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Chapter Text

“She's too much like Saera,” Jaehaerys hisses once the plates have been cleared away and Aemma has been sent off with Viserys. “Simply too much.”

And Alysanne stares. Stares at her husband, her jailor, her king and kin. Jaehaerys had never tolerated those stronger than him, those who held the potential he thought Aemon and Daenerys could've had. What he had once seen in Rhaella's eyes during their coronation all those years ago.

“You are too much like Saera.” Alysanne says softly. She leaves the room, praying for peace, praying for her Viserra and Maegelle, for Aemon and Alyssa. She doesn't pray for Daenerys and Valerion any more, cannot bring herself to pray for the miscarriages caused by Jaehaerys and the ever-watching Realm.

How she, the Queen would've laughed, would've slit Jaehaerys's throat and reigned all of Alysanne's children by either wit or grave. Sometimes, Alysanne wishes she could be Visenya.

But now? After all this, after decades of being here in her first prison and abode? Now Alysanne wants to go home, wants to run into her father's arms and beg her mother for one more story of Aegon, bury her head in Rhaena's skirts, play with little Aerea and Rhaella. She wants to eat the stars and embroider under the rain, wants to drink the sunset from her Silver's back and spend hours languishing under the moon. She wants to be a wild beast and a perfect Queen.

Dragonstone, she thinks, walking to the Dragonpit. I am strongest above the black walls of Dragonstone. Above the world, well above the clouds and the men who dare try to chain her to the world below.

It would be sweet, sweet to see Rhaenys and her children, sweet to see a face that did not remind her so dreadfully of her lost children and family.

Sound the bells, alert Rhaenys, and summon the gods, for Alysanne, daughter of Aenys, of Alyssa, is going home at last.

Chapter Text

The bet was made out of reckless jest, his brothers crowing after Blackwood's failure at gaining the princess's favour.

Amos Blackwood huffs at the mere sight of them and Brynden tries to ignore the near instant boiling of his blood but the song of punching in Blackwood's stupid face calls to him all the same, ingrained in his blood.

He takes a breath and hisses in annoyance as his brother starts jeering at Blackwood. “I bet my brother here can get the princess's favour.”

Brynden shoots his brother an alarmed look of what are you doing, but Colin ignores him. Instead, he continues extolling Brynden's prowess with a sword and his skills as a horseman while more and more riverlanders gather around for free entertainment.

With a huff of frustration Brynden is pushed out from the mass of riverlanders and after shooting a sharp glare at Colin, determinedly makes his way towards Princess Gael. Ignoring the loud jeers and bawdy cheers behind him, he takes stock of the talk of the competition.

She's pretty, naturally, soft and delicate with her thin frame and white dress. Her eyes are almost too pale a lilac like ghosts, but they are sharp and keen picking out all her suitors with wary eyes.

The little queen, Aemma Arryn, smiles in his direction while her twin instead rolls her eyes when she spots him. What was her name again? It started with an 'N'…Naelle? Naerea? No, Naerys, Naerys Arryn, the one who had claimed the Cannibal. Symon Rivers, his bastard brother had remarked on how well she and Prince Daemon got on along with her and the Princess Gael.

Her companion, the Lady Royce seems to be downing her cup at the mere sight of him, but it is not her that Brynden must win over. In fact Princess Gael seems to be blushing, a pretty shade of soft rose taking over her cheeks.

Courtesy, Brynden, he reminds himself and bows to the ladies. A stifled giggle sends a bolt of nervousness through him but Brynden steels himself.

“My ladies, your grace, I am Brynden Bracken, and I would ask for your favour if it pleases you, your grace.” he says, praying to the Warrior that he sounded confident.

He hears a rustle and looks up to see Princess Gael smiling down at him coyly. I want her to smile like that all the time , he thinks, and then is taken aback by his thoughts.

“It does, my lord.” She undoes a satin ribbon from her wrist, elegantly embroidered with a red dragon and fastens it upon Brynden’s wrist. It's soft, and smells faintly of roses and something more expensive than Brynden could ever hope to afford.

He hopes she lets him keep it forever.

He kneels in the sept of the Red Keep, awaiting the King’s arrival. Whether to cleave his head clean from his shoulders or knight him remains to be seen.

The statue of the Maiden reminds him of Gael, serene, untouchable and painfully beautiful. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to pray again without seeing her in his mind. He swallows hard and forces his mind back to his knighting, he’d be Ser Brynden Bracken, a knight of the realm. He’d likely be a vassal of his brother’s household, called whenever there was war or disputes or to raid Blackwood lands. 

If Gael was by his side…

His passion was impossible, of course. An unlanded knight is no fit consort for a princess of royal blood. Especially one as beautiful and innocent as Gael, his White Lily.

Not yours, Brynden reminds himself, never yours except from afar.

It is enough. It must be enough. 

There are no happy endings in this world, Brynden had to remember that.

“You’re in love.” Aly says. “It’s pathetic really.”

Brynden groans pathetically. “What do you know of love, you can’t even feel it.”

He feels guilt course through him immediately but Aly rolls her brown eyes. 

“Dear Seven, you stupid boy.” Aly hisses and slaps Brynden on top of his head making him yelp. “Who is it? That Naera girl, the Lady Royce.” 

Brynden winces, rubbing at his growing moustache. “It’s worse. It’s—”

“The princess?!” Lucy screeches and both Aly and Brynden jump back. “You fell in love with the princess?”

“LUCINDA!” Aly yells and Brynden sighs. Colin and Owyn were going to mock him relentlessly.

The raven appears without much warning. The sigil sends his mother into a panic, ripping it open without so much informing their father. 

“The princess wrote to you,” Mother says faintly. And then again. “The princess wrote to you?”

Brynden is too far gone to even feel offended. His white lily wrote to him? The lowly, second son?

“Well done, brother!” Colin says, clapping him on the back. “Those Blackwood fuckers can’t do shit now!”

Brynden… Brynden needs a quill! He needs to write back, let her know of his affection, he needs to—

(“He’s spiralling,” Lucinda mutters.

Aly elbows her. “Shut up, Lucy.”)

“You must write back at once!” Mother cries. “A royal marriage, one to the last child of the King and Queen, this is such a magnificent opportunity!” His mother rambles in High Valyrian, a language he never really understood, but it was a clear indication of her emotional state.

“Mother,” Colin begins, “perhaps we should tell—”

Brynden nods frantically. “Lucy, fetch me a quill and parchment, she cannot think I do not care about her.”

Alysanne looks at the room and sighs. “This is why I’m joining a motherhouse.”

Lord Bracken strides in. “What is going on here?”

“Brynden got a letter from the princess Gael!” Lucy and Aly cry in perfect sync.

Lord Bracken blinks. “Explain.”

“It's my fault, father.” Colin says guiltily. “I goaded the Blackwood fuckers and place Brynden in the middle of it.”

Lord Bracken, frowns, a considerate look on his face and Brynden fidgets nervously before stopping himself. “And there has been no offense taken?”

They all shake their heads. Lord Bracken sighs heavily. “Lucy, Alysanne, go to Owyn. Colin ensure Symon isn't whoring again. We will see what the letter says and settle this matter.”

They shuffle out and Brynden sits next to his mother, she takes his hand and clutches it between her own. Lord Bracken opens the letter.

“Brynden, I hope my favor rests in a high place of honor and that you look upon me as favorably. Our correspondence is optional, I shall not begrudge you if you decide that I am far too much in order to feel comfortable to continue as such, especially with my Father's reputation.

Yours, Princess Gael of House Targaryen.

P.S Aemma is reading this over my shoulder and laughing hysterically, do with that what you will.”