wedding in Westeros is what families deserve. They're political arrangements dressed in ceremony." Corlys's smile was grim. "At least ours accomplished its purpose. Whatever comes next, our houses are allied."
POV: Corwyn Darke
I departed King's Landing at first light.
The city was still reeling from the wedding's chaos—stories spreading through taverns and markets, each retelling adding new details, new horrors. Ser Criston Cole had been spared execution, somehow. Ser Joffrey Lonmouth was dead and buried. Princess Rhaenyra was married, for whatever that meant.
[ 📊 WEDDING AFTERMATH ]
[ POLITICAL CONTACTS: +5 ]
[ REPUTATION: +CRISIS LEADERSHIP ]
[ FACTION STATUS: NEUTRAL MAINTAINED ]
[ THREAT ASSESSMENT: INCREASING ]
"That was educational," Ser Gareth observed as we rode through the Gate of the Gods.
"That was terrifying." I kept my voice low, conscious of our escort. "A Kingsguard murdered a man and walked free. The Queen declared open faction war with a dress. And somewhere in that chaos, I made trade agreements and helped some nobles avoid broken ankles."
"Sounds like a successful trip."
I laughed despite myself—the absurdity of it all demanding release. "By our standards? Perhaps. By any reasonable standard? We're all doomed and simply haven't realized it yet."
"Then we'd better build walls high and granaries deep."
"Exactly my thinking."
The road stretched ahead, leading back to Duskhollow and the relative sanity of commerce and construction. Whatever storms gathered over King's Landing, I intended to weather them from a position of strength.
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