The atmosphere that night was intoxicating.
The grand banquet left every noble lady present utterly enchanted.
Beyond the welcoming ceremony and oaths sworn before the gates of King's Landing, King Jaehaerys II had prepared a lavish feast to honor the victorious lords and knights. He knew well that such moments were rare chances to win hearts, and so the treasury's gold vanished swiftly amid laughter, fine wine, rich food, and clouds of perfume.
Most attendees were nobles of King's Landing, lords and ladies alike, alongside knights and aristocrats who had distinguished themselves in the war, as well as officials whose service had earned royal favor. Nor had Jaehaerys forgotten the bulk of the army encamped beyond the city walls. He sent gold, silver, and delicacies to the camps as well. The soldiers had just returned from a long campaign; keeping them content required coin.
To match the king's celebratory mood, the courtiers donned their most splendid attire.
No one wished to be outshone. Every guest sought to surpass the rest.
The High Septon wore a crystal crown, his opulence rivaling even the courtesans of Braavos. Who knew how many purses of the faithful that prismatic crown had emptied? Several prominent merchants had donated vast sums of gold and grain simply for the privilege of attending. Every guest was lavishly adorned, unwilling to yield even an inch of splendor.
Rhaegar felt as though he had stepped into a contest of beauty, everyone glittering with jewels, silks, and finery, their prices as extravagant as their ambition.
As he surveyed the greedy faces around him, the one he despised most was the High Septon himself. Yet the man's corruption, reduced to a lackey of power, might, in its own way, be useful.
At the head of the high table sat King Jaehaerys II, robed in splendor, his garments embroidered with dragons wreathed in flame, a heavy golden crown resting upon his brow. Those who dined beside him represented the pinnacle of power and prestige. Only close kin, those of exalted birth, or figures of great merit were permitted such honor.
Present were the king and queen; Prince Aerys; Princess Rhaella; the High Septon, representing the Seven; Lord Ormund, bearing the stag; Ser Steffon Baratheon and his wife; Lord Hoster Tully and Ser Brynden for the trout; Princess Elia of Dorne; Tywin and Kevan Lannister, lions of gold; Lady Joanna; and Lord Roger Reyne, bearer of the red lion. Of course, the war heroes Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Barristan Selmy were also present.
Lord Roger felt as though he were floating. He had never endured such pressure. Had Ser Jason Lannister not died on the battlefield, had Jason not taken part in the war, Roger would never have sat at this table. Much of House Tarbeck's former wealth had come from his sister Ellyn's relentless entanglement with the Lannister heir.
That night, however, it was the ladies who shone brightest:
Princess Rhaella in silver,
Princess Elia of Dorne in gold,
Lady Joanna in blue-green silk,
and Lady Cassana Baratheon in deep crimson.
They were the most beautiful roses of the evening.
Rhaegar himself wore black brocade studded with rubies, a roaring red dragon emblazoned upon his chest, claws outstretched. Silver hair, violet eyes, and striking features, his gaze alone made many believe a true dragon had been born again. Seated between the king and queen, Rhaegar commanded the hall effortlessly. Before long, the king would even entrust him with an important duty.
Westeros, after all, was a land that prized appearances, much like the noble clan politics of the medieval age. Though people claimed virtue outweighed beauty, exceptional looks still spared one many difficulties.
Soon, discord crept into the hall.
Rhaegar noticed Prince Aerys stealing glances at Lady Joanna. Tywin's face darkened instantly, black as the bottom of a cauldron.
Rhaegar nearly rose to strike Aerys, for his mother's sake, if nothing else. Handsome though the prince was, his recklessness burned like wildfire. Princess Rhaella's anger simmered just beneath the surface, tightly restrained.
Lord Ormund saw it as well, his expression grave. Though Aerys was not openly seducing his daughter-in-law, such impropriety was unbecoming of royalty. Dragonlords were no innocents, but even indulgence had its limits. The Mad King had once nearly died from such excess.
"My lords, my ladies," King Jaehaerys II announced, clapping his hands. "Before the feast begins, a brief ceremony shall be conducted, presided over by my grandson, Prince Rhaegar."
Servants stepped forward bearing fine pale-gold chains, each paired with a golden dragon pendant set with a blazing ruby. Inscribed upon each pendant were the words:
"Savior of the Stepstones."
"You have all served the realm," Rhaegar said, descending from the dais. He personally placed the chains upon Ser Gerold, Ser Barristan, Lord Ormund, and others. It was an honor beyond measure, enough to set blood racing.
The rite should have been conducted by the king himself, but Prince Rhaegar, young, brilliant, and preternaturally composed, was already seen as favored by fate. All accepted the honor as both blessing and glory.
"Long live the king!"
The cry rose once, then again, until the hall echoed with voices like a flock of startled ducks. Their enthusiasm was genuine, faces glowing with royal favor.
"Let the feast begin!"
Jaehaerys raised his hand, and amid thunderous cheers, the banquet commenced.
Servants brought forth dish after dish:
golden Arbor wine, evoking the summers of the Reach;
barley beef stew;
crusty hot bread;
mixed plum salad;
roasted trout;
honey-glazed chicken;
apple pies;
buttered carrots,
and finally, the centerpiece: a magnificent peacock stuffed with mushrooms and oysters.
It was Rhaegar's least favorite dish, an utter waste of nature, in his view. Yet nobles prized roasted swans, peacocks, and other great birds as symbols of status.
As wine flowed freely, court fools took the stage.
One was a small man who cracked jokes and played the fool to amuse the highborn. Laughter filled the hall, even diminishing the High Septon's solemn air.
Then a swordsman from Braavos, a man called Sessa, thanked the king for his hospitality and proposed a dance.
Moments later, a tall, slender man in robes emerged from a shadowed corner, his nose sharp and features austere. He bowed to the crowd, and drew his sword.
King Jaehaerys was briefly startled, then remembered: there had indeed been a wandering swordsman from Braavos. Days earlier, seeing the man worn and destitute, the king had ordered him fed a few meals. Ever hospitable, though no warrior himself, Jaehaerys had granted him entry to the feast.
Rhaegar caught the accent at once, the cadence of the Free Cities, unmistakably Braavosi.
The sword bore a crossguard and narrow hilt, its blade slim and light, far lighter than a Westerosi longsword.
Rhaegar understood at once.
It was a Braavosi water dancer's blade.