Streams of color shrieked over the guests, green and gold dazzling the faces on the left side of the Great Sept of Baelor; the dragon's own black and red cast a dark veil over the officers of the Golden Company and his lordly vassals. A three-headed dragon banner, larger than Aegon had ever seen, stood behind the statue of the Father, while an equally grand Rose banner of the Tyrells fluttered behind the statue of the Mother.

Color clashed on the aisle where Margaery Tyrell walked towards him, radiant in a splendid green dress of ivory silk, with short sleeves slit by a line in the middle revealing her pale skin. The gown blossomed into a multilayered skirt, in shape of golden petals. The bride's hair was piled up in a overbundant bun of curls, intricately woven together. She needs no crown, the King thought. Queenship comes naturally to her, resting on years of honing the skill at Highgarden, where her tongue learned diplomacy and her actions cunning.

Holding her hand, Loras Tyrell gleamed in his armor, and side by side, the siblings indeed looked like twins. Slowly they approached the elongated dais between the altars of the Father and the Mother. With tenderness, the bride took a few last steps and stood beside Aegon.

The High Septon invoked verses about the dawn of creation itself, the sacred purpose of men and women, and the divine duty of royalty. For all the sacred pomp that men had, the wording was brief and precise. Perhaps his text was also Margaery's doing. The royal wedding was crafted immaculately, with all of her skill on display. Of all the guests here to witness the exchange of vows, only a quarter were highborn, but she had gathered the rich of the city, merchants and artisans of luxury goods. Those who lacked in noble blood, made up for it in gold.

"The guardian may remove the cloak," the High Septon intoned, and Ser Loras unclasped the green robe with golden roses engraved. His Holiness nodded to Ser Loras, "and at this sacred shrine, between the face of our protector Father and the mercy of holy Mother, his majesty the King and lady Margaery exchange vows of everlasting love and duty."

Aegon placed the royal cloak of black and red on her gentle shoulders, and with a smile as her ornament, she turned to him. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my queen and wife," the King said. At least the words are in proper order, queen then wife. She echoed his words, and they sealed the pact with a kiss. His wife's mouth was soft and fresh.

"One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever," concluded the High Septon and the crowd cheered. Forever, forever, forever.

The orderly ceremony dissolved into a tumult of joy as throngs of well-wishers, both familiar and foreign, flocked to offer their congratulations. Barely surviving through courtesies, Aegon hand in hand with his new wife, made their way out of the sept. The crowd outside was bigger, with deafening cheers. The Kingsguard formed a shield, as they climbed into the carriage. The city smelled of peanut bread, as peanut from the Reach and Rosby grain created a proper smallfolk delicacy for troubled times of scarcity. The new dish may as well be the thing Aegon most liked about this affair.

Alone in the carriage, she gave him a coy grin from across the seat, then closed the distance by settling on his lap.

"They say this carriage belonged to Cersei, for years she claimed the title of the most beautiful woman in the realm," she whispered, kissing his neck; as his face tightened, Aegon barely felt any pleasure. "Although a lie, I deem it's fitting that the carriage now belongs to the true queen worthy of the title, not some old hag."

"Age comes to all men," he remarked, dashing her sweet words.

For a moment she retreated, but came back, "mayhaps, so we better make use of our beauty then."

"Shall I take your maidenhood here?" he asked, anger seething within.

"As far as I am concerned, whatever my King wishes." Shower of kisses continued. "I will perform adequately." He felt a flicker of temptation, consummating their marriage here would be unceremonious and rough. Somehow fitting. Aegon seemed determined not to enjoy the act.

"There is a feast to attend," he reminded her, peering through the gap at the gathered crowd. Further from the sept, the cobbled road was worse and every bump was felt in the carriage.

"Close your eyes; think of Sansa. You want her, don't you?" After such words Aegon pierced her with an empty gaze. He had married a queen, not a woman. "I don't care, if it suits your taste, poor Sansa may even join our bed."

The spiteful comment did not sit well with the king. "Sit on the other side," Aegon ordered coldly, "after the feast we will perform our marital duty, in the bedchamber, as it befits husband and wife."

"As my beloved husband commands," she planted a last kiss on his cheek and moved to the old seat, not removing the seductive wink from her face.

"You know... I care not whether you love me or not. The crown is on my head, I will serve your house and the realm... and myself," she spoke with honesty.

"Truly I am sorry," Aegon decided not to look at her. "You deserve better."

"No, you do, Aegon. It's not me that craves for someone else, I am satisied with my stature, living the dream every Tyrell had since my birth. Renly, Joffrey, you... even Stannis, it matters not, my heart is at peace. Yours isn't, you torment yourself for it, but mark my words," Margaery's sweet voice was gone, replaced by harshness, "you will not punish, nor blame, nor hurt me. No one is blind, you didn't wed me, you wed the Reach and all that it holds, an army of a hundred thousand, crops, the Oldtown, Redwyne ships and wine."

"When the roads are free of peril once more, I shall send Sansa to a safer place, mayhaps to my uncle or even ransom back to her kin," he pondered aloud, giving voice to his inarticulate thoughts, more than proposing anything.

"No," Margaery was firm, "As a captive she has value, no coin of the Starks can replace that. Let the realm behold our power, House Targaryen saved the Stark maiden from the clutches of the Lannisters. Not her hero brother, nor northern courage, but the might of dragons." We. "Having Sansa in the Red Keep does not pain me. I told you so, didn't I? You can take her and ten whores more."

Putting her and whores in the same breath, not in front of me. He wanted to say, but the beast before him fed on that.

"She will cease to serve as your lady in waiting, as will Lady Jayne."

"So be it," the queen replied, "Silence is a dull companion anyway." The words were ment for him.

"Also, I favor this side of you, when we are in private." He spoke the truth, Margaery without a mask was tolerable, a future with her conceivable.

"Well, it's tiresome to always wear a facade, sooner or later they must fall." She reclined on the plush pillow and parted her legs, forsaking the ladylike posture. "My mask is on the face, but yours," she chuckled, "you cling to that bloody black armor. Even now I see it on you. One of the simpletons who came in Lysono Maar's company, to Highgarden, described you as silent and stern. A truth only for a feeble eye, as beneath the black wall lurks a man who yearns to be anywhere but here."

"Not anywhere in the world, but somewhere. I have a daughter, being with her would make me happier. All the smiles she gave were honest ones, like her mother's." The Confession didn't come as a surprise to her.

"Good, a daughter is good. A son would concern me, your heir must be my child," she said. Aegon almost laughed at that.

"While I was asleep, Jon and the rest of the men named Elia my heir. Of course a male child would have preference, so the Tyrells shouldn't fear succession."

"I will give you a son," Margaery was so certain as if saying the sun was in the sky.

The rest of the journey they spent in blissful silence, laced with sentiments better left unsaid, avoiding each other's glances.

The feast at the Red Keep's river walk was the grandest one he had attended since leaving Pentos almost a year ago. Yet modest, for the belly of Illyrio Mopatis. Margaery had excused herself to don a new gown, while Aegon sought some solace on the walls to clear the mind, Ser Barristan by his side. Litters with guests were ascending Aegon's high hill, the High Septon being the most resplendent with crystals that sparkled like silver stars, heralding his arrival.

"Not every marriage is borne of love, your grace, most are not. Within these same walls I stood as your parents wed, and as kind as the prince was to your mother, it was not love," Ser Barristan recounted. Kind enough, to abandon her for another woman.

"Tell me, Ser Barristan, have you ever known love?" the king asked, his voice hollow.

"Aye, your grace, once I did, but I was sworn to a higher duty. Even now I wonder if my oath was worth more than her heart."

"You are fortunate, then," he said to the knight with a parched voice. "I watched my love perish, and could not save her. That day still haunts me, with fury I went to the small sailor's sept in Pentos and screamed curses at all seven Andal gods. Today, the seven laugh at me as I am the bane of love."

"No men can envy you," the knight sighed.

"No, but none ever speak of the curse of kingship," Varys slithered in as quiet as a cat. "The realm sees rich tables and pageants of every kind, yet if a king dares to rise above, in the sphere of difficult decisions, it is a terrible fate."

"Jon bore a deep enmity for you, Lord Varys, one that festered in his heart for years. He often lamented the missed chance when my father could have claimed the throne, at Lord Whent's infamous tourney, but the thousand ears of the spider stopped him."

Varys gave him a thin smile, exposing his hands, in contrast to his smooth ace, his hands were rough and old.

"Ah, but those were troubled times, your grace. The king was mad, unhinged at the court, yet the realm was at peace." The spider stressed the word peace as if it were the most precious thing in the world, and his Myrish accent crept into his words. "... and Prince Rhaegar sought to shatter that peace, for his deed would rend the realm asunder. Save for some minor skirmishes with Dorne, occasional Ironborn reaving and raiding, and Lord Tywin's war against his father's bannermen, which were all swiftly quelled, or small in nature; the bloodiest conflicts were Targaryen civil wars. The Dance of the Dragons and the Blackfyre rebellions. Only the house of the dragon can keep Westeros safe or doom it."

"And my father's deeds sowed the seeds of discord," Aegon mused about the world that might have been. His father had divided the realm, just not in the way he intended.

"The prince was beloved, indeed. Many would forsake their oaths to the liege lords or the king himself, just to follow Prince Rhaegar, as more then few had done for Daemon Blackfyre. They knew not his cause, nor did they care. By the end of the last winter, Aerys's madness wasn't still a strong issue. Nor was that the motive for the prince's actions. He dwelt on Dragonstone, far from the court, or roamed the realm with his friends. Staying in King's Landing only when he had to." Ser Barristan listen, weighing his words carefully, loathing what the spider would say next more than what he had already said.

"Why then?"

"Rheagar Targaryen believed that he was the warrior-hero from the ancient prophecy that would vanquish the darkness itself in a sacred war." It sounded almost like a joke, though a delusion of grandeur was not rare among the high and mighty. Varys had salvaged some of the Targaryen records, royal letters, scrolls and journals. Aegon's forefathers spoke to him through ink and parchment. Including the words of the Prince that was Promised, an old prophecy ascribed to the Conqueror himself. It was mentioned only once in the records, and his father had staked his life on it, with full faith."

"Aerys does not seem so mad now," Varys said with a sneer, "until he began to burn people alive."

Aegon said nothing, the annals of his house were rife with madness, more than wisdom: Maegor, the Rogue Prince, Aegon the Unworthy, Aerion Brightflame, Aerys. The roll was long and wearying, and worse when the likes of Prince Aemon, son of Jaehaerys, or Baelor Breakspear and his sons, who promised a bright future, were taken by the gods.

Aegon looked at ser Barristan, "Your lips are sealed, but your eyes speak."

"Your grace, the spider is the last man to trust on Prince Rhaegar. True, the prince had strange pursuits, but nevertheless he was ever diligent towards his obligations as heir apparent."

"Oh, my good ser, we all can hear what people say, or see what they do, but what lies in a man's heart is hidden even from me. Therefore, words and deeds matter," Varys retorde curtosly.

"I concur with Lord Varys," the king asserted simply. "Now let us leave the past behind, rather then fight over perception. What of the war in the Reach?"

"The Tarly host has abandoned the siege of Highgarden, crossed the Mander, and is treading the same road your bride took. Unfortunately, that means Prince Oberyn is on the wrong side of the river, marching towards an enemy that is not there. In the south, the Fowler host has broken from the Prince's Pass and accordingly, the Old Hawk will unite with Ser Baelor. Brightsmile protests the abandonment of the Horn Hill, imploring your grace to rescind your command."

Aegon had received a raven from Lord Leyton's son, but refused to heed any disobedience. The man surely wanted to seize the traitor's castle and hold it for one of his younger brothers.

"Tarly aims to join with Lord Stannis. Strike from both the sea and land," ser Barristan expressed concern.

"Two attacks from the land. The battle already draws near to our very walls, Stannis has brought some horsemen to the south along the Kingsroad", Aegon said, "but we have strong walls and ten thousand swords to man them. He cannot risk a long siege, otherwise all the hosts gathering in the Reach can strangle him."

"Men of the city watch are of poor battle quality. Though they number four thousand, their strength is thrice less", Ser Barristan warned. Aegon knew that well enough, but he needed men on the Kingsroad to secure the supplies from Maidenpool, especially with the grain from the Vale coming by sea from Gulltown. The host under Harry Strickland was busy guarding the northern flank against the Starks.

"True, but not all tidings are as good, your grace. Lord Yronwood did not break out of the Boneway. The opposition by the marcher lords is quite strong, led by none other than Ser Barristan's grandnephew", Varys said with a smile, glancing at Ser Barristan, who scorned him with the eyebrows. "Young Arstan has also taken command of the Dondarrion men in Lord Beric's absence, along with those sent by Lord Gulian Swann. Their efforts to repel the Dornish incursion, in the name of Stannis, seem successful. For now, at least. We can only hope they will not last."

"Warrior's blood runs thick in House Selmy. Isn't that so, Ser Barristan?" the king smiled at the knight.

"It would seem so, your grace", the knight replied, brooding over many litters resting in the courtyard. Out of one stepped the High Septon, his holy robes shimmering in the sun. Behind him, a younger septon emerged from another litter and placed the crystal crown upon the pious head. Servants hastened to guide the guests to the feast and other commodities.

"Your grace, Queen Margaery already seated hetself", one of Margaery's servant ladies announced. The girl had served Cersei a moon's turn ago. A command hidden behind a statement.

Aegon nodded. The fair in the gardens was alive with chatter, and golden spoon fed eyes followed him to the main table. Arranged in two great half-circles facing each other, with a heart of singers, fools and jesters under the apple trees. His queen had made sure that every guest could gaze upon them. She rose at once and gave him a kiss on the lips, to another round of cheers and gasps from the ladies present. Well, not all ladies, Aegon noticed. Sansa was sitting directly opposite the newlyweds, on the other table.

On Aegon's left, Jon modestly enjoyed every course. It was strange to see him delighting in food. Seven courses were served, depleting the royal stocks of the Red Keep heavily. Time would tell how unwise that was. King's Landing was on heavy rations, and thousands of Lannister prisoners ate even worse, scraping their own leftovers. Hungry men are weak and weak men don't need as many guards, his councillors advised.

"A toast, your grace", many voices called. "A toast", "Please, your grace", "Please".

Reluctantly he rose from a chair, raising a golden goblet. "To all good things. The Harvest, The Peace and my lovely Wife". The gesture, of course, was to their liking and the guests rewarded him with loud applause. Well-fed mouths don't think about the harvest, and for most of them the war was as distant as the last winter, almost forgotten. Stannis is knocking on the door. Am I the only one who hears the thunderous thuds?

The feast was long and tedious, but when it was over, it felt like a fleeting moment, culminating with the wedding cake, a towering monstrosity that was bland to the tongue. Only three pigeons burst out of it, their feathers dull and gray. The last thing in the ceremony were the gifts, mostly treasures of this and that kind, a dazzling array of precious things, silk and gold. Jon bestowed upon him a new shield, apparently a twin to the one his father had carried, and Varys an ornate edition of the Young Dragon's conquest, a lesson in history for the King to avoid repeating the errors of others.

Sansa and Jeyne were the last to offer their gift, a finely sewn black cloak for him. Lady Jeyne spoke on their behalf, "We used the art that maester Haldon gave us. The Targaryens of old favored golden patterns more than their successors. Sansa and I hope the gift delights your grace". As dark as the moonless night, the black cloak was trimmed with golden flames that formed a chain around the edge. Golden horns crowned the three heads of a dragon that glinted in the light.

With gratitude, Aegon vowed to wear the gift, and Margaery admired the embroidery, "it's exquisite and masterful too. Thank you my ladies". She gazed at Aegon with a mischievous glint in her eyes, then with a radiant smile at Sansa. "My sweet husband, a brilliant idea struck me. Willas, my brother, is unwed and I can think of no finer match than Lady Sansa. Both are young and gentle, never in my life have I beheld a pair of souls more suited for each other... except for us of course". She kissed him passionately, yet clumsily as he barely reciprocated.

The proposal stunned him into silence, and Sansa flushed in red as well. A pang of jealousy twisted in his stomach. Selfishness shamed Aegon, she deserved happiness, and Willas was renowned as a peaceful and noble man, though almost ten years her senior. Not that it mattered much. You are almost five years older than her.

"What say you lady Sansa", Margaery insisted.

"I... I... I have no guardian. It is not seemly for a lady to choose a husband without a guardian. My brother Robb has taken my father's place. The choice is his," Sansa replied softly, to Aegon's relief. Damn selfish fool, let her go. Robb is Aegon's foe as much as Stannis or Balon Greyjoy.

"Not if the King decrees it," Margaery looked at Aegon. "And of course, my sweet Sansa, we can be as sisters. Highgarden is a splendid seat, my brother may not be a prince, but he is the closest to the men you fancied as a little girl. Of course, after Joffrey, your appetite for men must be somewhat more modest. Lemon cakes will greet you every morning, in our verdant garden, and singers will serenade you of Jonquil and Florian the Fool to the night."

Sansa leaned over the table and whispered to Margaery, "If I were you, I wouldn't trust Littlefinger; his truths hide their own lies." Her words wiped the smile off Margaery's face. "As I said, Robb is my guardian, and only he will decide who I marry". Bites like a wolf maid. A fire sparked in Aegon's heart, and he couldn't tear his gaze away from those deep blue eyes. The feeling carried him back to Maidenpool. I am a bigger fool than Florian, he thought.

"Your brother is in open rebellion against the crown. A choice made by him may not be the best for the realm. Surely you are loyal to Aegon." Margaery sprang the waek trap.

Anger swept across Sansa's face, subtle yet telling, she parted her lips, but held her tongue. The misery in the air revolted Aegon, and he put an end to the farce. "I shall not impose any choice upon Lady Sansa, nor will the wishes of her family be honored if they clash with the interests of the crown. My ladies, once again, I am deeply grateful for the gift." Please leave now, let the distance be a shield.

"Now, in the Mother's embrace, we proceed with the bedding to conclude the ceremony," proclaimed the High Septon in a loud voice. Aegon declined to partake in the customary ritual; instead, he would be only borne by women to the bedchamber. He had no doubt that Margaery would not mind being undressed. A dozen women, strangers to him, surrounded him, and soon, they hoisted him awkwardly. Through the throng, he glimpsed Margaery getting the same treatment. Although he abstained, Jon followed the men.

The men were quicker, with stronger arms, carrying the light bride, so the women took double the pace. When they laid him on the bed, Margaery was already there, bare as the day she was born. Slender as a willow, she snuggled against him, pressing her small breasts to his chest, with her long fingers undoing the doublet buttons. The large garment vanished swiftly, followed by a linen shirt. Margaery traced all of the scars that marked his chest, including the large ring of puckered skin where a crossbow bolt had pierced him. His bride always surprised him, other women might avert their gaze or shrink back, but not Margaery. The gleam in her eyes showed that she liked it, not just him, but the warrior who had fought in numerous battles and won - or at least, that's what she wanted to believe. She lusted for control, not over his flesh, but to break him like a wild stallion, to subdue the realm under her foot.

Every part of his chest was touched by her breath, devoured by eagerness to mark his body as her own. Filled with a waterfall of energy, Margaery kissed him, her mighty female tongue conquering his own. Now, revenge was served for every slight he had given her, every refusal to play by her rules. 'Now, you will be quiet,' her desire told him

Removing breeches, she immediately took his member in the mouth, once again hesitation was absent, she was familiar with the ground she was walking on. The skill was too pleasurable, too good for a maiden who never touched a man. Renly died before ever deflowering her, Tyrell's seneschal cousin sang assurance to him, as if it wasn't known that Renly preferred another road. Per instruction, Lysono didn't mention maidenhood as a requirement. Both Lysono, through a written account and Varys informed him of her promiscuity. The master of whispers assumed that Lady Olenna made sure the girl was trained in the arts of bedding. If so, all that Margaery was doing now didn't distract from that belief.

Flames of anxiety defeated him, and soon, Margary was placed on her back by Aegon's strong hands. In her brown eyes, uncertainty revealed itself, immediately replaced by dedication. Aegon entered her; now, the king fulfilled his duty. The Queen screamed, perhaps the first time he had seen her surprised and in pain. It was quick, devoid of any passion. The red streaks on the bedsheets formally sealed the marriage pact.

Aegon and Margaery, the king and his queen, after, didn't speak a word the whole night. The weight of insomnia denied him sleep until almost midnight when Eira appeared in his dream. For the first time, her face completely disappeared into the mist of nothingness, invisible... forbidden to his eyes.