As the year drew to a close, a chilling scandal erupted like thunder from a clear sky, shocking not only the entire court but even the common folk in the streets.
Ser Lucamore Strong of the Kingsguard, long admired for his kindly and approachable manner, had always enjoyed the affection and respect of the people. Yet it was revealed that he had flagrantly violated the sacred, inviolable vows of the White Cloaks. Not only had he secretly married, but he had wed three wives in turn—and worse still, he fathered no fewer than sixteen children by them, each wife kept in ignorance of the others.
In the Flea Bottom slums, crowded with beggars and thieves, and on Silk Street, crawling with prostitutes and pimps, men and women of low birth and looser morals smirked with malicious glee. They mocked Ser Lucamore without restraint, calling him "lecher," and seemed to take perverse delight in the downfall of a once-exalted knight, reveling in the collapse of his anointed image.
Within the Red Keep, however, silence reigned. No laughter was heard. Aegon and Alysanne had once held Ser Lucamore Strong in great esteem, placing high hopes in him. Now, the truth of his betrayal struck like a stinging slap across their faces, leaving them humiliated. His sworn brothers of the Kingsguard burned with fury, their outrage plain for all to see.
The one who brought the scandal to light was Ser Lyan Redwyne. He reported the matter in full to the Captain of the Kingsguard, who dared not delay and immediately carried it before the Emperor.
Speaking on behalf of his sworn brothers, Ser Gyles Morrigen gave a fiery speech, declaring that Ser Lucamore's crimes had trampled the very creed they had all sworn to uphold. He demanded the Emperor impose the harshest punishment as a warning to others.
Ser Lucamore was dragged roughly before the Iron Throne. He fell heavily to his knees, his face twisted with remorse, confessing his sins again and again before begging the Emperor for mercy. Aegon might have been inclined toward leniency, but the disgraced knight made a fatal mistake.
As he pleaded, he said the words: "For the sake of my wife and children."
Septon Barth, hearing this, sighed and shook his head. To invoke those words was to fling his crime naked and unashamed into the Emperor's face.
"When I raised my banners against my father," Aegon said coldly, his piercing gaze fixed on the kneeling knight, "two of his Kingsguard betrayed their vows and joined me. Perhaps they foolishly believed that, after my victory, I would let them keep their white cloaks, even reward them with lordships and honors at court.
But they were mistaken. I sent them to the Wall without hesitation. Then as now, there is no place at my side for oathbreakers.
Ser Lucamore, you swore a sacred vow before the gods and all men. You swore to defend me and my family with your life. You swore to obey my commands unconditionally, to fight for me even unto death. And you swore never to wed, never to father children, and to remain chaste for life. If you could so easily break one part of that vow, why should I believe you would keep the rest?"
Queen Alysanne then spoke, her voice heavy with anger and disappointment.
"You not only cast aside the vows of the Kingsguard as if they were nothing, but you also broke your marriage vows, not once, but three times. Your unions with these women were never lawful, which means all the children you fathered are bastards.
They are the innocent ones here, Ser. I am told your wives knew nothing of one another, but surely they knew you were sworn to the Kingsguard. In that, they share in your guilt, as do the drunken Septons you dragged in to witness your false vows. Their crimes are lesser, and mercy may yet be shown them.
But for you… I will never again allow you to remain at my husband's side, Ser."
So it was that Aegon gave his command. Ser Lucamore Strong, the false knight, was castrated, then shackled in heavy iron chains and sent to the Wall.
His wives and children stood nearby, their faces marked by grief, rage, and despair. Some wept softly, tears running freely down their cheeks. Some screamed curses, venting their fury. Others said nothing at all, their silence heavy with hopelessness.
"The Night's Watch demands your oath as well," Regalus warned, his gaze icy. "You would do well to keep it. Otherwise, next time it will be your head."
Regalus entrusted the three families left behind by Lucamore to the Queen's care. Queen Alysanne solemnly declared that Lucamore's sons could freely choose whether to accompany their father to the Wall. In the end, the two eldest boys chose to go. The daughters were given the option of entering the Faith as novices, but only one girl took that path. The rest of the children clung tightly to their mothers, unwilling to leave.
Lucamore's first wife and her children were sent to live with his younger brother, Bywin, who had only recently been raised to Lord of Harrenhal. His second wife and her children were taken to Driftmark, where the famed "Lord of the Tides," Daemon Velaryon, assumed responsibility for them. The children of his third wife were the youngest—one still a babe at the breast. They were sent to Sunspear, where Ser Garon Baratheon and the young Lord Boremund Baratheon took them into their care.
The Queen decreed that none of these children were to bear the name Strong. From that day forward, they would carry only the surnames of bastards: Rivers, Waters, and Sand.
"All this is the fault of your father, that most deceitful knight." Her words carried both condemnation for Lucamore's sins and sorrow for the fate his children would now endure.
...
The troubles faced by Aegon and Alysanne in the seventy-fourth year of the Conquest went far beyond the shame brought upon the Kingsguard and the royal family by the "lecherous" Lucamore.
Queen Alysanne had always taken pride in her gift for arranging marriages. Over the years, through her efforts and wisdom, she had successfully united hundreds of couples, often bridging vast distances across the realm. These unions strengthened stability and prosperity throughout the kingdom.
But when it came to finding suitable matches for her four younger children, she found herself ensnared in difficulty after difficulty. These problems, coming one after another like a waking nightmare, tormented her endlessly. They drove a deep divide between her and her children—especially her daughters.
The strain reached even her marriage to Regalus, leaving her in such sorrow and despair that at times she considered laying down her crown and living out her days as a Silent Sister.
All these troubles began with Vaegon and Daenaera.
The prince and princess were only a year apart. As infants, they seemed so perfectly matched, as though destined for one another. The royal couple fully expected—and firmly believed—that they would one day wed, a union as natural as it was beautiful. After all, their elder brother Baelon and sister Alyssa had long been inseparable, bound so closely that their own betrothal was already being discussed. Why, then, could Vaegon and Daenaera not be the same?
"Cherish your little sister," Emperor Aegon had told Vaegon earnestly when the boy was five. "One day, she may become your Alysanne, the one who stands beside you all your life."
But as the years passed, the bond never grew. Queen Alysanne soon sensed the truth: there was no warmth at all between them.
Vaegon merely endured his sister's presence, never seeking her out, never playing or speaking with her. Daenaera, in turn, shrank from her pedantic, bookish brother, who seemed to care for nothing but his scrolls and showed little interest in the world beyond them.
In plain words: the prince thought the princess foolish and ignorant, while the princess found the prince sharp-tongued and cold.
"They're still children," Aegon said dismissively when Alysanne raised her concerns. "Given time, their bond will grow."
But as the days passed, reality crushed his hope. Their dislike only deepened.
The breaking point came in the seventy-fourth year of the Conquest, when Prince Vaegon was ten and Princess Daenaera nine.
A new lady-in-waiting joined the Queen's household. With playful banter, she asked the pair when they might be wed.
Vaegon reacted as if slapped across the face, his features twisting with shock and fury.
"I'd rather die than marry her!"
The boy shouted before half the court, his voice carrying without restraint. "She can barely read a word. Only lords who want stupid children would wed her—that's probably the only use she'll ever have."
Princess Daenaera, hearing such cruel words, burst into tears on the spot. She turned and fled the hall, sobbing. The Queen rose quickly and hurried after her.
Alyssa, Vaegon's sister three years his elder, seething with fury, seized a full jug of Arbor's finest golden wine and poured it straight over his head.
Even drenched and shamed, Prince Vaegon showed not a shred of regret.
"You've wasted Arbor's precious golden wine," he said flatly, before turning and walking away to change his soaked clothes.
...
When the uproar had finally subsided, Regalus and the Queen deliberated carefully and agreed that Vaegon must be found a more suitable bride. They briefly considered their two younger daughters, but in the seventy-fourth year of the Conquest, Princess Saera was only six, and Princess Viserra just two.
"Vaegon hasn't so much as looked at them," Alysanne told Regalus in exasperation. "I'm not even sure he knows they exist. Perhaps only if some Maester wrote them into a book would he notice..."
"Then I'll have Grand Maester Elysar write them down tomorrow," Regalus replied half in jest. "He's only ten. For now, he ignores girls, and girls ignore him. But that won't last.
He's a prince of Westeros, and not badly favored in looks. In a few years, maidens will flutter about him like butterflies, blushing and breathless just for a glance of his eye."
The Queen, however, was not so certain. To call Vaegon "handsome" was generous at best. He bore the Targaryen hallmarks—silver-gold hair and violet eyes—but at ten years old his face was too long and narrow, his shoulders slouched instead of straight, and his lips pressed tight as if he'd just bitten into a sour lemon.
As his mother, Alysanne could overlook these flaws of appearance, but his unlikable temperament left her powerless.
"If any butterfly dares flutter near Vaegon, I fear he'll swat it dead with a book."
"He does spend too much time in the library," Aegon conceded. "I'll speak with Baelon. Let Vaegon take sword and shield, train in the yard, touch steel more often. Perhaps that will improve him."
True to his word, Regalus sought out Prince Baelon. Baelon, conscientious as ever, arranged everything for his younger brother. He personally brought Vaegon to the training yard, pressed a sword into his hand, and strapped a shield to his arm.
Yet nothing changed.
Vaegon loathed martial training to his very core. Every practice left him sullen and reluctant, his misery spilling over to weary and frustrate those around him. Even with "brave" Baelon as his tutor, there was no progress to be had.
At the Emperor's insistence, Baelon persisted for a full year.
"The longer he trains, the worse he gets," the "Spring Prince" said at last, his tone heavy with resignation.
One day, perhaps hoping to stir Vaegon's pride, Baelon had Alyssa don a man's mail and meet her brother in the yard.
Alyssa had not forgotten the jug of Arbor wine wasted on his head, and her anger had not cooled. She circled him with ease, striking and mocking him in turn, her agility making a mockery of his clumsy defense.
From a window above, Princess Daenaera watched in silence.
At last, Vaegon's shame boiled over. His face flushed crimson, he hurled his sword aside and fled the yard, never to return.
When Regalus heard, he could only sigh in sorrow. He knew then that Vaegon's marriage would prove a thorny problem. After much thought, he resolved to consult the Emperor's consorts, hoping one of their children might make a suitable match for his son.
But when he broached the subject with Aegon's nine consorts, their response was firm and unanimous. Each declared that their children must be free to choose their own partners, and they would not see their marriages bound by parental arrangement.
Regalus left the discussion with his head pounding, sighing deeply as helplessness weighed heavier on him.
...
In the seventy-fifth year of the Conquest, the gods blessed Emperor Aegon II and Queen Alysanne with their first grandchild. Prince Jaehaerys and Lady Jocelyn welcomed a daughter, whom they named Rhaenys.
She was born on the seventh day of the seventh month, a date the Septons proclaimed a mighty omen. Strong and lively from the moment of her birth, she bore her mother's Baratheon black hair and her father's pale Targaryen violet eyes.
As the firstborn of the Prince of Dragonstone, many already regarded her as second in line to the Iron Throne, just behind her father.
When Alysanne first held her, some swore they heard her whisper, "Our future queen."
That same year, daylight across the known world dwindled to less than half its normal length. In Westeros, plants that required long days of sun began to vanish.
Mankind seemed to be drawing ever closer to the moment of its fated trial—the Long Night.