The bells of the Great Sept tolled at dawn, their solemn chimes echoing through the streets of King's Landing, calling lords and commons alike to bear witness to a wedding the likes of which the realm had never seen.
In the Dragonpit, banners of gold and red mingled with those of orange and copper. The great serpentine sun of House Martell flew side by side with the three-headed dragon of old Valyria. Peace had come not with blood and fire, but with silk and vows.
Princess Daenerys Targaryen stood radiant in her wedding gown of crimson and gold lace, stitched with the seven-pointed star and adorned with fine Myrish rubies. Her hair, brushed until it gleamed like molten silver, flowed down her back in a Dornish braid, tied with ribbons of Martell orange. She was the image of royalty, poised and calm—but those who knew her well would have seen the shadow behind her eyes.
Prince Maron Martell awaited her at the altar, tall and lean in his own fashion, his dark Dornish skin a striking contrast to the pale gold of his silk robes. He wore no sword, for he had no need of one today. His smile was courteous, his eyes reserved, his face unreadable. A man of water and sun, tasked now to wed fire.
Septon Eustace performed the rites, his voice sonorous as he invoked the Seven to bless this union. King Daeron II looked on from his high seat with Queen Myriah at his side, their children in orderly rows behind them—Baelor, Maekar, Aerys, and Rhaegel. The lords of the realm were gathered in their finest, though not all smiled. The High Septon himself had blessed the match, and yet one could feel the weight of tension behind the splendor. The dragon and the sun, brought together by ink and oath, though not all hearts beat with joy.
When Septon Eustace pronounced them man and wife, polite applause echoed through the vaulted hall, though no cheers rang out. Daenerys allowed Prince Maron to kiss her hand, and they stood before the realm as husband and wife. But she did not meet his gaze.
Afterward, the procession made its way to the Sept of Baelor. The crowds had swelled tenfold, spilling through the streets and climbing onto rooftops to glimpse history. Some wept to see Dorne and the Crown united after generations of blood. Others muttered darkly of foreign princes and false peace.
The statues of the kings of old loomed tall within the sept's domed hall, but it was Baelor the Blessed who stood tallest of all, his hands clasped in prayer, his eyes cast down in piety and suffering. His likeness was carved in white marble veined with gold, his crown of thorns replaced for the day with a circlet of fine gold laurels.
It was there that Prince Maron and King Daeron approached together, their steps slow and deliberate. Prince Maron held the wreath, a circlet of gilded laurel and sunfire blossoms gathered from the Dornish gardens of Maegor's Holdfast. Daeron held nothing but his words.
Together they laid the wreath at the base of the statue. And Daeron, turning his eyes up to his pious forebearer's pale stone face, said for all to hear:
"Baelor, your work is done."
The sept was silent but for the rustle of banners and the flicker of candlelight. Some said afterward that they felt the Seven themselves in that moment—that Baelor's marble eyes shone with tears, or that a ray of sunlight pierced the colored glass above. Others scoffed, and said it was only dust and pageantry.
But for Daenerys, standing with her new husband's hand resting gently upon hers, it was neither miracle nor triumph. It was a farewell.
She looked to her brother Daeron, so composed in his crimson robes, and thought of the day he first took her hand and told her of her fate. She thought of Daemon, long gone now from court, no longer her shadow, her fire, her dream. She thought of her mother's soft voice, whispering prayers, and of her father's gluttonous laughter echoing in the throne room.
And she thought, in that moment beneath the gaze of saints and kings, that peace had a price.