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While Westeros celebrated with feasts and laughter, Essos was unnervingly quiet. Beneath that silence, a massive storm was quietly gathering.
King's Landing.
Mid-June brought two major royal weddings on the same day.
In the Great Sept of Baelor, Jaehaerys Targaryen took Marana Rogare's hand while Viserys Targaryen stood beside Diana Pojiali. The fat High Septon performed both ceremonies.
"Congratulations, Your Grace."
Fredo Rogare had traveled all the way from Lys for his sister's wedding.
Daeron smiled. "And to you. House Targaryen and House Rogare are bound once more."
"From this day forward, House Rogare will answer any call from the Iron Throne," Fredo said, placing a hand over his heart. "We are yours to command."
It was a fair arrangement. House Rogare wasn't especially powerful anymore, but they carried pure Valyrian blood and had married into House Targaryen before. With Lys newly under the Iron Throne's control, the match helped secure loyalty.
Mace Tyrell waddled over, belly leading the way. "Time for the bedding ceremony! Anyone want to join in?"
Behind him stood his son Willas Tyrell, now Master of Ships, looking polished and proper. Beside him were Monford Velaryon, the new Fleet Commander, and William Pojiali, the new Deputy Commander. The three young men had become fast friends under Willas's careful diplomacy.
William dropped to one knee in front of Daeron, voice thick with emotion. "Your Grace, thank you for your mercy and generosity. Without it, House Pojiali would still be nothing."
Daeron glanced at him. "Tyrosh is mostly empty now. House Pojiali is one of the few old Tyroshi families left. Don't waste the chance."
"I won't, Your Grace."
Willas helped William up with a smile. "It's your sister's wedding day. You should be leading the bedding, not kneeling here."
William checked Daeron's expression once more, then bowed and left with the others.
In the Seven Kingdoms, bedding ceremonies were crude affairs. The men stripped the bride and tossed her onto the bed while the women did the same to the groom. Sometimes the guests were expected to watch the consummation to confirm the marriage was real.
It was an old, ugly tradition meant to prove bloodlines before children were born. More often than not it turned into an excuse for groping and crude jokes.
Aerys had once gone too far during Tywin's wedding to Joanna. That memory still lingered.
Daeron had no interest in watching it happen to his brothers.
He grabbed Mace by the arm before the man could follow the crowd. "Leave the young people to their fun. You're staying here."
Mace looked crushed. "But Your Grace, I'm not that old! I'm closer in age to Prince Rhaegar than to Lord Owen—"
"No."
Mace deflated.
Daeron changed the subject. "The wedding was much larger than mine or Rhaegar's."
"True," Mace said, glancing around at the packed sept. "Half the realm seems to be here."
Daeron preferred the quieter Valyrian-style ceremony he'd had on Dragonstone. No public stripping. No drunken shouting.
Fredo Rogare stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Your Grace, there are troubling rumors coming out of Essos."
Daeron's expression sharpened. "Walk with me."
They left the sept ahead of the newlyweds and made their way back to the Red Keep.
Council chamber.
The other halls were being used for the wedding feast, so they gathered in the small council room.
Daeron took his seat. "What exactly have you heard?"
Fredo hesitated, then spoke. "Governor Valarr received word—though he isn't certain how accurate it is. Volantis and Slaver's Bay are leading an effort to form a new alliance. They're calling it the West Essos Federation."
Daeron frowned.
"West Essos Federation" sounded like trouble.
"And they're moving fast," Fredo added. "Braavos is quietly supporting it, which is why it's coming together so smoothly."
Daeron leaned forward. "Which cities have joined?"
"Almost all of them," Fredo said. "Braavos, Volantis, Pentos, Norvos, Qohor, Lorath. The three cities of Slaver's Bay. Even the remnants of the old Triarchy who escaped to the Disputed Lands have signed on."
Daeron was quiet for a moment.
All the major powers of western Essos were uniting. Against him.
"They're afraid," he said finally. "Three cities fell too quickly. Now they're closing ranks."
Fredo nodded. "The stated purpose is to resist any further Targaryen expansion into Essos."
Daeron tapped his fingers on the table. "What about Qarth and the Jade Gate?"
"Qarth claims they're too busy guarding the Jade Gate and preventing the spread of greyscale. They haven't joined yet. But the old Triarchy remnants definitely have."
Daeron already knew about the new city the survivors had founded on the eastern edge of the Disputed Lands. They were calling themselves the Daughters of Old Valyria again.
A knock interrupted them.
Tyrion pushed the door open, a wine bottle dangling from one hand and a grin on his face. "Your Grace, the nobles downstairs are looking for you."
Fredo took that as his cue to leave.
Tyrion started to follow, but Daeron stopped him. "Stay."
Tyrion turned back, suddenly sober. "What is it?"
Daeron's voice was calm. "It's time to start cleaning house. The court has too many rats."
Tyrion's eyes lit up. "Where do we start?"
"Littlefinger," Daeron said. "We begin with him."
.
Volantis.
Inside the Black Wall, deep in a hidden underground vault.
The air was thick with the smell of blood and burning flesh. Oil lamps flickered along the stone corridor, casting long shadows.
Fados Panymion walked slowly, his face pale. Even from the far end of the hall he could hear the screams and smell the coppery stench.
He stopped and vomited against the wall.
The people inside had lost their minds.
Deeper in the chamber, a massive circular fire roared. Fourteen wooden stakes stood around it, each one holding a blackened corpse. An Asshai'i shadowbinder danced around the flames, chanting in a guttural tongue and throwing liquids into the fire.
With a sudden roar, the flames surged higher. The stakes cracked and collapsed, sending sparks and ash flying.
In the heart of the inferno, two oval shapes glowed.
One of them let out a faint crack.
Nesos Vysarys stood nearby, watching with cold eyes. Behind him, the three leading candidates for the next archon—Arios, Palachiro, and Berisio—stared at the fire without blinking.
The two dragon eggs were beginning to hatch.